The Sacred Book of the Werewolf (27 page)

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Authors: Victor Pelevin

Tags: #Romance, #Prostitutes, #Contemporary, #Werewolves, #Fiction, #Literary, #Fantasy, #Russia (Federation), #General, #Paranormal

BOOK: The Sacred Book of the Werewolf
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Have you seen the hit of the last Venice Biennale - the haystack in which the first Belarussian postmodernist, Mikolai Klimaksovich, hid from his local police inspector for four years? Alexander called this work plagiaristic and told Brian about the similar haystack famously used before the revolution by Vladimir Lenin. Brian observed that repetition is not necessarily plagiarism, it is the very essence of the postmodern, or - to put it in broader terms - the foundation of the modern cultural gestalt, which is manifested in everything, from the cloning of sheep to remakes of old movies, for what else can you do after the end of history? Brian said it was precisely Klimaksovich’s use of quotation that made him a postmodernist, not a plagiarizer. But Alexander objected that no quotations would ever have saved this Klimaksovich from the Russian police, and history might have come to an end in Belarus, but there was no sign of it breaking down yet in Russia.
Then Brian showed Alexander a work by Asuro Keshami,
one which he regards with especial affection, not least owing to the serious investment required for its production and installation. Keshami’s work, inspired by the oeuvre of Camille Paglia, of whom you must have heard, consists of an immense tube of red plastic with projections on the inside in the form of white fangs. It is proposed to install it in the open air in one of London’s sports stadiums.
And now I’m getting to the point. One of the most serious problems in the world of modern art is the invention of original and fresh verbal interpretations of a work. Literally just a few phrases are required, which can then be reprinted in the catalogues and reviews. This apparently trivial detail can often decide the fate of a piece of art. It is very important here to be able to perceive things from an unexpected, shocking angle, and your friend, with his barbarically fresh view of the world, does this quite remarkably well. Therefore, Brian would like permission to use the ideas expressed by Alexander yesterday for the conceptual support of the installation. The accompanying text which I include below is by way of being a fusion of Brian’s and Alexander’s ideas:
Asuro Keshami’s work
’VD-
42
CC’
combines the languages of different areas - engineering, technology and science. At the base level the subject-matter is the overcoming of space: physical space, the space of taboo and the space of our subconscious fears. The languages of engineering and technology deal with the material from which the object is constructed, but the artist addresses the viewer in the language of emotions. When the viewer learns that certain people have given this little queer fifteen million pounds to stretch out a huge imitation-leather cunt above an abandoned soccer pitch, he remembers what he does in his own life and how much he is paid for it, then he looks at the photo of this little queer in his horn-rimmed spectacles and
funny jacket, and experiences confusion and bewilderment bordering on the feeling that the German philosopher Martin Heidegger called ‘abandonment’ (Geworfenheit). The viewer is invited to concentrate on these feelings, which constitute the precise aesthetic effect that the installation attempts to achieve.
Brian would like to offer Alexander a fee of one thousand pounds. Of course, this is not a large sum, but this version of the accompanying text is not final, and it is not absolutely certain that it will be used. Have a word with Alexander, okay? You can reply directly to Brian at this address. I am a little miffed with him just at the moment. He is in a bad mood - last night he was refused entrance to the establishment known as ‘Night Flight’. First he was stopped by the face control (they didn’t like his sports shoes), and then some Dutch pimp emerged from the depths of this den of iniquity and told Brian to dress ‘more stylish’. Brian has been repeating the same thing all day long today: ‘Stylish? Like the one who went in just ahead of me? In a green jacket and blue shirt?’ And he is taking out his bad mood on me. Ah well, never mind:-=)))
The most important thing is, don’t forget about the pass for the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour!
Heads and tails,
Your E
 
Alexander read the print-out carefully. After that he folded the sheet of paper in two, then folded it in two again, and then tore it in half.
‘A thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘Ha! He obviously doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with here. You know what, you write to him. Your English is better, anyway.’
‘Thanks,’ I said modestly. ‘What shall I say? He didn’t offer enough?’
He looked me up and down.
‘Fuck him out of it from every possible angle. Only make it sound aristocratic and elegant.’
‘That’s not possible,’ I said. ‘No matter how much I’d like to.’
‘Why?’
‘In aristocratic circles they don’t fuck each other out of it. It’s just not done.’
‘Then fuck him whatever way it is done,’ he said. ‘But hard enough to crack his arse open. Go on, put in that sarcasm of yours that has corroded my soul so thoroughly. Let it do some good for once.’
Something in his tone of voice prevented me from asking exactly what good he had in mind. He was touching in his childish resentment, and part of it was transmitted to me. And if we’re being entirely honest - does a fox really need to be asked twice to fuck an English aristocrat out of it?
I sat down at the computer and started thinking. My internationalist feminist component required my reply to be structured round the phrase ‘suck my dick’, in the style of the most advanced US feminists. But the rational part of my ego told me that would not be enough in a letter signed by Alexander. I wrote the following:
 
Dear Lord Cricket,
Being extremely busy, I’m not sure that you can currently suck my dick. However, please feel encouraged to fantasize about such a development while sucking on a cucumber, a carrot, an eggplant or any other elongated roundish object you might find appropriate for that matter.
With kind regards,
Alexandre Fenrir-Gray
 
I deliberately put ‘Alexandre’, in the French manner, instead of ‘Alexander’. I came up with the surname ‘Fenrir-Gray’ at the last moment, in a fit of inspiration. It definitely had an aristocratic ring to it. Of course, it immediately brought to mind ‘Earl Grey’ tea, and that gave the signature a faint aroma of bergamot oil, but the name was only a one-off anyway.
‘Well?’ he asked.
I read the text in Russian.
‘Can we do without the “kind regards”?’
‘Then it won’t be aristocratic.’
‘Oh, all right,’ he sighed. ‘Send it off . . . and then come over here, the Grey Wolf has a proposal for Little Red Riding Hood.’
‘What would that be?’
‘We’re going to have, you know . . . A colloquium on the psychoanalysis of Russian folktales. We’re going to throw pies into Little Red Riding Hood’s basket. Unfortunately, we only have one pie today. So we’ll have to throw it into the basket over and over again.’
‘Phoo, how vulgar . . .’
‘Are you going to come here or do I have to come and get you?’
‘I’ll come. Only let’s do it real fast. It’s already time we were going. And don’t you bite through any of my clothes today, I went to a lot of trouble to buy new knickers, all right? Not all of them suit me.’
‘Uhu.’
‘And one more thing, while you can still talk . . .’
‘What?’
‘Tell me why every time you have to introduce that apologia for fatuous militant ignorance into the conversation?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like all that about Little Red Riding Hood and psychoanalysis. It sometimes seems to me that you’re trying to shaft the whole of history and culture in my person.’
‘As far as culture goes, there’s something to that,’ he said. ‘But what’s history got to do with it? What are you, a Sphinx? Just how old are you, anyway? I’d give you sixteen years. But what’s your real age?’
I felt my cheeks getting hot, very hot.
‘Mine?’
‘Yes.’
I had to come up with something to say.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I once read some poems by a public prosecutor in an obscure journal published by the ministry of justice. There was one about a young defender of the Motherland that began with the words “I would never have given him more than fifteen”.’
‘I get it,’ he said, ‘the son of the regiment. So what have these poems got to do with anything?’
‘I’ll tell you. When a man in your uniform says “I’d give you sixteen years”, the first thing you wonder is - under what article of the criminal code.’ And the second thing is - how big the pay off might be.’
‘If you find this uniform irritating,’ he said, ‘take off your stupid dress, and soon there’ll be soft fur instead of shoulder straps. Yes, that’s nice. What a good girl you are today . . .’
‘Listen, are you going to get them a pass for the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour?’
‘Woo-oo-oo!’
‘No? You’re right, too. We’ve just written a reply to that Brian. Although . . . Do you want to stick it to him in really aristocratic fashion?’
‘Gr-r-r!’
‘If after this letter, where you explained everything to him, you still got him a pass anyway, that would be really high class.’
‘Gr-r-r!’
‘So we’ll do it, then?’
‘Gr-r-r!’
‘Good. I’ll remind you later . . . What a fool you are, eh? I told you not to bite through anything! Buy yourself a plastic bone in the dog shop and chew it as much as you like, when I’m not here. Cutting your teeth, are you. You big bad wolf . . . And get a move on, we have to be in the forest in an hour.’
 
 
The car stopped at the edge of the forest, not far from the section-built six-storey house I had noted as my initial reference-point.
‘Where to now?’ asked Alexander.
He was acting in the condescendingly buddy-buddy manner of an adult being drawn into a meaningless game by children. That irritated me. Never mind, I thought, we’ll see what you say in an hour’s time . . .
I picked up the plastic bag with the champagne and glasses and got out of the car. Alexander said something to the driver in a low voice and got out after me. I set off towards the forest at a stroll.
In the forest it was already summer. It was that astonishing period in May when the greenery and the flowers seem immortal, as if now they are victorious for ever. But I knew that in just another two or three weeks there would be a presentiment of autumn in the air.
Instead of admiring the natural surroundings, I watched my feet - my stiletto heels were sinking into the ground, and I had to be careful where I stepped. We reached a bench standing between two birch trees. That was the next reference point. From there it was only a few short steps to the forester’s house.
‘Let’s sit down,’ I said.
We sat down on the bench. I handed him the bottle and he opened it deftly.
‘It’s nice here,’ he said, pouring the champagne. ‘Quiet. It’s still spring, but everything’s in full bloom already. Flowers . . . But up north there’s snow everywhere. And ice.’
‘Why did you suddenly remember the north?’
‘Don’t know, really. What are we drinking to?’
‘To good hunting.’
We clinked glasses. When I finished my champagne, I smashed my glass against the edge of the bench and used the sharp edge to cut through the strap of my dress above my right shoulder. He followed my movements with dour disapproval.
‘Are you going to pretend to be an Amazon?’
I didn’t answer that.
‘And listen, why are you all in black? And dark glasses? Is it a spoof on
The Matrix
?’
I didn’t answer that either.
‘Don’t get me wrong. Black really does suit you, only . . .’
‘I’ll go on from here on my own,’ I interrupted.
‘And what do I do?’
‘When I start to run, you can run after me. But somewhere off to one side. And I beg you, please don’t interfere. Not even if you see something you don’t like. Just keep out of it and watch.’
‘Okay.’
‘And keep your distance. Or you’ll frighten the people.’
‘What people?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘I don’t like any of this,’ he said. ‘I’m worried about you. Maybe you shouldn’t do it?’
I stood up with a determined air.
‘No more. We’re starting.’
As I have already said, the goal of chicken hunting is supraphysical transformation, and the correct preparatory procedure is very important. In order to trigger the transformation, we put ourselves in an extremely embarrassing situation, the kind in which your own idiocy is so breathtaking and you feel so ashamed you wish the earth would open and swallow you up. That is precisely what the evening dress and the high-heeled shoes are for. We take the situation to such absurd lengths that we are left with no other option but to transform into an animal. And the chicken is required as a biological catalyst for the reaction - without it the transformation is impossible. It is extremely important for the chicken to remain alive until the very end - if it dies, we rapidly resume our human shape. And so it’s best to select the bird that is healthiest and strongest.

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