The Sacred Book of the Werewolf (19 page)
Read The Sacred Book of the Werewolf Online
Authors: Victor Pelevin
Tags: #Romance, #Prostitutes, #Contemporary, #Werewolves, #Fiction, #Literary, #Fantasy, #Russia (Federation), #General, #Paranormal
U Hu-Li wrote that you have a new husband, a lord. Do you at least keep count of them? I’d love to get just a brief glimpse of him while there’s still something to see :)))) From what she said, just recently you’ve been taking a serious interest in the subject of the super-werewolf. And you obviously didn’t ask me about that demolished church out of idle curiosity.
It is true that the prophecy of the
super-werewolf
says he will appear in a city where a church or shrine will be restored after not a single stone of it was left standing. But the prophecy is about two thousand years old, and at that time similes and metaphors were the common manner, and everything that was important was always expressed allegorically. Prophecy was written in the language of ancient alchemy - ‘city’ means a soul and ‘a shrine that is destroyed and restored’ means a heart that has fallen under the power of evil and then returned to good. Please do not seek for any other meaning in these words.
super-werewolf
says he will appear in a city where a church or shrine will be restored after not a single stone of it was left standing. But the prophecy is about two thousand years old, and at that time similes and metaphors were the common manner, and everything that was important was always expressed allegorically. Prophecy was written in the language of ancient alchemy - ‘city’ means a soul and ‘a shrine that is destroyed and restored’ means a heart that has fallen under the power of evil and then returned to good. Please do not seek for any other meaning in these words.
I will risk making one suggestion - only, please, do not be offended. You have lived in the West for a long time, and the Christian mythologeme has imperceptibly taken root in your mind. Think about it: you are waiting for some super-werewolf to appear, atone for the sins of the foxes and make our souls pure, as they were at the very beginning of time. Listen. No messiah will ever come to us were-creatures. But each of us can change ourselves by exceeding our own limits. That is the meaning of the expression ‘super-werewolf’ — one who has passed beyond his own boundaries, exceeded himself. The super-werewolf does not come from the East or from the West, he appears from within. And that is the atonement.
There is only one path that leads to him. Yes, those same old prescriptions that make you sick:
There is only one path that leads to him. Yes, those same old prescriptions that make you sick:
1.
compassion;
compassion;
2.
causing no harm to the weak of this world, animals or people - at least not when it can be avoided;
causing no harm to the weak of this world, animals or people - at least not when it can be avoided;
3.
most important of all - the striving to understand one’s own nature.
most important of all - the striving to understand one’s own nature.
To put it very briefly, in the words of Nietzsche (adapted slightly to suit our case), the secret is simple - transcend the bestial! I have no doubt that you have already transcended the human :)))
Remember the lessons in meditation that we took with the teacher from the Yellow Mountain. Believe me, in the thousand years and more that have passed since then, they still haven’t invented anything better. The atom bomb, Gucci cologne, condoms with ribs and notches, CNN news, flights to Mars - this entire motley array of wonders has not had the slightest effect on the scales in which the essence of the world is weighed. And therefore, return to the practice, and in only a couple of hundred years you will have no need of any super-werewolf. If I have wearied you, forgive me - but I was sincerely thinking of your own good as I wrote these lines.
And now for the most important thing. In recent years things have not been going well for me. My basic earnings used to be provided by a paedophile financier who was certain he could be arrested for what he was doing. A school satchel, a report book with C grades - you understand. He was sentimental - while he was waiting for our meetings, he shuddered every time a siren sounded. Yes, he was repulsive. But I only used to go out to work once a month. And then he was paralysed and I had to look for different options. For more than a year my top spot was the hotel National. But I ran into serious problems there
when a certain client slipped off the tail. And now I’m surrounded by problems on every side. I’m not sure that you can understand them. The specifically Russian flavour is too strong. But they are very, very serious.
when a certain client slipped off the tail. And now I’m surrounded by problems on every side. I’m not sure that you can understand them. The specifically Russian flavour is too strong. But they are very, very serious.
I realize you have no time for other people’s troubles. But I’d still like to ask for your advice and, perhaps, assistance. Should I move to England? I’m sure I would get on with the English - I’ve seen quite a few of them in the National and they seem like a quite decent people to me. I’m often paid in pounds, so I wouldn’t suffer any culture shock. Write quickly and tell me if there is a quiet spot in London for A Hu-Li.
Heads and tails,
A.
As soon as I sent the letter, my mobile rang. There was no number displayed, and my heart skipped a beat, I guessed who it was before I heard the voice in the phone.
‘Hello,’ said Alexander, ‘you said three days, but that’s too long. Can I see you tomorrow? At least for five minutes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, before I’d even thought about it.
‘Then I’ll send Mikhalich. He’ll call you. I kiss you.’
The door of the lift opened, and Mikhalich and I entered the penthouse. Alexander was sitting in an armchair in his general’s uniform, watching television. He turned towards us, but it wasn’t me he spoke to.
‘Right, Mikhalich, I see your lot’s fucked it up again!’ he said cheerfully, with a nod at the long liquid-crystal panel that was showing two channels simultaneously - on one half of the screen there were red and white footballers running about, and on the other Aslan Udoev, who looked a bit like Bluebeard, with his dark purple beard and a sticking plaster on his forehead: he was muttering something into a microphone.
‘Yes sir, comrade lieutenant general,’ Mikhalich replied, embarrassed. ‘The entire crew’s made a real bollocks of it this time.’
‘Don’t swear in front of the girl.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But what the fuck went wrong?’
‘We can’t tell. Unforeseen interference. Apparently something distorted the precise time signal.’
‘Always the same story,’ said Alexander. ‘As soon as there’s a fuck-up, they blame it all on the technical department.’
‘Yes sir, comrade lieutenant general.’
‘Don’t you regret the waste of an operative?’
‘We’ve got any bloody amount of Shakespeare specialists like that, comrade lieutenant general. But somehow no Shakespeares.’
‘I told you quite clearly, Mikhalich, don’t swear here.’ Mikhalich squinted sideways at me.
‘Yes, sir. Shall I draw up a report?’
‘I don’t want a report. It’s none of my business, the ones who thought it up can take the consequences. I don’t like bits of paper. On paper everything always comes out right, but in life’ - Alexander nodded at the screen - ‘you can see for yourself.’
‘Yes, sir, comrade lieutenant general.’
‘You can go.’
Alexander waited until Mikhalich closed the door, then got up out of his chair and came over to me. I guessed he hadn’t wanted to show his feelings in front of a subordinate, but even so I pretended to be offended and when he put his hand on my shoulder I moved away.
‘You could have said hello to me first. And then you go and chat with that jerk about football. And in general, turn the television off!’
Udoev was no longer on the screen - he had been replaced by a smart young man with a motor-trike, who exclaimed boisterously:
‘Today we’re lighting it up with the Marlboro youth team!’
And then he disappeared in a pool of darkness.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alexander, tossing the remote control back on to the coffee table. ‘Hello.’
I smiled. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Better now, thank you.’
‘And what’s that basket you’re holding?’
‘I brought that for you,’ I said shyly.
‘Right, let me have it . . .’
He took the basket out of my hands and tore open the packaging.
‘Pies?’ he asked, looking back up at me in bewilderment. ‘Why pies? What for?’
I looked away.
His face slowly lit up.
‘Wait . . . I was wondering why you were wearing that red hood. Ah-ha-ha-ha!’
He burst into peals of happy laughter, put his arms round me and sat me down beside him on the divan. He made the movement very naturally, too quickly for me push him away, although I’d been intending to play hard to get for a little longer. But then, I’m not sure that I really wanted to.
‘It’s like the joke,’ he said. ‘About Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf. Little Red Riding Hood says: “What big eyes you have, wolf!” And the wolf says: “All the better to see you with.” Little Red Riding Hood says: “What big ears you have, wolf!” “All the better to hear you with,” the wolf replies. And then Little Red Riding Hood says: “What a big tail you have!” “That’s not a tail,” says the wolf, and blushes . . .’
‘Phoo!’
‘Isn’t it funny?’
I shrugged.
‘It’s not realistic. For a wolf to blush. His entire face is covered with fur. Even if he does blush, how can you see it?’
Alexander thought about it.
‘I suppose that’s right,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s a joke.’
‘It’s a good thing you know who Little Red Riding Hood is, at least from jokes,’ I said. ‘I thought you might not get the hint. You don’t look like someone who reads too many books.’
He blushed, just like in his own joke.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I read every day.’
He nodded towards the coffee table, which had a paperback detective novel lying on it. The title was
Werewolves in Shoulder Straps
.
Werewolves in Shoulder Straps
.
‘Is it an interesting book?’ I asked.
‘Not really. Nothing special.’
‘Then why are you reading it?’
‘To understand why it’s called that. We check out every hostile comment.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘That’s not important,’ he said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with literature. ’
‘Detective novels don’t have anything to do with literature either,’ I said.
‘You don’t like them?’
I shook my head.
‘Why?’
‘They’re boring to read. You know from the first page who killed who and why.’
‘Yes? If I read you the first page of
Werewolves
, will you tell me who the killer is?’
Werewolves
, will you tell me who the killer is?’
‘I can tell you now. The author did it, for money.’
‘Hmmm . . . Well yes, I suppose. But then what is literature?’
‘Well, for instance, Marcel Proust. Or James Joyce.’
‘Joyce?’ he asked, moving closer. ‘The one who wrote
Ulysses
? I tried to read it. It’s boring. To be honest, I don’t know what books like that are any good for.’
Ulysses
? I tried to read it. It’s boring. To be honest, I don’t know what books like that are any good for.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Nobody reads it, that
Ulysses
. Three people have read it, and then they live off it for the rest of their lives, writing articles and going to conferences. But no one else has ever got through it.’
Ulysses
. Three people have read it, and then they live off it for the rest of their lives, writing articles and going to conferences. But no one else has ever got through it.’
‘Well now,’ I said, throwing
Werewolves
on to the floor. ‘Let me tell you that the value of a book doesn’t depend on how many people read it. The brilliance of the
Mona Lisa
doesn’t depend on how many people file past her every year. The greatest of books have few readers, because reading them requires an effort. But it’s precisely that effort that gives rise to the aesthetic effect. Literary junk-food will never give you anything of the kind.’
Werewolves
on to the floor. ‘Let me tell you that the value of a book doesn’t depend on how many people read it. The brilliance of the
Mona Lisa
doesn’t depend on how many people file past her every year. The greatest of books have few readers, because reading them requires an effort. But it’s precisely that effort that gives rise to the aesthetic effect. Literary junk-food will never give you anything of the kind.’
He put his arm round my shoulders.
‘I already asked you once, speak more simply.’
‘Speaking in very simple terms, I can say this. Reading is human contact, and the range of our human contacts is what makes us what we are. Just imagine you live the life of a long-distance truck driver. The books that you read are like the travellers you take into your cab. If you give lifts to people who are cultured and profound, you’ll learn a lot from them. If you pick up fools, you’ll turn into a fool yourself. Wasting time on detective novels is . . . it’s like giving an illiterate prostitute a ride for the sake of a blowjob.’
‘And who should I give rides to?’ he asked, slipping his hand under my T-shirt.
‘You should read serious, profound books, without being afraid to spend time and effort on it.’
His open hand froze on my stomach.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘So if I’m a long-distance truck driver I should take some bald-headed winner of the Schnobel Prize for literature into my cab, so that he can shaft me up the backside for two weeks while I dodge the oncoming traffic? Did I get it right?’
‘Well, you know, you can vulgarize anything like that,’ I said and stopped talking.
But would you believe it, I’d used the same example of a blowjob in a long-distance truck that had made me almost kill poor Pavel Ivanovich. And I couldn’t have come up with anything more stupid than my comment about prostitutes - after all, Alexander knew what I did for a living. I could only hope that it would pass for an expression of humility. Judging from his reply, it had.
We foxes have one serious shortcoming. If someone says something memorable to us, we almost always repeat it in conversation with other people, regardless of whether what was said was stupid or clever. Unfortunately, our mind is the same kind of simulator as the sack of skin under our tail that we use as a prick-catcher. It’s not a genuine ‘organ of thought’ - we have no need for that. Let human beings ‘think’ in the course of their heroic slalom from the vagina to the grave. A fox’s mind is simply a tennis racket you can use to keep bouncing the conversation from one subject to another for as long as you like. We give people back the ideas and opinions that we have borrowed from them - reflecting them from another angle, giving them a different spin, sending them into a vertical climb.
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