Empire V (17 page)

I knew that we were nearing Enlil Maratovich's house when I began to see glimpses of pine trees through the windows. We slowed down and the wheels bumped over one sleeping policeman, then another. We passed through a raised barrier, which I had not noticed last time, and stopped at gates in the high encircling wall. The wall I did remember, but not the gateway through it.

This was a substantial structure built of bricks in three shades of yellow, forming a complicated but unobtrusive decorative pattern. It occurred to me that such a gateway might have been a back entrance to Babylon. The two sections of the gates, made of something like the armour of a tank, slowly opened, and we drove in.

The road led down into the underground garage from which we had emerged last time, but instead we turned off into a side alley, passing along an avenue of ancient pines. We found ourselves in an open space filled with parked cars, several of which had flashing beacons mounted on the roof. The car drew to a halt; the chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for us.

I could see nothing resembling a house in the normal sense of the word. In front of us was a series of asymmetrical white surfaces rising straight out of the ground. In the nearest of them was a door, up to which led wide stone steps.

On one side of the steps was a beautiful waterfall of unusual design, resembling a stretch of river: the water ran down over wide ledges and disappeared into a concrete trench. Anchored in the stream were boats of different colours carved from stone. In every boat sat a stone knight, and a stone lady with a fan. It was evidently an ancient Chinese sculpture. Only the boats still had their original colour; from their occupants it had almost completely vanished. I noticed that the gentlemen were of two types: the first wore expressions of serious concentration, their hands grasped oars and they were rowing. The other kind raised broadly smiling faces to the sky and held lutes in their hands. They did not seem to think this particular crossing merited the effort of rowing. The ladies in all the boats were all alike: intense, dignified. The only differences between them lay in their stone coiffures and the shape of the fans they held in their hands.

‘Crossing, crossing, river crossing.' I recalled the old wartime verses which promised: ‘to some – the memory, some – the glory, and to some – the pitch-dark flood …' In fact for none of them was there any difference at all – the poet was being smoothly politic – but at the time probably no other sentiment could have been published.

Mithra and I climbed the steps. ‘Enlil's house is very unusual,' he said. ‘It's basically a multilevel dugout with see-through ceilings.'

‘Why would he want to build it like that?'

‘He says there is no peace when there are people the other side of the wall. But when it is mother earth, one sleeps better … He's a traditionalist.'

As soon as we came up to the door it opened. We walked past a liveried footman (I had never in my life seen one before) and along a winding corridor, to find ourselves in a large circular hall.

It was a very beautiful, airy room, full of light streaming through the clear segments of the ceiling and falling on a floor of tiles laid out in a complex geometric design. The decoration was classically restrained, with pictures and tapestries hanging on the walls separated by busts of philosophers and emperors from the ancient world – I recognised Socrates, Caesar, Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius. Judging by a couple of missing noses, they were originals.

One surprising detail was the fireplace in one of the walls: despite its imposing dimensions it was obviously too small to heat this immense space. Either the architect had miscalculated, or it was some kind of modishly recherché feature – the gates of hell, for instance. In a semicircle round the fireplace were several protectively covered armchairs. A small stage protruded from the wall on the opposite side, and in the centre of the room stood several tables laid out for a buffet supper.

I saw Enlil Maratovich, Baldur, Loki and Jehovah, but no one else I knew. I was particularly struck by the huge, red-haired man with an air of menacing authority standing beside Enlil Maratovich. However, his complexion was too ruddy for a vampire.

While Baldur, Jehovah and Loki confined their greeting to a nod of the head from afar, Enlil Maratovich advanced on me to shake my hand. After him the red-haired giant also extended his hand, and held my palm in his for some time.

‘Marduk,' he said.

‘Marduk Semyonovich,' corrected Enlil Maratovich, and raised one eyebrow meaningfully. I understood that I should treat the redhead with as much respect as I would Enlil Maratovich himself.

‘Ah me,' sighed Marduk, shaking my hand and gazing penetratingly into my eyes, ‘the things you do to us, you youngsters …'

‘What are we doing, exactly?' I asked.

‘Chasing us to an early grave,' responded the redhead bitterly. ‘It's the changing of the guard, time for us old-timers to leave the square …'

‘That's quite enough of that, Marduk,' laughed Enlil Maratovich. ‘You have plenty of sucking to do before you come to your grave. But the young are certainly pushing me in that direction. I only understand about half of the words they use.'

The ginger giant finally let go of my hand.

‘No one's ever going to push you into a grave, Enlil,' he said. ‘You moved there yourself while you were still alive, ha ha. That's where we all are now. Very farsighted … Well, shall we begin?'

Enlil Maratovich nodded.

‘Then I shall admit the Chaldeans,' said Marduk Semyonovich. ‘You have five minutes to get everything ready.' He turned and made for the doors.

I looked inquiringly at Enlil Maratovich.

‘Now for our little ceremonial opening to the proceedings,' he said. ‘Did Mithra explain to you who the Chaldeans are?'

‘Yes.'

‘Excellent.'

He took my elbow and steered me towards the stage with the microphone.

‘Your presentation today will be in two parts,' he said. ‘First you must welcome our Chaldean guests.'

‘What do I have to say?'

‘Say whatever you like. You're a vampire. The world belongs to you.'

My face visibly failing to reflect particular enthusiasm for the part I was down to play, Enlil Maratovich relented.

‘Well, tell them you are glad to be in their company. Talk about the historic succession of the ages and how they are linked, but use vague language so that you don't inadvertently blurt something out. It doesn't really matter what you say. What you do next is much more important.'

‘What is that?'

‘You must bite a Chaldean and prove to the others that you have gone deep into his soul. This is a truly serious responsibility. They must be convinced anew that they are unable to conceal anything from us.'

‘Whom do I have to bite?'

‘The Chaldeans choose the victim themselves.'

‘When does this happen? Right now?'

‘No. Later, at night. It's a traditional number in our celebrations. It's supposed to look like a bit of a turn, a party trick. But in fact it is the most serious part of the evening.'

‘And will this Chaldean be happy to let me bite him?'

‘That should not concern you. The main thing is that you should be prepared.'

Enlil Maratovich's words hinted at a completely novel emotional condition, one composed of pride, confidence, detachment. It was a mental disposition I imagined proper to a Nietzschean superman, and I was ashamed that I could not measure up to this high standard but was obliged at each step to keep asking questions like a first-grade schoolboy.

We climbed up on to the stage. It was a small platform, enough to accommodate an instrumental trio or mini jazz combo. It had a microphone, two spotlights and some loudspeaker cabinets. On the wall was a dark panel, which from some distance away I had taken to be part of the music amplification set-up.

In fact it had nothing to do with music.

It was an ancient bas-relief with a half-effaced carving, attached to the wall by metal brackets. In the centre, above a crudely represented surface of the earth, was an image of a tree with large, round fruits, resembling either eyes with lashes or perhaps apples with teeth. Surrounding the tree were figures, a wolf on one side, a woman bearing a goblet on the other. Round the edge of the panel were carved figures of legendary creatures, one of which resembled a vampire in flight. In the spaces between them were lines of cuneiform script.

‘What is that?' I asked.

‘It's an illustration to the
Epic of Gilgamesh
,' replied Enlil Maratovich. ‘There is a mention in it of the Tree of Life. That is what you see.'

‘What has the woman got in the cup she is bearing? Could it be
bablos
?'

‘Aha,' said Enlil Maratovich, ‘you've heard about that, have you?'

‘Yes, out of the corner of my ear. I know it's a drink made from money, and all …'

Enlil Maratovich nodded. He seemed reluctant to expand on the subject.

‘Is that a vampire?' I asked, indicating the winged creature in the corner of the panel.

‘Yes,' said Enlil Maratovich. ‘This bas-relief is a sacred object of Chaldean society. It is nearly four thousand years old. In times of old one like it would be found in every temple.'

‘Are any Chaldean temples still in existence?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where?'

‘Any place where such a bas-relief has been installed becomes a temple. You should know that for the members of the society who are about to appear before us, this is a thrilling moment: they are meeting with their gods … And here they come.'

The doors opened, and into the hall entered strange-looking people. Their multi-coloured garments were clearly not from the present era but harked back, so it would seem, to what the Ancient Persians used to wear. However, the most striking thing about them was not their extravagant costumes, which by a willing stretch of the imagination could be inordinately long and colourful domestic housecoats, but the gleaming gold masks covering their faces. Hanging from the Chaldeans' belts were metal articles I at first took to be old frying pans, but they were much too shiny and I realised they were ancient mirrors. The faces of the incoming guests were inclined towards the floor.

I had a memory of the film
Alien vs. Predator
, which has a scene I must have watched at least twenty times. A cosmic Hunter stands at the top of an ancient pyramid receiving the obeisance of a procession of priests who ascend towards him up an endless staircase. It was, in my opinion, one of the most meaningful frames in all American cinematography. How could I have imagined that I would one day find myself in a similar role?

A shiver ran down my spine. It struck me that I had violated some time-hallowed commandment and had set in train the creation of a reality through the power of my thought – that I might in truth dare to become a god … and this, it suddenly came to me, was the only sense in which the words ‘The Great Fall' could have real meaning.

My head swam at the implications, but only for a second. As the mask-wearers approached the stage, they politely applauded me and Enlil Maratovich. The priests in the film had done nothing of the sort as they rose up to the summit, and I pulled myself together – there was no occasion to panic. If one ignored the strange garb of the incomers, the proceedings were much like a routine business presentation.

Raising his hand, Enlil Maratovich asked for and obtained silence.

‘Today,' he began, ‘is a day both of sadness and of joy. The sadness is because Brahma is no longer with us. The joy is because Brahma
is
still with us, only his name is Rama. He has become much younger and better looking. My friends, it is with great pleasure that I present to you Rama the Second!'

The masked guests once again broke into polite applause. Enlil Maratovich turned to me and with a gesture invited me to the microphone.

While I cleared my throat, I tried to conceive what I should say. Obviously I should be neither too serious nor too flippant. I decided to copy the tone and intonation of Enlil Maratovich.

‘Friends,' I said, ‘I have never seen any of you before. At the same time, I have seen you countless times in the past. Such is the ancient mystery we share, which binds us together. I am heartily glad of this new encounter … perhaps it is not an appropriate example, but I have just been reminded of a scene in a film I saw …'

At this point it dawned on me that it could be regarded as tactless and arrogant on my part to refer to the scene in
Alien vs. Predator
. It would look as though I were comparing the gathering before me to a crowd of ignorant Indians. Fortunately, I immediately lit on an alternative:

‘Do you remember that film by Michael Moore to which Quentin Tarantino awarded the Palme d'Or at Cannes? About President Bush? In this film Bush says in the course of a meeting with pillars of the American Establishment: “Some people call you the elite. I call you my base …” With your permission, I should now like to repeat the same words to you, with a small elaboration. You are the elite because you are my base. And you are my base because you are the elite. I am sure you understand how inseparable these two conditions are. I have no doubt that in this millennium too our collaboration will be fruitful. Together we will ascend to new heights and advance still nearer to our … er … our magnificent dream! I believe in you. I trust you. Thank you for coming today.'

And I bowed my head in a dignified gesture of deference.

Applause broke out in the hall. Enlil Maratovich clapped me on the shoulder and steered me away from the microphone, which he then took himself.

‘What was said about the base was quite correct,' he said, and swept his eyes severely over the hall, ‘but there was just one sentiment with which I could not agree. It was the reference to belief. On this issue we abide by a three-part rule: never, to no one, and to nothing. The vampire does not believe. The vampire knows … Neither do we need this Bush. As the Great Goddess says: “The only bush I trust is mine …”'