Buddha's Little Finger

9

‘Indeed, who could this fourth person have been? Who can tell? Could it perhaps have been the devil ascended from the realms of eternal darkness in order to draw a few more fallen souls down after him. Or perhaps it was God who prefers, following tertain events, to make His appearance here on earth incognito, most often associating exclusively with tax-collectors and sinners. Or perhaps - and surely most likely - it was someone quite different, someone far more real than any of the men sitting by the fire, because while there is not and cannot be any guarantee that Volodin, Kolyan and Shurik, and all these cocks, gods, devils, neo-Platonists and Twentieth Congresses ever actually existed, you, who have just been sitting by the fire yourself, you really do exist, and surely this is the very first thing that exists and has ever existed?’

Chapaev put the manuscript down on the top of his bureau and looked out for a while through the semicircular window of his study.

‘It seems to me, Petka, that the writer occupies too large a place in your personality.’ he said eventually. ‘This apostrophe to a reader who does not really exist is a rather cheap trick. Even if we assume that someone other than myself might possibly wade through this incomprehensible narrative, then I can assure you that he won’t give a single moment’s thought to the self-evident fact of his own existence. He is more likely to imagine you writing these lines. And I am afraid…’

‘But I am not afraid of anything.’ I interrupted nervously, lighting up a papyrosa. ‘I simply do not give a damn, nor have I for ages. I simply wrote down my latest nightmare as best I could. And that paragraph appeared… How shall I put it… By force of inertia. After that conversation I had with the baron.’

‘Yes, by the way, what did the baron tell you?’ Chapaev asked. ‘Judging from the fact that you came back wearing a yellow hat, the two of you must have had quite an emotional exchange.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ I said. ‘I could sum it up by saying that he advised me to discharge myself from the hospital. He likened this world of constant alarms and passions, these thoughts about nothing and all this running nowhere, to a home for the mentally ill. And then - assuming I understood him correctly - he explained that in reality this home for the mentally ill does not exist, and neither does he, and neither do you, my dear Chapaev. There is nothing but me.’

Chapaev chuckled.

‘So that’s what you took him to mean. That is interesting. We shall come back to that, I promise you… But as for his advice to discharge yourself from the madhouse, that seems to me a suggestion which it is quite impossible to improve on. I really don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Yes, indeed, instead of being terrified by each new nightmare, these nightly creations of your inflamed consciousness…’

‘I beg your pardon, I do not think I quite understand,’ I said. ‘Is it my inflamed consciousness that creates the nightmare, or is my consciousness itself a creation of the nightmare?’

‘They are the same thing.’ said Chapaev with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘All these constructs are only required so that you can rid yourself of them for ever. Wherever you might be, live according to the laws of the world you find yourself in, and use those very laws to liberate yourself from them. Discharge yourself from the hospital, Petka.’

‘I believe that I understand the metaphor,’ I said. ‘But what will happen afterwards? Shall I see you again?’

Chapaev smiled and crossed his arms.

‘I promise that you will.’ he said.

There was a sudden crash, and fragments of the upper window-pane scattered across the floor. The stone that had crashed through it struck against the wall and fell to the floor beside the bureau. Chapaev went over to the window and glanced cautiously out into the yard.

‘The weavers?’ I asked.

Chapaev nodded.

‘They are completely wild from drink now,’ he said.

‘Why do you not have a word with Furmanov?’ I asked.

‘I have no reason to believe he is capable of controlling them.’ Chapaev replied. ‘The only reason he remains their commander is because he always gives them exactly the orders that they wish to hear. He only has to make one single serious mistake, and they will find themselves another leader soon enough.’

‘I must confess that I am seriously alarmed on their account.’ I said. ‘The situation appears to me to be completely out of control. Please do not think that I am beginning to panic, but at some fine moment we could easily all find ourselves… Remember what has been going on for the last few days.’

‘It will all be resolved this evening,’ Chapaev said, fixing me with his gaze. ‘By the way, since you declare yourself to be concerned at this problem, which really is genuinely aggravating, why not make your own contribution? Help us to amuse the bored public and create the impression that we have also been drawn into their Bacchanalian revels. They must continue to believe that everyone here is of one mind.’

‘A contribution to what?’

‘There is going to be a concert of sorts today - you know the kind of thing, the men will show each other all kinds of ee-er… acts, I suppose. Everyone who has a trick will show it off. So perhaps you could perform for them as well, and recite something revolutionary? Like that piece you gave at the «Musical Snuffbox»?’

I was piqued.

‘But you must understand, I really am not sure that I shall be able to fit in with the style of such a concert. I am afraid that

‘But you just told me you are not afraid of anything.’ Chapaev interrupted. ‘And then, you should take a broader view of things. In the final analysis, you are one of my men too, and all that is required of you is to show the others what sort of tricks you can turn yourself.’

For just an instant it seemed to me that Chapaev’s words contained an excessive element of mockery; it even occurred to me that it might be his reaction to the text he had just been reading. But then I realized that there was another possible explanation. Perhaps he simply wished to show me that, when viewed from the perspective of reality, no hierarchy remains for the activities in which people engage - and no particular difference between one of the most famous poets of St Petersburg and a bunch of crude regimental talents.

‘Very well then,’ I said, ‘I shall try.’

‘Splendid.’ said Chapaev. ‘Until this evening, then.’

He turned back to his bureau and busied himself with studying the map laid out on it. A pile of papers was encroaching upon the territory of the map, and amongst them I could make out several telegrams and two or three packages sealed with red sealing-wax. Clicking my heels (Chapaev paid not the slightest attention to the sarcasm with which I invested this act), I left the study and ran down the stairs. In the doorway I ran into Anna as she came in from the yard. She was wearing a dress of black velvet which covered her breasts and her throat and reached down almost to the floor: none of her outfits suited her so well.

I actually ran into her in the direct sense of the word; for a brief second my arms, instinctively thrown out ahead of me, closed around her in a tight embrace, unpremeditated and clumsy, but nonetheless disturbing for that. The next instant, as through thrown off by an electric shock, I leapt backwards, stumbled over the last step of the stairway and fell flat on my back - it must all have appeared quite monstrously absurd. But Anna did not laugh - quite the opposite, her face expressed fright and concern.

‘Did you hit your head?’ she asked, leaning down over me solicitously and holding out her hand.

‘No,’ I said, taking her hand in mine and getting to my feet.

Even after I had risen she did not withdraw her hand; for a second there was an awkward pause and then I surprised even myself by saying:

‘Surely you must understand that this is not the way I am in myself, that it is you, Anna, who make me the most ridiculous being in the world.’

‘I? But why?’

‘As if you could not see for yourself… You have been sent by God or the devil, I do not know which, to punish me. Before I met you, I had no idea of how hideous I was not in myself, but in comparison with that higher, unattainable beauty which you symbolize for me. You are like a mirror in which I have suddenly glimpsed the great, unbridgeable gulf which separates me from everything that I love in this world, from everything that is dear to me, that holds any meaning or significance for me. And only you, Anna - hear me out, please - only you can bring back to my life the light and the meaning which disappeared after that first time I saw you in the train! You alone are capable of saving me.’ I uttered all of this in a single breath.

Of course, I lied - no particular light and meaning had disappeared from my life with Anna’s appearance, because there had not been any before - but at the moment when I pronounced these words, every single one of them seemed to me to be the most sacred truth. As Anna listened in silence, an expression of mingled mistrust and incomprehension gradually stole across her face. Apparently this was the very last thing she had expected to hear from me.

‘But how can I save you?’ she asked, knitting her brows in a frown. ‘Believe me, I would be glad to do so, but what exactly is required of me?’

Her hand remained in mine, and I suddenly sensed a wave of insane hope surge in my breast.

‘Tell me, Anna,’ I said quickly, ‘you love to go riding in a carriage, do you not? I have won the trotters from Kotovsky. Here in the manor-house would be awkward. This evening, as soon as it is dark, let us take a ride out into the countryside!’

‘What?’ she asked. ‘But what for?’

‘What do you mean, «what for»? I assumed…’

Her expression changed instantly to one of weariness and boredom.

‘God, what banal vulgarity!’ she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘It would be better if you simply smelled of onions, like the last time.’

She walked past me, ran quickly up the stairs and entered Chapaev’s study without knocking. I went on standing there for some time; as soon as I had recovered control of the muscles of my face, I went out into the yard. After a long search I managed to find Furmanov in the headquarters hut, where he seemed to have settled in and made himself thoroughly at home. Standing on the table, beside an immense ink stain, was a samovar with a vaudeville boot stuck upside down over its chimney; evidently it served them as a kind of bellows for drawing the fire. Pieces of a dismembered herring were lying on rags beside the samovar. Having told Furmanov that I would recite revolutionary verse at the concert that evening, I left him to carry on drinking his tea - I was sure that there was vodka hidden under the table - in the company of two members of the weavers’ regiment. I went out through the gates of the yard and walked slowly in the direction of the forest.

It was strange, but I scarcely gave a thought to the declaration I had just made to Anna. I did not even feel particularly angry with myself. It did occur to me, it is true, that on every occasion she teased me with the possibility of a reconciliation, and then, as soon as I took the bait, made me appear quite monstrously absurd - but even this thought evaporated without the slightest effort on my part.

I walked uphill along the road, looking around me as I went. Soon the road surface came to an end; I walked a little further, then turned off the road, walked down the sloping grassy margin and sat down, leaning my back against a tree.

Holding a sheet of paper on my knees, I rapidly jotted down a text which was good enough for the weavers. As Chapaev had requested, it was in the spirit of the ‘Musical Snuffbox’, a sonnet with an affected rhyme scheme and a jagged rhythm that might have been ripped and torn with sabres. When it was finished, I realized that I had not included any revolutionary imagery and rewrote the final lines.

I was on the point of going back to the manor when I suddenly sensed that the insignificant effort I had made in writing these verses for the weavers had aroused my long-dormant creative powers; an invisible wing unfurled above my head, and everything else lost all importance. I remembered the death of the Emperor - this black news had been brought by Furmanov - and an almost pure anapaest (hreaded with interlinking rhymes flowed out as if of its own accord on to the paper. The form now seemed to me like some totally improbable echo of the past.

The poem began with a description of two sailors who seemed born from a condensation of the wind and the twilight that had settled over the world. Cleaving the foliage with the dark leather of their jackets, they were leading the hound Emperor. The Emperor was tired and resigned to his fate, but his eyes noticed many things that the sailors did not see; faces in the bushes, orderlies spitting in his beard, and the astounding beauty of this final evening. In their coarse fashion, the sailors attempted to lift the Emperor’s spirits, but he remained indifferent to their words, and even to the clatter of their breech-locks. Clambering up on to a tree stump, he shouted to them:

He even spoke in English, a fact, however, that did not surprise me in the slightest. Indeed, how could he, before his death (or perhaps before something else - I did not quite understand that point myself) have expressed himself in the Russian language defiled by the decrees of the Council of People’s Commissars? I found the orderlies far more surprising - I simply could not make out what they meant. However, I had never understood my own poetry particularly well, and had long suspected that authorship is a dubious concept, and all that is required from a person who takes a pen in hand is to line up the various keyholes scattered about his soul so that a ray of sunlight can shine through on to the paper set out in front of him.

When I returned to the manor-house the performance was already in full swing. In the corner of the yard stood the platform of an improvised stage, hastily cobbled together by the weavers from the planks of a dismantled fence. The men were sitting on benches and chairs which they had pilfered from wherever they could find them, attentively following the action. As I approached, a horse was being forcibly dragged away by its reins, to the loud laughter and ribald comments of the audience - the poor animal obviously possessed some talent which it had been forced to demonstrate. Then a thin man with a sabre hanging on his belt and the face of a village atheist appeared at the edge of the stage; I realized that he must be performing the function of master of ceremonies. He waited for the hubbub of voices to die away and then said solemnly:

‘A horse with two pricks is nothing compared to what we have next. Your attention please for Private Straminsky, who can pronounce the words of the Russian language with his arse, and who worked in a circus prior to the liberation of the people. He talks quietly, so please keep quiet - and no laughing.’

A bald young man wearing spectacles appeared on the stage. I was surprised to note that, in contrast with the majority of Furmanov’s people, his features were cultured, without a trace of bestiality. He belonged to the frequently encountered type of the eternal optimist, with a face creased by frequent grimaces of suffering. He gestured for a stool, then leaned down and supported himself on it with his hands, with his side to the audience and his face turned towards them.

‘Great Nostradamus,’ he said, ‘tell me, do, how long will the bloody hydra of the foe continue to resist the Red Army?’

I wondered what the name Nostradamus could mean for them - perhaps some mighty hero bestriding the dark annals of proletarian mythology? The invisible Nostradamus replied:

‘Not long.’

‘And why does the bloody hydra continue to resist?’ asked the mouth.

‘The Entente.’ replied its invisible interlocutor.

During the replies the lips of the man on the stage did not move at all, but he performed rapid movements with his protruding backside. The conversation was about politics and the health of the leaders - there were rumours that Lenin was in hospital again with heart problems, and only the captain of his guard was allowed to see him; the hall fell into an entranced silence.

I immediately realized how it was done. A long time before, in Florence, I had seen a street ventriloquist who had summoned up the spirit of Dante. The performance of the man on stage was something of the same kind, with the exception that the answers given by the ‘spirit’ obliged one to assume that Nostradamus had been the very first Marxist in Europe. It was obvious that the performer was a ventriloquist from the peculiar timbre of the replies - low, breathy and rather indistinct. The only thing that was not clear was why he needed to convince the weavers that he was uttering the sounds through his backside.

This was a genuinely interesting question. At first I thought it might be impossible to show the Red weavers a conversation with a spirit because, according to their view of the world, spirits did not exist. But then I was suddenly struck by another explanation, and I suddenly realized that the answer lay elsewhere. The performer had instinctively understood that only something thoroughly bawdy was capable of arousing lively interest from his audience. In this regard his skill in itself was entirely neutral - as far as I understood it, ventriloquists do not even speak with their bellies, they simply pronounce the sounds of speech without opening their lips - and therefore he had to present his act as something repulsively indecent.

Oh, how I regretted at that moment that I did not have one of the St Petersburg symbolists there with me. Could one ever possibly find a symbol deeper than this - or, perhaps I should say, wider? Such will be the fate, I thought with bitterness, of all the arts in this dead-end tunnel into which we are being dragged by the locomotive of history. If even a fairground ventriloquist has to resort to such cheap tricks to maintain his audience’s interest, then what can possibly lie ahead for the art of poetry? There will be no place at all left for it in the new world - or rather, there will, but poems will only be considered interesting if it is known on the basis of sound documentary evidence that their author has two pricks, or at the very least, that he is capable of reciting them through his arse. Why, I asked myself, why does any social cataclysm in this world always result in the most ignorant scum rising to the top and forcing everyone else to live in accordance with its own base and conspiratorially defined laws?

In the meanwhile, the ventriloquist forecast the imminent demise of the kingdom of capital, then recited a weary, worn-out joke which no one in the audience understood, before issuing in farewell several protracted sounds of a vulgar physiological nature, which were greeted by the audience with enthusiastic laughter.

The master of ceremonies appeared again and announced my entrance. I ascended the sagging wooden steps, assumed my stance at the edge of the stage and gazed out without speaking at the assembled public. It was a far from pretty sight. It sometimes happens that the glass eyes of a stuffed wild boar project the semblance of some expression, some feeling which might have been expressed if the animal had been alive; the impression is in turn fleshed out by the mind of the observer. Some similar effect seemed to be in evidence here, except in reverse; although the multitude of eyes staring at me were actually alive and I seemed to understand the feeling reflected in them, I knew that they did not express to even the very slightest degree what I was imagining. In reality I would never be able to decode the meaning that glittered in them; indeed, it was probably not worth the effort.

Not everyone was looking at me. Furmanov was engaged in conversation about something with his two aides-de-camp - in their case the etymology of the term ‘aides’ could be traced back, beyond the slightest possible doubt, to the word ‘hades’. I noticed Anna sitting in one of the most distant rows. She was chewing on a straw with a smile of contempt on her face. I do not think the smile was intended for me, she was not even looking at the stage; she was wearing the same black velvet dress she had worn a couple of hours before.

I set one foot in front of the other and folded my arms on my chest, but carried on standing there in silence, gazing at some point in the gangway. Soon the audience began murmuring restlessly, and in a few seconds the murmur had swollen to a rather loud rumble, providing a muted background for the more distinct sounds of whistles and hoots. Then, in a deliberately quiet voice, I began to speak:

‘Gentlemen, I feel I must beg your forgiveness for making use of my mouth in order to address you, but I have had neither the time nor the opportunity to master the accepted modes of intercourse here

Nobody heard the first words I spoke, but by the end of this phrase the noise had dropped so noticeably that I could distinguish the buzzing of the multitudinous flies circling above my audience.

‘Comrade Furmanov has asked me to recite some poetry for you, something revolutionary.’ I continued. ‘As a commissar, there is one comment I would like to make in this regard. Comrade Lenin has warned us against excessive enthusiasm for experimentation in the field of form. I trust that the artist who preceded me will not take offence - yes, yes, you, comrade, the one who spoke through your arse. Lenin has taught us that art is made revolutionary, not by its unusual external appearance, but by the profound inner inspiration of the proletarian idea. And by way of an example I shall recite for you a poem which speaks of the life of various princes and counts, but which is, nonetheless, a very clear example of proletarian poetry.’

Silence had established its total and undisputed reign over the seated rows of the public. As though saluting some invisible Caesar, I raised my hand above my head, and in my usual manner, using no intonation whatsoever but merely punctuating the quatrains with short pauses, I recited:

For several seconds the silence hung in the air above the seats, and then they suddenly erupted into louder applause than I had ever managed to elicit even in ‘The Stray Dog’ in St Petersburg. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Anna had risen and was walking away along the aisle, but just at that moment it did not bother me in the least. If I am honest, I just confess that I felt genuinely flattered, even to the extent that I forgot all the bitter thoughts I had been thinking about my audience. I brandished my fist at some invisible foe, then thrust my hand into my pocket, pulled out my Browning and fired twice into the air. The response was a rumbling cannonade from the bristling forest of gun-barrels that had sprouted above the audience, followed by a roar of sheer delight. I gave a brief bow and left the stage, then skirted round a group of weavers who were still clapping, before heading for the manor-house.

My success had somewhat intoxicated me. I was thinking that genuine art is distinguished from its false counterpart by its ability to beat a path to even the most coarse and brutalized of hearts, and its ability to exalt to the heavens, to a world of total and unfettered freedom, even the most hopeless victim of the infernal global trance. However, I came to my senses soon enough as I was stung by the realization, painful though it was for my own vanity, that they had applauded me simply because my poem had seemed to them to be something in the nature of a warrant which widened by a few extra degrees the scope of their unlimited and unpunished licence: to Lenin’s maxim that we should ‘plunder what has been plundered’ had been added permission to don a bagel, however unclear the repercussions of that might yet he.

I went back to my room, stretched out on the divan and stared at the ceiling with my hands clasped behind my back. I thought of how everything that had happened to me during the past two or three hours was a magnificent illustration of the eternal, unchanging fate of the Russian intellectual. Writing odes about Red banners in secret, but earning his keep with verses in honour of the name-day of the Head of Police or the opposite, perceiving with his inner eye the final appearance of the Emperor, while mouthing off about the hanging of a count’s bagels on the horny genitals of the proletariat.

Thus it will be always, I thought. Even if we were to allow that power in this terrifying country might not be won by one of the cliques warring for it, but could simply fall into the hands of villains and thieves of the kind to be found in all the various different ‘Musical Snuffboxes’, the Russian intelligentsia would still go running to them for business like a dog’s barber.

While thinking all of this, I had already fallen half-asleep, but I was summoned back to reality by an unexpected knock at my door.

‘Yes, yes.’ I shouted, without even bothering to get up from the bed, ‘come in!’

The door opened, but no one came in. I waited for several seconds until my patience was exhausted and I raised my head to look. Anna was standing in the doorway, wearing that same black velvet dress.

‘May I come in?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course.’1 said, rising hurriedly, ‘please. Have a seat.’

Anna sat down in the armchair - the second when her back was turned was just long enough for me to sweep a tattered puttee lying on the floor under the bed with a movement of my foot.

Once in the armchair, Anna folded her hands on her knees and contemplated me thoughtfully for several seconds with a gaze that seemed clouded by some thought that was not yet entirely clear even to her.

‘Would you like to smoke?’ I asked.

She nodded. I took out my papyrosas and placed them in front of her on the table, then set beside them the saucer which served for an ashtray and struck a match.

Thank you.’ she said, releasing a thin stream of smoke in the direction of the ceiling. There seemed to be some kind of struggle taking place within her. I was about to make some banal remark in order to start the conversation, but I stopped myself just in time when I remembered how that usually ended. Then suddenly Anna herself spoke.

‘I cannot say that I really liked your poem about that princess.’ she said, ‘but in comparison with the other participants in the concert you cut rather an impressive figure.’

Thank you.’ I said.

‘And by the way, I spent all last night reading your poems. The garrison library turned out to have a book…’

‘Which one?’

‘That I do not know. The first few pages were missing, someone must have torn them out for rolling cigarettes.’

‘Then how could you tell that the poems were mine?’

‘I asked the librarian. Anyway, there was one poem, a reworking of Pushkin, about opening one’s eyes and seeing nothing but snow, empty space and mist, and then on further and further… It was very good. How did it go now? No, I can’t remember. Ah, yes:

But desire burns within you still,

The trains depart for it,

And the butterfly of consciousness

Flits from nowhere into nowhere.

‘Yes, I recall it now,’ I said. ‘The book is called Songs of the Kingdom of “I”‘

‘What a strange title. It does sound rather smug.’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That is not the point. It is simply that in China there once used to be a kingdom whose name consisted of a single letter - «A». I was always amazed by that. You know, we talk about «a» forest or «a» house, but here all we have is «a». Like an indication of something that lies beyond a point at which words come to an end, and all we can say is «a», but «a» what exactly is impossible to say.’

‘Chapaev would immediately ask you whether you can say what you mean when you say «1».’

‘He has already asked. But in relation to the book - it really is one of my weakest, by the way, I must give you the others some time - I can explain. I used to do a lot of travelling, and then at some moment I suddenly realized that no matter where I might go, in reality I can do no more than move within a single space, and that space is myself. At the time I called it «I», but now I would probably call it «A».’

‘But what about other people?’ Anna asked.

‘Other people?’ I queried.

‘Yes. You write a lot about other people. For instance.’ she knitted her brows slightly, evidently in the effort of remembering, ‘take this:

‘Enough.’ I interrupted her, ‘I remember. I would not say that is really my best poem.’

‘I like it. And in general, Pyotr, I liked your book terribly. But you have not answered my question: what about other people?’

‘I am not sure I quite understand what you mean.’

‘If everything that you can see, feel and understand is within you, in that kingdom of «I», does that mean that other people are quite simply not real? Me, for instance?’

‘Believe me, Anna,’ I said passionately, ‘if there is one thing in the world that is real to me, then it is you. I have suffered so much from our… What can I call it - our falling-out

that

‘That is my fault.’ said Anna. ‘I do have such a bad character.’

‘What nonsense, Anna, I have nobody to blame but myself. You have shown such patience in bearing all the clumsy, absur-’

‘Don’t let us try to outdo each other in politeness. Tell me simply - do I really mean as much to you as it might appear from the phrases you have uttered at certain times?’

‘You mean everything to me.’I said with complete sincerity.

‘Very well then,’ said Anna. ‘I believe you suggested that we should go for a ride in the carriage? Into the country? Let us go.’

‘This very moment?’

‘Why not?’

I moved closer to her.

‘Anna, you can never

‘I beg you,’ she said, ‘not here.’

Driving out of the gates, I turned the carriage to the right. Anna was sitting beside me, the colour had risen in her cheeks, and she was avoiding looking at me. It began to seem to me that she already regretted what was happening. We drove to the woods in silence; as soon as the vault of green branches had closed over our heads I stopped the horses.

‘Listen, Anna.’ I said, turning towards her. ‘Believe me, I appreciate your impulse immensely, but if you have begun to regret it, then

She did not allow me to finish. She put her arms around my neck and set her lips against my mouth. It happened so quickly that I was still speaking at the moment when she began kissing me. Naturally, I did not value the phrase I was pronouncing so much as to try to stop her.

I have always found kissing to be an extremely strange form of contact between human beings. As far as I am aware, it is one of the innovations introduced by civilization; it is well known that the savages who inhabit the southern isles and the peoples of Africa who have not yet crossed that boundary beyond which the paradise originally intended for man is lost for ever, never kiss at all. Their lovemaking is simple and uncomplicated; possibly the very word ‘love’ is inappropriate for what takes place between them. In essence, love arises in solitude, when its object is absent, and it is directed less at the person whom one loves than at an image constructed by the mind which has only a weak connection with that original. The appearance of true love requires the ability to create chimeras; in kissing me Anna was really kissing the man behind the poems which had affected her so strongly, a man who had never existed. How was she to know that when I wrote the book I was also engaged in a tormented search for him, growing more convinced with each new poem that he could never be found, because he existed nowhere? The words left by him were simply an imposture, like the footsteps carved in the rock by slaves, which the Babylonians used to prove the reality of the descent to earth of some ancient deity.

This last thought was already about Anna. I felt the tender touch of her trembling tongue; between their half-closed lids, her eyes were so close that I felt I could have dived into their moist gleam and dissolved in them for ever. At last we grew short of breath and our first kiss came to an end. Her face turned to the side so that now I saw it in profile; she closed her eyes and ran her tongue across her lips, as though they were dry - all of these small mimetic gestures, which in other circumstances would not have meant a thing, now moved me with a quite unbelievable power. I realized that there was no longer anything keeping us apart, that everything was possible; my hand, from lying on her shoulder, which only a minute ago it would have seemed like sacrilege merely to touch, moved down simply and naturally to her breast. She leaned away from me slightly, but only, as I realized immediately, in order that my hand should not encounter any obstacles in its way.

‘What are you thinking of now?’ she asked. ‘Only honestly.’

‘What am I thinking of?’ I said, moving my hands together behind her neck. ‘Of the fact that progress towards the zenith of happiness is in the literal sense like the ascent of a mountain…’

‘Not like that. Unfasten the hook. No, no. Leave it, let me do it. Forgive me, I interrupted you.’

‘Yes, it is like a difficult and dangerous ascent. As long as the object of desire lies ahead, all of one’s feelings are absorbed in the process of climbing. The next stone on which to set one’s foot, a tuft of grass which one can grab hold of for support. How beautiful you are, Anna… What was it I was saying… Yes, the goal gives all of this meaning, but it is completely absent at any single point in the movement; in essence, the approach to the goal is superior to the goal itself. I believe there was a certain opportunist by the name of Bernsteen who said that movement is all and the goal is nothing

‘Not Bernsteen, but Bernstein. How does this thing undo… Where on earth did you find such a belt?’

‘My God, Anna, do you want me to go insane

‘Carry on talking,’ she said, looking up for just a second, ‘but don’t be offended if I am unable to maintain the conversation for a while.’

‘Yes,’ I continued, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, ‘but the most important thing here is that as soon as one has ascended the summit, as soon as the goal has been attained, at that very moment it disappears. In its essence, like all objects created by the mind, it is ultimately elusive. Imagine it yourself, Anna, when one dreams of the most beautiful of women, she is present in one’s imagination in all the perfection of her beauty, but when she is actually there in one’s arms, all of that disappears. What one is dealing with then is reduced to a set of the most simple and often rather crude sensations, which, moreover, one normally experiences in the dark… O-o-oh… But no matter how they may rouse the blood, the beauty which was calling to you only a minute before disappears, to be replaced by something, to strive for which was ridiculous. It means that beauty is unattainable. Or rather, it is attainable, but only in itself, while that goal which reason intoxicated by passion seeks behind it, simply does not exist. From the very beginning beauty is actually… No, I cannot go on. Come here… yes, like that. Yes. Yes. Is that comfortable? Oh, my God… What did you say was the name of the man who said that about the movement and the goal?’

‘Bernstein,’ Anna whispered in my ear.

‘Does it not seem to you that his words apply very well to love?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, gently biting the lobe of my ear. ‘The goal is nothing, but the movement is everything.’

‘Then move, move, I implore you.’

‘And you talk, talk

‘Of what exactly?’

‘Of anything at all, just talk. I want to hear your voice when it happens.’

‘By all means. To continue that idea… Imagine that everything which a beautiful woman can give one adds up to one hundred per cent.’

‘You bookkeeper…’

‘Yes, one hundred. In that case, she gives ninety per cent of that when one simply sees her, and everything else, the object of a thousand years of haggling, is no more than an insignificant remainder. Nor can that first ninety per cent be subdivided into any component fractions, because beauty is indefinable and indivisible, no matter what lies Schopenhauer may try to tell us. As for the other ten per cent, it is no more than an aggregate sum of nerve signals which would be totally without value if they were not lent support by imagination and memory. Anna, I beg you, open your eyes for a second… Yes, like that,… yes, precisely imagination and memory. You know, if I had to write a genuinely powerful erotic scene, I would merely provide a few hints and fill in the rest with an incomprehensible conversation like the… Oh, my God, Anna… Like the one which you and I are having now. Because there is nothing to depict, everything has to be tilled in by the mind. The deception, and perhaps the very greatest of a woman’s secrets… Oh, my little girl from the old estate… consists in the fact that beauty seems to be a label, behind which there lies concealed something immeasurably greater, something inexpressibly more desired than itself, to which it merely points the way, whereas in actual fact, there is nothing in particular standing behind it… A golden label on an empty bottle… A shop where everything is displayed in a magnificently arranged window-setting, but that tiny, tender, narrow little room behind it… Please, please, my darling, not so fast… Yes, that room is empty. Remember the poem I recited to those unfortunates. About the princess and the bagel… A-a-ah, Anna… No matter how temptingly it might lure one, the moment comes when one realizes that at the centre of that black bage… bagel… bagel… there is nothing but a void, voi-oid, voi-oi-oooid!’

‘Voyd!’ someone yelled once again behind the door. ‘Are you in there?’

‘Merde,’ I muttered, getting up from the bed and casting a crazed glance around my room. Outside the window the twilight was thickening. ‘Damn you to hell! What do you want?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Come in.’

The door swung open, revealing a blond-haired, bow-legged hulk of an individual standing in the doorway. In theory he was my orderly, but after several weeks of the demoralizing in flu ence of the Reds, it was no longer quite clear just exactly what he had on his mind, and so now every evening, just to be on the safe side, I pulled off my own boots.

‘What, sleeping, was you?’ he asked, looking round the room. ‘Woke you up, did I? Sorry. You give us a real surprise today. Here’s a present as the men wants you to have.’

Some object wrapped in newspaper flopped down on to the bed in front of me; it had a strangely familiar smell. I unwrapped the bundle. Inside there was a bagel, one of those that were sold in the bakery on the main square, except that it was black, and it smelt of the coal-tar dubbin which the soldiers used for blacking their boots.

‘Don’t you like it, then?’ he asked.

1 looked up at him, and he immediately took a step backwards; before I could find the butt of my Browning in my pocket, he had disappeared from the doorway, and the three bullets which I fired into the empty rectangle ricocheted off the stone wall of the corridor like the song of angels.

‘All. Women. Suck.’ I said in a loud voice, and collapsed back on to the bed.

For a long time no one disturbed me. Outside the window I could hear constant drunken laughter; several shots were fired and then apparently a long, feebly fought fight broke out. To judge from the sounds that reached my ears, the concert had developed into an evening of total outrage, and it was very doubtful whether anybody at all was capable of controlling this tempest of the people’s rage, as the St Petersburg liberals had liked to call it. Then I heard quiet steps in the corridor. I felt a brief, fleeting hope - after all, I thought, there are such things as prophetic dreams - but it was so weak, that when I saw the broad-shouldered figure of Kotovsky in the doorway, I was not really disappointed. It even seemed rather funny to me that he should have come back to continue haggling over the trotters and the cocaine.

Kotovsky was wearing a brown two-piece suit; perched on his head was a dandified hat with a wide brim, and he had a leather portmanteau in each hand. He set them down on the floor and raised two fingers to his forehead.

‘Good evening, Pyotr,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye.’

‘Are you leaving?’ I asked.

‘Yes. And I have no idea why you are staying,’ said Kotovsky. ‘Tomorrow or the next day these weavers will torch the entire place. I simply cannot understand what Chapaev is hoping for.’

‘He was intending to resolve that problem today.’

Kotovsky shrugged.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘problems can be resolved in various ways: you can simply drink yourself into a fog, and then for a while they will disappear. But I prefer to deal with them, to sort them out - at least until they begin to sort me out. The train leaves at eight o’clock this evening. It is still not too late. Five days, and we are in Paris.’

‘I am staying.’

Kotovsky looked at me carefully.

‘You do realize that you are mad?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘It will all end with the three of you being arrested and that Furmanov in supreme command.’

That does not frighten me,’ I said.

‘You mean you are not afraid of arrest? Of course, all of us in the Russian intelligentsia do retain a certain secret freedom a la Pushkine, even in the madhouse, and it is possible…’

I laughed. ‘Kotovsky, you have a quite remarkable talent for detecting the rhythm of my own thought. I was actually pondering on that very theme only today, and I can tell you what the secret freedom of the Russian intellectual really consists of.’

‘If it will not take too long, I should be most obliged to you.’ he replied.

‘A year ago, I think it was, there was a most interesting event in St Petersburg. Several social democrats arrived from England - of course, they were appalled by what they found - and we had a meeting with them on Basseinaya Street, organized through the Union of Poets. Blok was there, and he spent the whole evening telling them about this secret freedom which, as he said, we all laud, following Pushkin. That was the last time I saw him, he was dressed all in black and quite inexpressibly morose. Then he left and the Englishmen, who naturally had not understood a thing, began asking us exactly what this secret freedom was; nobody could give them a proper answer, until a Romanian who happened for some reason to be travelling with the Englishmen said that he understood what was meant.’

‘I see.’ said Kotovsky, and he glanced at his watch.

‘No need for concern, this will not take long. He said that the Romanian language has a similar idiom - haz baragaz, or something of the kind - I forget the exact pronunciation, but the words literally mean «underground laughter». Apparently, during the Middle Ages Romania was frequently invaded by all sorts of nomadic tribes, and so the peasants constructed immense dugouts, entire underground houses, into which they drove their livestock the moment a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon. They themselves hid in these places as well, and since the dugouts were quite excellently camouflaged, the nomads could never find a thing. Naturally, when they were underground the peasants were very quiet, but just occasionally, when they were quite overcome by joy at their own cunning in deceiving everyone, they would cover their mouths with their hands and laugh very, very quietly. There is your secret freedom, the Romanian said, it is when you are sitting wedged in among a herd of foul-smelling goats and sheep and you point up at the roof with your finger and giggle very, very quietly. You know, Kotovsky, it was such a very apt description of the situation, that from that evening onwards I ceased being a member of the Russian intelligentsia. Underground giggling is not for me. Freedom cannot be secret.’

‘Interesting,’ said Kotovsky. ‘Interesting. But I am afraid it is time for me to be going.’

‘Let me see you to the gate.’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘There is the very devil of a commotion out there in the yard.’

‘As I was saying.’

I put the Browning into my pocket, picked up one of Kotovsky’s portmanteaus and was on the point of following him along the corridor when I was suddenly struck by a strange presentiment that I was seeing my room for the very last time. I halted in the doorway and looked around it carefully; two light armchairs, a bed, a small table with copies of Isis for 1915. My God, I thought, if things really are that bad, what does it matter that I shall never come back here? What does it matter that I do not know where I am going? How many places have I already left behind for ever?

‘Have you forgotten something?’ asked Kotovsky.

‘No, it’s nothing,’ I replied.

The sight that greeted us when we emerged on to the porch of the manor-house reminded me in some indefinable manner of Briullov’s painting The Last Day of Pompeii. There were not actually any collapsing columns or clouds of smoke against a black sky, just two large bonfires burning in the darkness and blind-drunk weavers wandering everywhere. But the way in which they slapped one another on the shoulder, the way they stopped to relieve themselves in public or to raise a bottle to their lips, the way some half-naked, drunken women were laughing as they staggered around the yard, together with the menacing red glow of the fires that illuminated the entire Bacchanalian scene - all served to induce a sense of impending menace, final and implacable.

We walked quickly to the gate without speaking; some men with rifles sitting by one of the bonfires waved for us to join them and yelled something indistinct, and Kotovsky nervously stuck his hand in his pocket. Nobody fell in behind us, thank God, but the last few yards to the gate, when our defenceless backs were exposed to this entire drunken rabble, seemed extremely long. We went out of the gate and walked on another twenty steps or so, and then I halted. The street winding spiral-fashion down the hill was deserted: a few street lamps were burning, and the damp cobblestones gleamed dully under their calm light.

‘I will not go any further.’ I said. ‘I wish you luck.’

‘And I you. Who knows, perhaps we shall meet again some time.’ he said with a strange smile. ‘Or hear news of each other.’

We shook hands. He raised two fingers to the brim of his hat once again, and without turning to look back, he set off down the street. I watched his broad figure until it disappeared round a bend, and then began slowly walking back. I stopped at the gates and glanced in through them cautiously. The window of Chapaev’s study was in darkness. I suddenly realized why I had felt such horror at the sight I had seen in the yard - there was something about it which reminded me of the world of Baron Jungern. I did not feel the slightest desire to walk back past the bonfires and the drunken weavers.

I realized where Chapaev might be. I walked along the fence for another forty yards, then glanced around. There was no one in sight. Jumping up, I grabbed hold of the top plank, managed somehow to haul myself up and over it and jumped down.

It was dark here; the flames of the bonfires were hidden behind the dark silhouette of the silent manor-house. Feeling my way by touch between the trees still wet from the recent rain, I scrambled down the slope into the gully, then slipped and slid into it on my back. The invisible brook was babbling somewhere off to my right; I walked towards it with my hands extended in front of me and after a few steps I glimpsed the brightly lit window of the bathhouse between the trunks of the trees.

‘Come in, Petka,’ Chapaev shouted in response to my knock.

He was sitting at the familiar rough wooden table, which once again bore a huge bottle of moonshine, several glasses and plates, a kerosene lamp and a plump file full of papers; he was wearing a long white Russian shirt outside his trousers, unbuttoned to the navel, and he was already extremely drunk.

‘How’s things?’ he asked

‘I thought you were intending to resolve the problem of the weavers.’ I said.

‘I am resolving it,’ said Chapaev, filling two glasses with moonshine.

‘I can see that Kotovsky knows you very well.’ I said.

‘That’s right.’ said Chapaev, ‘and I know him very well, too.’

‘He has just left for Paris on the evening train. It occurs to me that we have made a serious mistake in not following his example.’

Chapaev frowned.

‘But desire still burns within us.’ he chanted, ‘the trains depart for it and the butterfly of consciousness flits from nowhere to nowhere

‘So you have read it too? I am very flattered,’ I said and was immediately struck by the dreary thought that the word ‘too’ was somewhat misplaced. ‘Listen, if we leave straight away, we could still catch the train.’

‘So what’s new for me to see in this Paris of yours?’ Chapaev asked.

‘I suppose just what we’ll be seeing here soon.’ I answered.

Chapaev chuckled. ‘Right you are, Petka.’

‘By the way.’ I said with concern, ‘where is Anna at the moment? It’s not safe in the house.’

‘I gave her a task to do.’ said Chapaev, ‘she’ll be here soon. You just take a seat. I’ve been sitting here all this time waiting for you - already drunk half the bottle.’

I sat down facing him.

‘Your health!’

I shrugged. There was nothing to be done. ‘Your health, Vasily Ivanovich.’

We drank. Chapaev gazed moodily into the dim flame of the kerosene lamp.

‘I’ve been thinking about these nightmares of yours,’ he said, laying his hand on the file. ‘I’ve reread all these stones you wrote. About Serdyuk, and about that fellow Maria, and about the doctors and the gangsters. Did you ever pay any attention to the way you wake up from all of them?’

‘No.’ I said.

‘Well, just try to remember, will you?’

‘At a certain moment it simply becomes clear that it is all a dream. That’s all there is to it,’ I said uncertainly. ‘When I really begin to feel too bad, I suddenly realize that in fact there is nothing to be afraid of, because-’

‘Because what?’

‘I am struggling to find the words. I would put it like this - because there is a place to which I can wake up.’

Chapaev slapped the table with his open hand.

‘Where exactly can you wake up to?’

I had no answer to that question.

‘I do not know,’ I said.

Chapaev raised his eyes to look into mine and smiled. He suddenly no longer seemed drunk.

‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘That’s the very place. As soon as you are swept up in the flow of your dreams, you yourself become part of it ail - because in that flow everything is relative, everything is in motion, and there is nothing for you to grab hold of and cling to. You don’t realize when you are drawn into the whirlpool, because you are moving along together with the water, and it appears to be motionless. That’s how a dream comes to feel like reality. But there is a point which is not merely motionless relative to everything else, but absolutely motionless, and it’s called «t don’t know». When you hit it in a dream you wake up. Or rather, the waking up pushes you into it. And then after that,’ - he gestured around the room - ‘you come here.’

I heard a staccato burst of machine-gun fire beyond the wall, followed by the sound of an explosion, and the panes of glass rattled in the window.

‘There’s this point.’ Chapaev continued, ‘that is absolutely motionless, relative to which this life is as much of a dream as all your stories. Everything in the world is just a whirlpool of thoughts, and the world around us only becomes real when you yourself become that whirlpool. Only because you know.’

He laid heavy emphasis on the word ‘know’.

I stood up and went over to the window. ‘Listen, Chapaev, I think they have set fire to the manor-house.’

‘What’s to be done, Petka?’ Chapaev answered. ‘The way this world is arranged, you always end up answering questions in the middle of a burning house.’

‘I agree,’ I said, sitting back down facing him, ‘this is all quite remarkable, this whirlpool of thoughts and so forth. The world becomes real and unreal, I understand all that quite well. But any moment now some rather unpleasant individuals are going to arrive here - you understand, I am not trying to say that they are real, but they will certainly make us feel the force of their reality in full measure.’

‘Make me?’ asked Chapaev. ‘Never. Just watch.’

He took hold of the big bottle, pulled a small blue saucer over to him and filled it to the brim. Then he performed the same operation with a glass.

‘Look at that, Petka. In itself the moonshine doesn’t have any form. There’s a glass, and there’s a saucer. Which of the forms is real?’

‘Both.’ I said. ‘Both of them are real.’

Chapaev carefully drank the moonshine from the saucer, then from the glass, and threw each of them in turn hard against the wall. The saucer and the glass both shattered into tiny fragments.

‘Petka, watch and remember,’ he said. ‘If you are real, then death really will come. Even I won’t be able to help you. I’ll ask you one more time. There are the glasses, there’s the bottle. Which of these forms is real?’

‘I do not understand what you mean.’

‘Shall I show you?’ asked Chapaev.

‘Yes, do.’

He swayed to one side, thrust his hand under the table and pulled out his nickel-plated Mauser. I barely managed to grab hold of his wrist in time.

‘All right, all right. Just don’t shoot the bottle.’

‘Right you are, Petka. Let’s have a drink instead.’

Chapaev filled the glasses and then became thoughtful. It was as though he was searching for the words he needed.

‘In actual fact.’ he said eventually, ‘for the moonshine there is no saucer, and no glass, and no bottle - there’s nothing but itself. That’s why everything that can appear or disappear is an assemblage of empty forms which do not exist until they are assumed by the moonshine. Pour it into a saucer and that’s hell, pour it into a cup and you’ve got heaven. But you and me are drinking out of glasses, and that makes us people, Petka. D’you follow me?’

There was another loud bang outside. I no longer had to go over to the window to see the reflected crimson glow flickering in the glass.

‘By the way, about hell,’ I said, ‘I cannot remember whether I told you or not. Do you know why these weavers have left us alone for so long?’

‘Why?’

‘Because they believe quite sincerely that you have sold your soul to the devil.’

‘Do they now?’ Chapaev asked in amazement. ‘That’s fascinating. But who sells the soul?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, they say - he’s sold his soul to the devil, or, he’s sold his soul to God. But who is the person who sells it? He must be different from the thing he sells in order to be able to sell it, mustn’t he?’

‘You know, Chapaev,’ I said, ‘my Catholic upbringing will not allow me to joke about such things.’

‘I understand.’ said Chapaev. ‘I know where these rumours come from. There was one person who came here to see me in order to ask how he could sell his soul to the devil. A certain Staff Captain Lambovsky. Are you acquainted?’

‘We met in the restaurant.’

‘I explained to him how it can be done, and he performed the entire ritual most punctiliously.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing much. He didn’t suddenly acquire riches, or eternal youth either. The only thing that did happen was that in all the regimental documents the name «Lambovsky» was replaced by «Serpentovich».’

‘Why was that?’

‘It’s not good to go deceiving others. How can you sell what you haven’t got?’

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ I asked, ‘that Lambovsky has no soul?’

‘Of course not.’ said Chapaev.

‘And you?’

For a second or so Chapaev seemed to be gazing deep inside himself, and then he shook his head.

‘Do I have one?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Chapaev.

My face must have betrayed my confusion, because Chapaev chuckled and shook me by the elbow.

‘Petka, neither I, nor you, nor Staff Captain Lambovsky have any sort of soul. It’s the soul that has Lambovsky, Chapaev and Petka. You can’t say that everyone has a different soul and you can’t say everyone has the same soul. If there is anything we can say about it, it’s that it doesn’t exist either.’

‘I really do not understand a single word in all of that.’

‘That’s the problem, Petka… That’s where Kotovsky made his mistake. Remember that business with the lamp and the wax?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kotovsky understood that there is no form, what he didn’t understand is that there is no wax either.’

‘Why is there not?’

‘Because, Petka - listen to me carefully now - because the wax and the moonshine can take on any form, but they themselves are nothing but forms too.’

‘Forms of what?’

‘That’s the trick, you see. They are forms about which all we can say is that there is nothing that assumes them. D’you follow? Therefore in reality there is no wax and there is no moonshine.’

For a second I seemed to be balancing on some kind of threshold, and then a heavy drunken dullness descended on me. It suddenly became very difficult to think.

‘There may not be any wax,’ I said, ‘but there is still half a bottle of moonshine.’

Chapaev stared at the bottle with murky eyes.

‘That’s true.’ he said. ‘But if you can only understand that it doesn’t exist either, I’ll give you the order from my own chest. And until I do give it to you, we won’t be leaving this place.’

We drank another glass and I listened for a while to the sounds of shooting outside; Chapaev paid absolutely no attention to it all.

‘Are you really not afraid?’ I asked.

‘Why, Petka, are you afraid of something?’

‘A little,’I said.

‘What of?’

‘Death.’ I answered, before pausing. ‘Or rather, not death itself, but… I do not know. I want to save my consciousness.’

Chapaev laughed and shook his head.

‘Have I said something funny?’

‘That’s a good one, Petka. I didn’t expect that of you. You mean you went into battle with thoughts like that in your head every time? It’s the same as a scrap of newspaper lying under a street lamp and thinking that it wants to save the light it’s lying in. What d’you want to save your consciousness from?’

I shrugged. ‘From non-existence.’

‘But isn’t non-existence itself an object of consciousness?’

‘Now we’re back to sophistry again,’ I said. ‘Even if I am «i scrap of newspaper that thinks that it wants to save the light in which it is lying, what difference does it all make if I really do think that, and it all causes me pain?’

‘The scrap of newspaper can’t think. It’s just got the words written across it in bold italics: «I want to save the light of the street lamp.» And written beside that is: «Oh what pain, what terrible suffering…» Come on, Petka, how can I explain it to you? This entire world is a joke that God has told to himself. And God himself is the same joke too.’

There was an explosion outside, so close this time that the panes of glass in the window rattled audibly. I distinctly heard the rustling sound of shrapnel ripping through the leaves outside.

‘I tell you what, Vasily Ivanovich,’ I said, ‘why don’t we finish up with the theory and try to think of something practical.’

‘To be practical, Petka, I can tell you that if you’re afraid, 11 ien both of us are for the high jump. Because fear always at-11 acts exactly what it’s afraid of. But if you’re not afraid, then you become invisible. The best possible camouflage is indif-lerence. If you’re genuinely indifferent, none of those who can cause you harm will even remember you exist - they just won’t think about you. But if you go squirming about on your «hair the way you are now, in five minutes’ time we’ll have a roomful of those weavers in here.’

I suddenly realized that he was right, and I felt ashamed of my nervousness, which appeared particularly pitiful against (lie foil of his magnificent indifference. Had not I myself only recently refused to leave with Kotovsky? I was here because I had chosen to be, and it was simply foolish to waste what might be the final minutes of my life on anxiety and fear. I looked at Chapaev and thought that in essence I had never discovered anything at all about this man.

Tell me, Chapaev, who are you in reality?’

‘Better tell yourself, Petka, who you are in reality. Then you’ll understand all about me. But you just keep on repeating «me, me, me», like that gangster in your nightmare. What does that mean - «me»? What is it? Try taking a look for yourself.’

‘I want to look, but…’

‘If you want to look, why do you keep on looking at that «me» and that «want» and that «look», instead of at yourself?’

‘Very well.’ I countered, ‘then answer my question. Can you give me a simple answer to it?’

‘I can.’ he said, ‘try it again.’

‘Who are you, Chapaev?’

1 do not know.’ he replied.

Two or three bullets clattered against the planks of the walls, splinters flew up into the air, and I instinctively ducked my head. I heard quiet voices outside the door, apparently discussing something. Chapaev poured two glasses and we drank without clinking them together. After hesitating for a moment, I picked up an onion from the table.

‘I understand what you are trying to say,’ I said, biting into it, ‘but perhaps you could answer me in some other way?’

‘I could.’ said Chapaev.

‘Then who are you, Vasily Ivanovich?’

‘Who am I?’ he echoed, and raised his eyes to my face. ‘I am a reflection of the lamplight on this bottle.’

I felt as though the light reflected in his eyes had lashed me across the face; suddenly I was overwhelmed by total understanding and recall.

The blow was so powerful that for a moment I thought a shell must have exploded right there in the room, but I recovered almost immediately. I felt no need to say anything out loud, but the inertia of speech had already translated my thought into words.

‘How fascinating.’ I whispered quietly, ‘so am I.’

‘Then who is this?’ he asked, pointing at me.

‘Voyd.’ I replied.

‘And this?’ he pointed to himself.

‘Chapaev.’

‘Splendid! And this?’ he gestured around the room.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

At that very moment the window was shattered by a bullet and the bottle standing between us exploded, showering both of us with the last of the moonshine. For several seconds we gazed at each other in silence, then Chapaev rose, went over to the bench on which his tunic lay, unpinned the silver star from it and threw it across the room to me.

His movements had suddenly become swift and precise; it was hard to believe that this was the same man who had just been swaying drunkenly on his stool and gazing senselessly at the bottle. He snatched up the lamp from the table, unscrewed it rapidly, splashed the kerosene out on to the floor and tossed the burning wick into it. The kerosene flared up, followed by the spilt moonshine, and the room was illuminated by the dim glow of a fire just beginning to take hold. Deep shadows were cast across Chapaev’s face by the flames from beneath, and it suddenly seemed very ancient and strangely familiar. He overturned the table in a single gesture, then bent down and pulled open a narrow trapdoor by a metal ring.

‘Let’s get going.’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left for us to do here.’

I felt my way down a ladder into cold damp darkness. The bottom of the shaft proved to be about two yards below the level of the floor; at first I could not understand what we were going to do in this pit, and then the foot with which I was feeling for the wall suddenly swung through into emptiness. Coming down behind me, Chapaev struck my head with his boot.

‘Forward!’ he commanded. ‘At the double!’

Leading away from the staircase was a low, narrow tunnel supported by wooden props. I crawled forward, struggling to distinguish anything ahead of me in the darkness. To judge from the draught I could feel, the exit could not be very far away.

‘Stop,’ Chapaev said in a whisper. ‘We have to wait for a minute.’

He was about two yards behind me. I sat down on the ground and leaned my back against one of the props. I could hear indistinct voices and other noises; at one point I clearly heard Furmanov’s voice yelling: ‘Get back out of there, fuck you! You’ll burn to death! I tell you they’re not in there, they’ve gone! Did you catch the bald one?’ I thought of them up above, rushing about in thick clouds of smoke among the repulsive chimeras created by their collective clouded reason, and it all seemed incredibly funny.

‘Hey, Vasily Ivanovich!’ I called quietly.

‘What?’ responded Chapaev.

‘I just understood something.’ I said. ‘There is only one kind of freedom - when you are free of everything that is constructed by the mind. And this freedom is called «I do not know». You were absolutely right. You know, there is an expression, «a thought expressed is a lie», but I tell you, Chapaev, that a thought unexpressed is also a lie, because every thought already contains the element of expression.’

‘You expressed that very well, Petka.’ responded Chapaev.

‘As soon as I know,’ I continued, ‘I am no longer free. But I am absolutely free when I do not know. Freedom is the biggest mystery of all. They simply do not know how free they are. They do not know who they are in reality. They…’

‘I jabbed my finger upwards and was suddenly contorted by a spasm of irrepressible laughter - ‘they think that they are weavers

‘Quiet.’ said Chapaev. ‘Stop neighing like a mad horse. They’ll hear you.’

‘No, that’s not it.’ I gasped, choking on the words, ‘they don’t even think that they are weavers… They know it…’

‘Forward.’ he said, prodding me with his boot.

I took several deep breaths to recover my senses and began edging my way ahead again. We covered the rest of the dis tance without speaking. No doubt it was because the tunnel was so narrow and cramped that it seemed to be incredibly long. Underground there was a smell of dampness, and also, for some reason, of hay, which grew stronger the further we went. At last the hand I was holding out in front of me came up against a wall of earth. I rose to my feet and straightened up, banging my head against something made of iron. Feeling around in the darkness that surrounded me, I came to the conclusion that I was standing in a shallow pit underneath some kind of flat metal surface. There was a gap of two feet or so between the metal and the ground; I squeezed into it and crawled for a yard or two, pushing aside the hay that filled it, and then I bumped against a broad wheel of moulded rubber. I immediately remembered the huge haystack beside which the taciturn Bashkir had mounted his permanent guard, and I realized where Chapaev’s armoured car had gone to. A second later I was already standing beside it - the hay had been pulled away to one side to expose a riveted metal door, which stood slightly ajar.

The manor-house was enveloped in flames. The spectacle was magnificent and enchanting, much the same, in fact, as any large fire. About fifty yards away from us, among the trees, there was another, smaller fire - the blazing bathhouse where only recently Chapaev and I had been sitting. I thought that I could see figures moving around it, but they could easily have been the dappled shadows of the trees shifting every time the fire swayed in a gust of wind. But whether I could see them or not, there were undoubtedly people there: I could hear shouting and shooting from the direction of both conflagrations. If I had not known what was actually happening there, I might have thought it was two detachments waging a night battle.

I heard a rustling close beside me, and I pulled out my pistol.

‘Who goes there?’ I whispered nervously.

‘It’s me.’ said Anna.

She was wearing her tunic, riding breeches and boots, and in her hand she had a bent metal lever similar to the crank-handles used for starting automobile engines.

‘Thank God,’ I said, ‘You have no idea how worried I was about you. The mere thought that this drunken rabble…’

‘Please don’t breathe onion on me.’ she interrupted. ‘Where’s Chapaev?’

‘I’m here,’ he answered, crawling out from underneath the armoured car.

‘Why did you take so long?’ she asked. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’

‘Pyotr just would not understand,’ he replied. ‘It even reached the point where I had resigned myself to staying there.’

‘But has he understood now?’

Chapaev looked at me.

‘He didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘It was just that the shooting started up back there…’

‘Now, listen here, Chapaev,’ I began, but he stopped me with an imperious gesture.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Anna.

‘Yes.’ she said, handing him the crank-handle.

I suddenly realized that Chapaev was right, as always; there had not been anything that I could be said to have understood.

Chapaev rapidly swept aside the hay covering the armoured car’s inclined bonnet, inserted the crank-handle in the opening in the radiator and turned the magneto several times. The engine began to purr quietly and powerfully.

Anna opened the door and got in, and Chapaev and I followed her. Chapaev slammed the door and clicked a switch, and the light, quite blindingly brilliant after the underground darkness, revealed a familiar interior: the narrow leather-upholstered divans, the landscape bolted to the wall, and the table, on which lay a volume of Montesquieu with a bookmark and a packet of ‘Ira’ papyrosas. Anna quickly clambered up the spiral staircase and sat on the machine-gunner’s revolving chair, the upper half of her body concealed in the turret.

‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Only I can’t see anything because of the hay.’

Chapaev caught hold of the speaking-tube that communicated with the driver’s compartment - I guessed that the Bashkir was there - and spoke into it.

‘Scatter the haystack. And don’t get a wheel stuck in any hole.’

The armoured car’s motor began to roar, the heavy vehicle shuddered into motion and moved forward several yards. There was some kind of mechanical noise above us - I looked up and saw that Anna was turning something like the handle of a coffee-mill, and the turret and seat were turning together around their axis.

‘That’s better now,’ she said.

‘Switch on the floodlights,’ Chapaev said into the tube.

I put my eye to the spy-hole in the door. The floodlights turned out to be installed around the entire perimeter of the armoured car, and when they came on, it was as though someone had switched on the street lights in some shadowy park.

It was a strange vista indeed. The white electric light falling on the trees was a great deal brighter than the glow from the fire; the dancing shadows which had looked like people darting through the darkness disappeared, and I could see that there was no one near us.

But our solitude did not remain inviolate for long. Weavers with rifles in their hands began appearing at the edge of the pool of light. They stared at us in silence, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the searchlights. Soon the armoured car was trapped in a living circle bristling with rifle barrels. I could even hear snatches of shouting: ‘So that’s where they are… nah, they won’t get away… they’ve already run away once… put that grenade away, you fool, it’ll blast our own lads to bits.’

They fired several shots at the armoured car and the bullets bounced off the armour-plating with a dull clanging sound. One of the searchlights burst, however, and a roar of delight ran through the crowd around us.

‘Well, then.’ said Chapaev, ‘everything comes to an end some time. Make ready, Anna.’

Anna carefully removed the cover from the machine-gun. A bullet struck the door close beside the spy-hole, and just to be on the safe side I moved away from it. Leaning over the machine-gun, Anna put her eye to the sights, and her face distorted itself in a grimace of cold fury.

‘Fire! Water! Earth! Space! Air!’ Chapaev shouted.

Anna rapidly twirled the rotational handle, and the turret began revolving around its axis with a quiet squeaking. The machine-gun was silent, and I looked at Chapaev in amazement. He gestured reassuringly. The turret made a single complete revolution and came to a halt.

‘Has it jammed?’ I asked.

‘No.’ said Chapaev. ‘It’s all over already.’

I suddenly realized that I could no longer hear any shots or voices. All the sounds had disappeared, and only the quiet purring of the motor remained.

Anna climbed down out of the turret, sat herself on the divan beside me and lit a papyrosa. I noticed that her fingers were trembling.

‘That was the clay machine-gun.’ said Chapaev. ‘Now I can tell you what it is. It isn’t really a machine-gun at all. It’s simply that many millennia ago, long before the Buddha Dipankara and the Buddha Shakyamuni came into the world, there lived the Buddha Anagama. He didn’t waste any time on explanations, he simply pointed at things with the little finger of his left hand, and their true nature was instantly revealed. When he pointed to a mountain, it disappeared, when he pointed to a river, that disappeared too. It’s a long story, but in short it all ended with him pointing to himself with his little finger and then disappearing. All that was left of him was that finger from his left hand, which his disciples hid in a lump of clay. The clay machine-gun is that lump of clay with the Buddha’s finger concealed within it. A very long time ago in India there lived a man who tried to turn that piece of clay into the most terrible weapon on earth, but no sooner had he drilled a hole in it than the finger pointed at him and he himself disappeared. After that it was kept in a locked trunk and moved from place to place until it was lost to the world in one of the monasteries of Mongolia. But now, for a whole series of reasons, it has found its way to me. I have attached a butt-stock to it and I call it the clay machine-gun. And we have just made use of it.’

Chapaev stood up, opened the door and jumped out. I heard his boots striking the earth. Anna climbed out after him, but I went on sitting there on the divan, gazing at the English landscape on the wall. A river, a bridge, a sky covered in clouds and some indistinct ruins; could it possibly be, I wondered, could it?

‘Petka.’ Chapaev called, ‘what are you doing still sitting in there?’

I got up and stepped out.

We were standing on a perfectly level circular surface covered with hay, about seven yards in diameter. Beyond the bounds of the circle there was nothing at all - nothing was visible except an indistinct, even light, which it would be hard to describe in any way. At the very edge of the circle lay half a rifle with a bayonet attached. I suddenly recalled the moment in Blok’s ‘Circus Booth’ when Harlequin jumps through the window and breaks the paper with the view of the horizon drawn on it and a grey void appears in the tear. I looked round. The engine of the armoured car was still working.

‘But why is this island left?’ I asked.

‘A blind spot.’ said Chapaev. ‘The finger pointed at everything there was in the world beyond the bounds of this area. It’s like the shadow from the base of a lamp.’

I took a step to one side, and Chapaev grabbed me by the shoulders.

‘Where do you think you’re going… Don’t get in front of the machine-gun! All right, Anna, put it out of harm’s way.’

Anna nodded and carefully made her way to stand under the short protruding barrel.

‘Watch carefully, Petka,’ said Chapaev.

Anna squeezed her papyrosa tight in her teeth, and a small round mirror appeared in her hand. She raised it to the level of the barrel, and before I could understand what was going on, the armoured car had vanished. It happened instantaneously and with unbelievable ease, as though someone had switched off a magic lantern, and the picture on the linen sheet had simply disappeared. All that was left were four shallow hollows from the wheels. And now there was nothing to disturb the silence.

‘That’s it.’ said Chapaev. ‘That world no longer exists.’

‘Damn,’ I said, ‘the papyrosas were still in there… And listen - what about the driver?’

Chapaev started and looked in fright first at me, and then at Anna.

‘Damn and blast.’ he said, ‘I forgot all about him… And you, Anna, why didn’t you say anything?’

Anna spread her arms wide. There was not a trace of genuine feeling in the gesture and I thought that despite her beauty, she was unlikely ever to become an actress.

‘No.’ I said, ‘there’s something wrong here. Where’s the driver?’

‘Chapaev.’ said Anna, ‘I can’t take any more. Sort this out between the two of you.’

Chapaev sighed and twirled his moustache.

‘Calm down, Petka. There wasn’t really any driver. You know there are these bits of paper with special seals on them, you can stick them on a log, and-’

‘Ah.’ I said, ‘so it was a golem. I see. Only please don’t treat me like a total idiot, all right? I noticed a long time ago that he was rather strange. You know, Chapaev, with talents like that you could have made quite a career in St Petersburg.’

‘What is there new for me to see in this St Petersburg of yours?’ Chapaev asked.

‘But wait, what about Kotovsky?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Has he disappeared too, then?’

‘Inasmuch as he never existed.’ said Chapaev, ‘it is rather difficult to answer that question. But if you are concerned for his fate out of human sympathy, don’t worry. I assure you that Kotovsky, just like you or I, is quite capable of creating his own universe.’

‘And will we exist in it?’

Chapaev pondered my words.

‘An interesting question.’ he said. ‘I should never have thought of that. Perhaps we shall, but in precisely what capacity I really can’t say. How should I know what kind of world Kotovsky will create in that Paris of his? Or perhaps I should say - what Paris he will create in that world of his?’

‘There you go again.’ I said, ‘more of your sophistry.’

I turned and walked towards the edge of the circle, but I was unable to reach the very edge; when there were still about two yards left to its edge I suddenly felt dizzy and I slumped heavily to the ground.

‘Do you feel unwell?’ Anna asked.

‘I feel quite wonderful,’ I replied, ‘but what are we going to do here? Conduct a menage a twist’

‘Ah, Petka, Petka,’ said Chapaev, ‘I keep on trying to explain to you. Any form is just emptiness. But what does that mean?’

‘Well, what?’

‘It means that emptiness is any form. Close your eyes. And now open them.’

I do not know how to describe that moment in words.

What I saw was something similar to a flowing stream which glowed with all the colours of the rainbow, a river broad beyond all measure that flowed from somewhere lost in infinity towards that same infinity. It extended around our island on all sides as far as the eye could see, and yet it was not an ocean, but precisely a river, a stream, because it had a clearly visible current. The light it cast on the three of us was extremely bright, but there was nothing blinding or frightening about it, because it was also at the same time grace, happiness and infinitely powerful love. However, those three words, so crudely devalued by literature and art, were quite incapable of conveying any real impression of it. Simply watching the constant emergence of new multicoloured sparks and glimmers of light in it was already enough, because everything that I could possibly think of or dream of was a part of that rainbow-hued stream. Or to be more precise, the rainbow-hued stream was everything that I could possibly think of or experience, everything that I could possibly be or not be, and I knew quite certainly that it was not something separate from myself. It was me, and I was it. I had always been it, and nothing else.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Chapaev.

‘No, not in that sense,’ I said. ‘What is it called?’

‘It has various names,’ Chapaev replied. ‘I call it the Undefinable River of Absolute Love. Ural for short. Sometimes we become it, and sometimes we assume forms, but in actual fact neither the forms nor we ourselves, nor even the Ural exists.’

‘But why do we do it?’

Chapaev shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But what if you try to explain?’ I asked.

‘One has to do something to occupy oneself in all this eternal infinity,’ he said. ‘So we’re going to try swimming across the river Ural, which doesn’t really exist. Don’t be afraid, Petka, dive in!’

‘But will I be able to dive out again?’

Chapaev looked me over from head to toe.

‘Well, you obviously could before.’ he said. ‘Since you’re standing here.’

‘But will I be myself again?’

‘Now, Petka,’ Chapaev asked, ‘how can you not be yourself when you are absolutely everything that possibly can be?’

He was about to say something else, but at this point Anna, having finished her papyrosa, carefully ground it out under her foot, and without even bothering to look our way, threw herself into the flowing stream.

‘That’s it,’ said Chapaev. ‘That’s the way. What’s the point of all this shilly-shallying?’

Fixing me with a treacherous smile, he began backing towards the edge of the patch of earth.

‘Chapaev.’ I said, frightened, ‘wait. You can’t just leave me like this. You must at least explain…’

But it was too late. The earth crumbled away under his feet, he lost his balance and flung out his arms as he tumbled backwards into the rainbow-hued radiance. It parted for a moment exactly like water and then closed over him, and I was left alone.

For a few minutes I stared, stunned, at the spot where Chapaev had been. Then I realized that I was terribly tired. I scraped together the straw scattered around the circle of earth and gathered it into a single heap, lay down on it and fixed my gaze on the inexpressibly distant grey vault of the sky.

Suddenly the thought struck me that since the very beginning of time I had been doing nothing but lie on the bank of the Ural, dreaming one dream after another, and waking up again and again in the same place. But if that were really the case, I thought, then what had I wasted my life on? Literature and art were no more than tiny midges hovering over the final pile of hay in the Universe. Who, I wondered, who would read the descriptions of my dreams? I looked at the smooth surface of the Ural, stretching out into infinity in all directions. The pen, the notepad and everyone who could read those marks made on its paper were now simply rainbow-coloured sparks and lights which appeared and disappeared and then appeared again. Will I really simply fall asleep again on this river bank, I wondered.

Without giving myself even a moment’s pause for thought, I leapt to my feet, ran forwards and threw myself headlong into the Ural.

I hardly felt anything at all; the stream was simply on every side of me now, and so there were no more sides. I saw the spot from which this stream originated - and immediately recognized it as my true home. Like a snowflake caught up by the wind, I was born along towards that spot. At first my movement was easy and weightless, and then something strange happened; I began to feel some incomprehensible friction tugging at my calves and my elbows, and my movement slowed. And no sooner did it begin to slow than the radiance surrounding me began to fade, and at the very moment when I came to a complete standstill, the light changed to a murky gloom, which I realized came from an electric bulb burning just under the ceiling.

My arms and legs were belted tight to the chair, and my head was resting on a pillow covered in oilcloth.

Timur Timurovich’s thick lips materialized out of the dim half-light, approached my forehead and planted a long, wet kiss on it.

‘Total catharsis,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’