But what if rapiers were the chosen weapons? What does a man feel when skewered by a blade? Probably it is like being cut with a bread knife, only much deeper, as deep as the heart. I tried visualising this several times but each time, racked with anguish, abandoned the attempt.
However, neither these nor similar phantasmagoria terrified me; on the contrary I found them relatively calming. Nor was I particularly worried by alternatives like those special weapons I remembered Loki having spoken of. It was not the duel itself I had to fear.
The main threat, the one which was terrible to contemplate, would be embodied in Mithra’s Duel Order. He might in truth be writing me a one-way ticket to a meeting with God, so that I could be about to find out for myself which of them had the right answer – Osiris or his red liquid provider. Even if such was not the penalty Mithra was planning to inflict, I was sure he would have devised some hideous abomination it would be better not to know about. Thus is forged the will to victory, as the old Red Army saying had it …
Half an hour before the appointed time I realised I had still not considered how I should dress for the occasion. Looking through the clothes in the wardrobe I found a black suit, jacket and trousers. It was slightly too big for me, but at least, I thought, it would not cramp my movements. I put on shoes with reinforced toecaps, not because I was seriously anticipating a physical fight, but just in case. Then I applied some gel to my hair, drank some whisky to give myself Dutch courage, settled myself in the chair and awaited my guests.
At eleven o’clock the doorbell rang.
Loki and Baldur were freshly shaved, smelling pleasingly of eau de cologne, and wearing expressions of ceremonious gravity. Loki was carrying a capacious black holdall.
‘We seem to have aroused a certain amount of suspicion,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There was a policeman asking to see our papers – right here at the entrance to the flats.’
‘Yes, he looked like a canny old dog,’ added Baldur, ‘as if he knew what was going on but could not say anything.’
I decided my own demeanour, too, should be high-spirited and jaunty.
‘I expect he thought you were estate agents. There are always undesirables of one kind and another prowling about here, sniffing for their prey. It’s a nice, quiet neighbourhood right in the centre of the city.’
Baldur and Loki sat down in the armchairs.
‘Mithra wanted the duel to take place in a circus,’ said Baldur.
‘Why?’
‘To point up the idiocy of the proceedings.’
‘Idiocy, is it?’ said Loki. ‘It’s rare enough these days that anyone shows a spark of self-respect and courage as in the old days. Nowadays this is classified as idiocy. Rama, you should be proud of yourself.’
Baldur winked at me.
‘With him,’ he said, nodding towards Loki, ‘there are always two versions – one for the challenger and one for the challenged.’
I looked at Loki. There were traces of violet eyeshadow with gold specks on his left eyelid, the result of hastily removed make-up which could still be seen when he blinked. I supposed the rubber woman must have gone on maternity leave and he had had to act as a stand-in for her. Or perhaps he had simply been instructing someone else in his knee technique.
‘So, are we off to the circus?’
‘No,’ said Baldur. ‘We weren’t able to organise the circus. There’s a new concept for the duel, a complete break with tradition.’
I felt the pit of my stomach protesting.
‘What is the concept?’
‘You have three guesses,’ smirked Loki.
‘If it’s a break with tradition,’ I said, ‘I presume it’s some unconventional form of weapon?’
Loki nodded agreement.
‘Poison?’
Loki shook his head.
‘Poison is not allowed. You should know that.’
‘Yes, I should,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps, then, let’s see … what else could it be … electricity?’
‘Nothing of the sort. One last try.’
‘Will we have to strangle one another at the bottom of the Moscow River?’
‘All wide of the mark,’ said Loki.
‘Well, what is it, then?’
Loki pulled over and opened up his holdall. I saw some equipment with wires coming out of it, and a laptop computer.
‘What’s all that?’
‘News of your affair has leaked out,’ said Loki. ‘Enlil and Marduk both know about it. As far as my information goes, the duel is taking place on account of a certain third party. We put our heads together to find a way of settling your stupid quarrel with minimal risk. It was decided that the duel should be fought remotely.’
‘How are we going to do that?’ I asked.
‘You are both going to write a poem.’
‘A poem?’
‘Yes,’ said Loki. ‘It was Enlil’s idea, and I think an excellent one. A romantic dispute calls for a romantic resolution. This one brings to the foreground not the macho brutality of the death candy, but the refinements of spiritual disposition and depth of feeling.’
‘What will determine the outcome of the duel?’ I asked. ‘I mean, how will it be decided who has won?’
‘For this purpose we decided to involve that very third party who was the cause of the quarrel being ignited. The victor’s prize will be an immediate meeting with her. Neat, isn’t it?’
I found it hard to share the enthusiasm. I would have preferred anything at all – Russian roulette, a fight with chessboards as weapons – to writing poetry. Versification and I were incompatible elements. I had put this to the test on a number of occasions.
Baldur decided to take a hand in the conversation.
‘What are you tormenting the boy for? Tell him exactly what the procedure is going to be.’
‘By all means,’ agreed Loki. ‘So, according to the rules of the engagement you and your rival must each compose a poem. The form of the poem must be a vampiric sonnet.’
‘What is that?’ I asked.
Loki looked enquiringly at Baldur.
‘Did we not tell you?’ groaned Baldur. ‘What an omission. A vampiric sonnet is a poem consisting of twelve lines. Rhyme and metre, if any, are optional. The most important thing is that the last line must metaphorically suck, so to say, all the meaning out of the poem, expressing and encapsulating with maximum brevity the quintessence of the verse. The last line thus symbolises the process whereby red liquid is sublimated into bablos, which you then ritually present to the Mosquito Muse. Understand?’
‘Approximately,’ I said.
‘But this is a lyric poetry convention, not a strict rule,’ continued Baldur. ‘Each poet can decide for himself the manner in which he proposes to convey the sense of the whole poem in a single line. After all, only the author knows what it is, is that not so?’
Loki nodded importantly.
‘There’s one other rule for the vampiric sonnet – it should be written as a reverse stairway. The result is a kind of ladder of meanings, symbolising the vampire’s descent to the lowest essence. But actually that’s not obligatory either.’
‘What do you mean by a reverse stairway? What would it look like?’
‘Like Mayakovsky,’ said Baldur. ‘Only backwards.’
I had no idea what he had in mind, but did not press the matter since the rule was not mandatory in any case.
Loki looked at his watch.
‘It’s time to begin. I’ll get everything prepared. Why don’t you go to the toilet? If you lose you will be paralysed for the next forty hours or so.’
He put the holdall on the table. I went out of the room and headed towards the bathroom.
Somewhere I had read that many great men had been visited by inspiration while sitting on the can. There seemed to be some truth in this be
cause there it was that an idea came into my head, not an entirely ethical one but potentially very promising.
So great was its promise that I hesitated not a second, but set about putting it into practice with as little hesitation as a homeless person in the Metro would show before bending down to scoop up an accidentally dropped purse.
Coming back into the passage I tiptoed to the study, silently opened the door and hurried over to the escritoire. Opening it (unlike the filing cabinet it did not squeak), and trying not to make any noise with the glass, I took at random the first test tube I came across in the shambles there. It was the one labelled ‘Tyutchev + Internet slang’. Just what the doctor ordered, I thought, and tipped all the contents into my mouth.
‘Rama, where are you?’ called Loki from the sitting room.
‘Coming,’ I replied. ‘I’m closing the windows, just in case.’
‘Good idea.’
A few seconds later I went back into the sitting room.
‘Are you worried?’ asked Baldur. ‘You look rather pale.’
I said nothing. I did not want to speak because, having taken such a massive overdose of the preparation, I could easily blurt out the wrong thing.
‘Now then,’ said Loki. ‘Everything is ready.’
I looked at the table.
On it was a motley collection of objects: a laptop computer connected both to a mobile phone and to the box I had glimpsed in the holdall. This box was now equipped with a flashing red light, and laid out next to it was a black cloth ribbon with rubber bands and hooks. To the ribbon was attached a syringe with a cumbersome-looking electronic machine. Two wires led from the machine to the box with the red flashing light. In addition, on the table lay a clip of identical needles with green couplings.
‘What’s all this for?’ I asked.
‘It’s for this,’ said Loki. ‘See the syringe? It contains a tranquilliser. As I’ve already told you, it induces virtually total paralysis of the body for approximately forty hours. The syringe is controlled remotely by an electronic drive plugged into the computer. The poems will be sent instantly to the person of your mutual acquaintance, but she will not know which one is your work and which has been written by Mithra. When she has read them and chosen the winner, the result will be as instantly communicated back. At that point one of the servo motors connected to the syringes – either yours or the one on Mithra’s arm – will be activated. After the injection the Duel Order will be proclaimed and immediately implemented. Any questions?’
‘No, it’s all clear enough,’ I answered.
‘Please then seat yourself at the computer.’
I did as I was told.
‘Roll up your sleeve …’
When I had done so, Loki moistened some cotton wool with spirit and began to rub the bend in my elbow.
‘I’m not feeling too well,’ I droned limply.
I was not shamming. The truth was, though, that it had nothing to do with what was being done to me, but was the result of the preparation I had imbibed.
‘You brought all this on yourself,’ said Loki. ‘You should have thought more about it beforehand. This part may hurt a bit – I’m just inserting this nice wee needle …’
‘Ow!’ I recoiled involuntarily.
‘All right now, that’s all. Don’t move your arm for a while, let the bandage get secure … that’s right …’
‘How am I going to type with my arm like this?’
‘Carefully and slowly, that’s how. You have masses of time, you can type with one finger … Now look at the screen.’
I did so.
‘There is a clock in the top corner. The countdown will begin from the moment you and Mithra are given the subjects for the poems.’
‘Are the subjects different?’
‘We’ll see. Each of you will have exactly half an hour. If either of you fails to complete his poem in the time available, that person will automatically be deemed to have lost. Are you ready?’
I shrugged.
‘I take it that means you are.’
Loki took out his mobile phone, dialled a number, and held the phone to his ear.
‘Everything all right at your end?’ he asked. ‘Splendid. Then we’ll begin.’
Replacing his phone, he turned to me.
‘The clock is ticking.’
Two rectangles appeared on the laptop’s screen. The one on the left had ‘Mithra’ written on it, the one on the right – ‘Rama’. Next, letters began appearing one by one in the rectangles, as if someone was typing. Mithra’s subject was ‘The Mosquito’. Mine was ‘The Lord of This World’.
This was a bonus, because the poet Tyutchev, whose presence I had already been sensing for some time, had a good deal to say on this theme.
However, there was a problem. The only verbal clothing I could now find for my thoughts had become extraordinarily ugly and monotonous: Internet newspeak was a young language but already a dead one. However, the issue of form was one to be resolved later – first I had to sort out the content, and I immersed myself in contemplation of the spiritual horizons now opening before me.
I could not see anything at all about life in the nineteenth century. On the other hand, I immediately realised that now I knew what one very famous quatrain by Tyutchev was all about:
You cannot grasp her with the mind,
No common yardstick takes her measure.
Russia is of a special kind,
You only can believe her treasure.
It turned out that the poet had had almost the same vision as the creators of my favourite film trilogy Aliens.
In the film a more efficient form of life has developed inside another organism and after some time reveals itself in an original and unexpected way. Much the same happened in Russian history, except that the process occurred not just once but cyclically, as each successive monster hatched inside the stomach of its predecessor. Contemporaries in the various epochs sensed this, but did not always grasp clearly enough the true meaning of the events reflected in maxims such as ‘through the disintegrating inertia of the routine motions of the empire could be glimpsed the glowing contours of the new world’; ‘from the seventh decade of the twentieth century onwards Russia was pregnant with perestroika’, and such-like rhetorical flourishes.
Russia’s ‘special kindness’ consisted in the unpredictable anatomy of the newborn creature. If Europe could be seen as a succession of identical personages trying desperately to adapt their decrepit frames to the fresh demands of the moment, Russia was eternally young – but her youth could only be maintained by wholesale rejections of her former identity, because each new monster at the moment of its birth ripped its predecessor into shreds, and (in accord with the laws of physics) began by being smaller but quickly gained weight. This alternative system of evolution was destructively spasmodic, as more thoughtful observers had perceived as far back as the nineteenth century. A Cartesian reason directed towards personal survival could hardly find anything reassuring in such a state of affairs, which was why the poet had said that Russia could only ‘be believed’.
The result of this insight was that I realised once again how much courage and will were required to be a vampire in our country. And I felt even more contempt for the Chaldean elite, those predatory carrion crows gobbling up the remains of the latest dismembered carcase and priding themselves that in so doing they were ‘controlling’ or ‘regulating’ something or other. Moreover, they too would soon face a confrontation with the newborn monster that for the time being was gathering strength and keeping out of sight somewhere among the bulkheads of the spaceship’s baggage hold.
All these thoughts passed through my mind in, at most, a couple of minutes. Then I began to feel an ominously minatory warning in verse breaking out inside me, straining at the leash – and it was exactly on the prescribed theme.
&
nbsp; I put down everything I could. It was not easy, because most constructions in Internet newspeak were of little use in pinning down the intricate spiritual images that were opening themselves to my mental vision, all other linguistic paradigms being blocked. Each word had to be laboriously dredged up from the deep recesses of my mind. The tropes I was obliged to choose were very approximate and demonstrably inferior to the refined imagery of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, there were instances of benefit to the expressivity of the verse. When I had typed it all out, I still had a good five minutes to concentrate my attention on what I had written.
This was the result:
NOUS OF ARCHONS 403
Why, OzzyMantis Hilton Paris,
Your laden’s bong bin gucci grey?
Who are your Benny, Fishy, Aries?
OM NOM they dig your GDP?
Why do you stride in consequence
Squelching through mud, you head(less) honcho??
For whom swing you your stale incense?
Your Pale Horse! Your pinstripe poncho!
You’re XJ now, the wind doth blow
The happy hayricks in your eyes
But don’t chillax – through the slime below
The Lord Snake creeps – and crucifies.
I read through this bleak prophecy three times, checking and correcting any mistakes. I realised with some pride that I myself did not fully understand the poem as written. The only thing that was really clear was the provenance of the title: there is a Gnostic text, ‘The Hypostasis of the Archons’, which we had gone through in one of the Discourse lessons. I remember thinking at the time what a good name it would be for a Moscow restaurateur (‘that darling of the Moscow bohemian crowd, Hypostas Archontov, is opening a glamorous new den: Plato’s Caveiar’). And now the beam of the warrior muse had alighted on that memory. Nous was another Greek term, similar to hypostasis, for underlying reality.
I was particularly pleased with the twelfth line: the awe-inspiring meaning of the whole poem, foretelling the destruction of the King of Kings, Ruler of This World, by that same Gnostic snake with the head of a lion (or lion with the head of a snake,
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