Empire V (26 page)

‘What is it then, are you always ringing them up, Marduk, Mithra, Enlil?

‘No. They telephone me.'

‘Why do they do that?' I asked suspiciously.

‘You know, Rama, when you pretend to be a little bit thick, you're quite irresistible.'

For some reason I found this declaration encouraging, and put my arm round her shoulder. I can't claim that the gesture came across as completely unforced and natural, but at least she did not remove my hand.

‘You know what else I don't understand?' I said. ‘Look, I've completed my studies. I've “done Glamour and Discourse”, as Baldur would say. I've been through my initiation and am now more or less a fully fledged vampire. What else do I have to do? When am I going to be given a job? Like a military posting, that sort of thing?'

‘Something like that.'

‘Well what sort of posting might it be?'

Hera turned her face to look at me.

‘Is that a serious question?'

‘Of course it is,' I said. ‘I'm naturally interested in what I am going to do with my life.'

‘What do you mean, what are you going to do? You're going to suck
bablos
, that's what. More precisely, the Tongue is going to suck
bablos
, and you are there to facilitate the process. You'll build yourself a house near Enlil's, where all our people live. And you will observe the crossing.'

I remembered the stone boats in the waterfall next to Enlil Maratovich's VIP dugout dwelling.

‘Observe the crossing? Is that all?'

‘What more do you want? To fight for the freedom of humanity?'

‘No,' I said. ‘Enlil Maratovich already explained that's not possible. All the same I'd feel much happier getting involved in some activity …'

‘Why do you have to get involved in anything? You're still thinking too much like a human.'

I decided to let this barb pass me by.

‘So what am I supposed to do? Just live like a parasite?'

‘You are a parasite,' replied Hera. ‘Or rather, you're a parasite's transport system.'

‘What are you, then?'

‘The same …' said Hera, and sighed.

She said this so hopelessly and quietly I was seized by a rush of sympathy for her. I felt that we were closer than we had ever been before. I drew her to me and kissed her. For the first time in my life this was an entirely spontaneous, natural development. She did not resist. Now the only thing separating us was that idiotic rail-shaped cushion behind which she had screened herself when I sat down beside her. I threw it out of the way, and Hera was in my arms.

‘Please don't,' she pleaded.

I knew for certain she wanted it as much as I did. This gave me the strength to persist when in ordinary circumstances my courage could have failed me. I pushed her down on to the cushions.

‘No, truly, please don't,' she repeated barely audibly.

But I had already gone too far to stop. I covered her lips with kisses, at the same fumbling with the zip at the back of her dress.

‘Please, I really don't want you to,' she whispered for the third time.

I stopped her mouth with kisses. Kissing her was intoxicating and terrifying at the same time, like leaping into the dark. I could feel in her something strange, quite different from all other girls, and with each kiss I came nearer to the centre of the mystery. My hands roamed ever more confidently all over her body, straying in my ardour even into forbidden territories. At last she responded to my urgent caresses: raising my leg she brought my knee up to her thigh.

At that moment time seemed to stop – I felt like a runner in the stadium of eternity, frozen at the very moment of triumph. The race was almost over and I was in the lead. I had completed the final lap, and before me now was the dazzling pinnacle of happiness from which only a couple of insignificant movements separated me.

The next moment the light in my eyes went out and everything was black.

Never in my life had I experienced anything approaching such pain.

That such agony could exist was beyond my imagining – multi-coloured, jagged, throbbing in zigzags between unbearable physical convulsions and searing flashes of light.

In an immaculately controlled movement, specially prepared for by raising my leg in order to clear the trajectory needed for maximum inhuman force, she had kicked me with her knee. The only thing I wanted was to curl up into a ball and vanish far away from anything connected, however remotely, with existence or non-existence, but this was not possible owing to the pain which with every passing second was increasing in severity. I tried to suppress the cries of agony I could hear myself making, but could not succeed entirely, lapsing into a kind of mooing.

‘Does it hurt?' enquired Hera, leaning over me with an expression of distress on her face.

‘A-a-a-ah,' I wailed, ‘a-a-a-ah.'

‘Please forgive me,' she said. ‘It's an automatic response. It's what Loki taught me: three times you ask the man to stop, and then you strike. I'm really awfully sorry.'

‘Oo-oo-oo-ooh.'

‘Would you like some tea,' she asked. ‘I'm afraid it's cold now though.'

‘Ooh-ah-ah-ah … no thank you, no tea.'

‘It will pass,' she said. ‘I didn't hit you very hard.'

‘Really?'

‘Really. There are five levels of strike. This was the weakest – it's called “warning”. It's intended for men with whom one envisages continuing a relationship. It's not damaging to their health.'

‘You're sure you didn't get the levels mixed up?'

‘No, don't worry. Is it really so painful?'

I realised that I was now just about able to move, and rolled over on to my knees. But it was still impossible to straighten up completely.

‘Do I infer,' I asked, ‘that you would still like to continue our relationship?'

She lowered her eyes apologetically.

‘Well, yes.'

‘Did Loki teach you how to kick like that?'

She nodded.

‘So how did you perfect the technique? You told me you didn't have any special training equipment.'

‘We didn't. Loki put on a goalkeeper's protector box which he got from a hockey team. I bruised my knees terribly against it, even through all the padding. You can't imagine how black and blue they were.'

‘What are the other strike levels, then?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Just to have some idea what to expect,' I said, ‘when we continue our relationship.'

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘They're called “warning”, “stopping”, ‘smashing”, “retributory” and “triumphal”.'

‘What do they all mean?'

‘I should have thought they were all pretty self-explanatory. You know what “warning” is now. “Stopping” is supposed to paralyse, but not to kill on the spot. It's so that one can leave the scene without needing assistance. The other three are more serious.'

‘Allow me to express my gratitude,' I said, ‘that you refrained from giving me the serious treatment. I shall telephone you every morning to say thank you. Only don't be surprised if my voice is rather higher than it was.'

Tears appeared in Hera's eyes.

‘I did tell you not to come any closer than a metre to me. What I'd like to know is, isn't there anywhere in this town a girl can feel safe?'

‘But I'd bitten you. I could see that you were not against my …'

‘That was before the bite. A girl's hormonal balance alters when she's been bitten. It's physiological, you wouldn't understand. It's as though no one can be trusted any longer. Everything appears in a different light. And all desire to kiss evaporates. That's why I said to you: either the bite, or everything else. Did you think I was joking?'

I shrugged.

‘Well, yes.'

Tears were now trickling down her cheeks, first the right cheek, then the left as well.

‘That's exactly what Loki said,' she sobbed. ‘They're always going to think you don't mean it. So, go ahead and kick them in the balls with all your might, don't worry about it … Now, you bastard, you've made me cry.'

‘You mean
I'm
the bastard?' I asked, with something approaching interest.

‘My mother used to tell me, if a boy makes you cry, get rid of him and don't waste time regretting him. Her own mother used to say the same thing to her but she didn't listen. And then she suffered all her life with my father … even though the trouble didn't start straight away. But you've made me cry on our first date …'

‘I do envy you,' I said. ‘You've had such good advisors – kick 'em in the balls with all your might, chuck 'em out with no regrets. No one ever gave me advice about anything. I've had to learn everything the hard way.'

Hera buried her face between her knees and burst into tears. Grimacing with pain I crawled over to her, sat beside her and said: ‘There there, don't fret. It's all right, calm down.'

Hera shook her head as if to dislodge my words from her ears, and buried her head even deeper between her knees.

I could see the absurdity of the whole situation. Here was someone who had a few moments ago very nearly killed me, then had been overcome by pity for herself and broken into sobs. The net result was that I had been transformed into the kind of monster her mummy had been warning her about all her life. The whole picture was so convincing that I could already feel the crushing burden of my guilt. Moreover – as she had said herself – this had all taken place on our first date.

Where did we go next?

At the second attempt I succeeded in getting to my feet.

‘OK then,' I said. ‘I'd better go.'

‘Can you get there on your own?

‘I'll try.'

I thought she might offer me her car, but she said nothing.

It was a long way to the door and I shan't forget it. I moved there in tiny steps, taking plenty of time en route to look closely at details of the room's decorations that had previously escaped my attention. They were, however, extremely banal: miniature frescoes with views of Sardinia, and Party membership cards from Soviet times, pinned to the wall with upholstery tacks.

When I finally reached the door, I turned round. Hera was still sitting on the cushions, her hands clasped round her knees and her head still between them.

‘Listen,' I said, ‘you know what?'

‘What?' she asked quietly.

‘Next time you feel like a date with me … do remind me to bring a death candy.'

She lifted her head, smiled, and the familiar elongated dimples appeared on her damp cheeks.

‘Of course I will, darling,' she said. ‘Promise.'

OSIRIS

The front door bell rang just as I was finishing breakfast, at exactly ten o'clock, coinciding with the beeping of the clock. I wasn't expecting anyone to call.

On the threshold stood Hera's driver in his fatigues. His expression was, if anything, even more sullen than the last time. He smelt strongly of peppermint pastilles.

‘Letter for you,' he said, handing me a yellow envelope with no stamp or address, similar to the one in which Hera had sent me her photograph. Right there on the stair I tore the envelope open. Inside was a sheet of paper on which was this handwritten note:

Hello Rama,

I'm terribly upset that everything went so wrong at our last meeting. I've been wanting to ring to make sure you had completely recovered, but thought you might be offended or think I was teasing you. So I decided to give you a present. I got the impression you would like to have a car too. I talked to Enlil Maratovich and he has given me another one, so this is now yours, along with the driver. His name is Ivan and he can also act as your bodyguard, so you can bring him with you when we next meet … Are you pleased? You'll be a real blade now, with your very own bimmer. I hope I've raised your spirits just a little. Do give me a ring.

Mwah, mwah,

Hera

P.S. I found out Osiris's address through Mithra. Ivan knows where it is. Just tell him if you want to go there.

P.P.S.
Bablos is going to be soon – I know this for sure.

I looked at Ivan.

‘What sort of a car does Hera have now?'

‘Bentley,' replied Ivan, enveloping me in a cloud of menthol. ‘What are your instructions for me?'

‘I'll be down in fifteen minutes,' I said. ‘Please wait for me in the car.'

Osiris lived not far from Mayakovsky Square in a big building dating from before the Revolution. The lift was not working so I had to walk up to the fifth floor. The stairs were in darkness because the windows on the landings had been boarded up with sheets of hardboard.

The front door of Osiris's flat was of a kind I had not seen for ages. It was like a farewell greeting from the Soviet era – assuming, of course, it was not a designer's retro fantasy: the wall was encrusted with at least ten doorbells, all of them old and covered over by several layers of paint. The names under the bells seemed vaguely menacing, reminiscent of the triumphant proletariat.

I chose one at random and pressed the bell. I could hear it ring on the other side of the door. I waited a minute or two and then tried another button. The same bell rang. Then I pressed each one in turn, all of them proving to be wired up to the same unpleasantly tinny jangle, to which no one responded. I gave up on the bells and started pounding on the door with my fist.

‘Coming,' came a voice from the corridor, and the door opened.

On the threshold stood a pale, thin man with a horseshoe-shaped moustache, wearing a leather waistcoat over a none too clean shirt outside his trousers. I immediately felt there was something Transylvanian about him, although he had rather too emaciated a look to be a vampire. But I remembered that Osiris was a Tolstoyan. Perhaps it was just the effect of having adopted the simple life.

‘Hello Osiris,' I said. ‘I've come from Ishtar Borisovna.'

The man with the moustache yawned indifferently into his palm.

‘I'm not Osiris. I'm his assistant. Come in.'

I noticed on his neck a little square of sticking plaster with a brown stain in the middle, and all became clear.

Osiris's flat was a large, shabby communal apartment with signs of emergency repairs all over it: traces of welding on the radiators, holes in the ceilings with plaster filler in them, naked wires snaking along skirting boards as old as Marxism itself. One room, however – the largest, the door to which stood open – looked as though it had been completely refurbished: the floor had been finished with new parquet and the walls painted white. On the door, in black marker pen, was written:

REDQUARTERS

This room did indeed seem to be the spiritual and economic epicentre of the apartment, because while everywhere else appeared entombed in the sleep of ages, a powerful stink of tobacco and the sound of confident male voices emanated from this one. The men in the room seemed to be talking in Moldavian.

I approached the door. A big dining table stood in the middle of the room, and around it sat four men with playing cards in their hands. On the floor were various packages, rucksacks and sleeping bags. The card-players had sticking plaster on their necks, similar to that on the Moldavian who had opened the door to me. All four were dressed in identical grey t-shirts with the word:

BIO

printed in white letters across the chest.

The conversation fell silent, and the four card-players fixed their eyes on me. I returned their look in silence. Eventually the burliest of them, built like a bull, said: ‘Overtime, is it? Triple pay, or you can fuck off right now.'

‘Fuck off right now,' I replied politely.

The moustache said something in Moldavian, and I immediately ceased to be of interest to the card-players. Moustache took me delicately by the elbow.

‘Not this room. We have to go further along. Come with me, I'll show you where.'

I followed him down a long corridor.

‘Who were the people in that room?'

‘Immigrant workers,' replied the Moldavian. ‘I think that's the right name for them. I'm one myself.'

At the far end of the passage we stopped. The Moldavian knocked on the door.

‘What is it?' came a quiet voice.

‘Someone to see you.'

‘Who?'

‘Your people, I think,' said the Moldavian. ‘Men in black.'

‘How many of them?'

‘They are one of them,' replied the Moldavian, squinting at me.

‘Let him come in, then. And tell those boys to stop smoking. We're going to be dining in an hour.'

‘OK, Chief.'

The Moldavian nodded at the door and shuffled off. Just in case, I knocked once more.

‘It's open,' said the voice.

I opened the door.

The room was in half-darkness, the blinds drawn over the windows. However, I already knew enough to recognise the indefinable but distinctive character of a vampire's living quarters.

The room reminded me of Brahma's study in that it also had a tall filing cabinet going right up to the ceiling, only simpler and made of cheaper materials. On the opposite wall was a deep recess for a bed (what I think is called an ‘alcove', although I had never seen one before). In front of the alcove was a low homemade magazine table improvised from an old mahogany dining table with the legs cut in half. On it was piled all sorts of rubbish – scraps of material, rulers, bits of various broken mechanical instruments, dismembered soft toys, books, clumsy old mobile phones from the late Russian era of the initial accumulation of capital, old power supply units, cups and so on. The most interesting object was a piece of apparatus resembling the product of a lunatic inventor's mind – a kerosene lamp with two circular mirrors on either side positioned so that the light would reflect precisely from one to the other.

Beside the magazine table was a yellow leather armchair.

I approached the alcove. Inside was a bed, covered with a quilted coverlet. Above it on the wall was a black ebony Stalin-era telephone, surrounded by a blizzard of pencil-scribbled notes. Beside it was a bell push similar to those I had seen outside on the landing.

Osiris lay on his side with one foot propped on the other knee, as if training his muscles for the lotus position. He had on an old cotton dressing-gown and large spectacles. His face and head resembled a balding cactus, with the sort of growth one gets if one starts off with a clean shave all over and then does not shave again for a week but allows the stubble to grow simultaneously over the cheeks and the head. His skin was pale and flabby, and he looked to me as though he probably spent most of his time in the dark. After inspecting me for a few seconds in a disinterested manner, he extended his hand for me to shake his wrist, which was white, soft and cool to the touch. In order to grasp it I had to stoop down so low that I needed to support myself on the junk-strewn table.

‘Rama,' I introduced myself. ‘Rama the Second.'

‘Yes, I've heard about you. You're instead of Brahma, aren't you?'

‘You could probably put it like that,' I replied, ‘although I don't feel as though I am a substitute for anyone.'

‘Please sit down,' said Osiris, nodding towards the armchair.

Before doing so I carefully inspected the dusty parquet underneath the chair and moved it a little way along the floor. Osiris laughed, but said nothing.

From where I was seated, Osiris's head was hidden from me by the corner of the recess, with only his feet visible. The chair had evidently been positioned there on purpose.

‘I've come from Ishtar Borisovna,' I explained.

‘How are things with the old girl?' asked Osiris amiably.

‘Pretty well. She does drink a lot, though.'

‘Well, yes,' said Osiris. ‘There not much else left to her …'

‘How do you mean?'

‘That doesn't concern you. Might I know the purpose of your visit?'

‘When I was presented to Ishtar Borisovna,' I said, ‘she noticed that I think a lot about abstract questions. About where the world has come from. About God. Things like that. It's quite true: at the time I was thinking about such things. Anyhow, Ishtar Borisovna told me to seek you out because you are the guardian of the sacred lore and know all the answers …'

‘That I do,' confirmed Osiris.

‘I was wondering if you could perhaps give me something to read? Some sacred vampire texts?'

Osiris looked at me out of the alcove. His face loomed up in front of me when he bent forward.

‘Something to read?' he repeated. ‘I'd be glad to. But there are no sacred texts for vampires. The tradition exists only in oral form.'

‘Well, could I hear it, then?'

‘Ask away, whatever you like,' said Osiris.

I thought for a while. Before, I had seemed to have a great many serious questions, but now for some reason none would come to mind. Those that did seemed silly and childish.

‘Who is Ishtar?' at length I settled on asking.

‘Vampires believe she is a great goddess who was exiled to this world in ancient times. “Ishtar” is one of her names. Another is the “Mighty Bat”.'

‘Why was she sent into exile?'

‘Ishtar committed a crime, the nature and significance of which we shall never understand.'

‘Ishtar Borisovna? A crime?' I was astonished to hear this. ‘When I talked to her, I …'

‘You were not talking to the Mighty Bat,' interrupted Osiris. ‘You were talking to her disposable head.'

‘You mean there is a difference?'

‘Certainly. Ishtar has two brains, a spinal brain and a cranial brain. Her higher nature is connected to her spinal brain, which has no power of language. For this reason it is difficult to communicate with her higher nature. It would be truer to say that vampires communicate with her when they imbibe
bablos
. But this is a very unusual and specific form of communication …'

‘All right,' I said, ‘if you say so. But why was our world chosen for her exile?'

‘It was not chosen. Our world was created in the first instance to be a prison.'

‘How? Do you mean that a prison was constructed somewhere here in which to confine the great goddess?'

‘This prison has no address, no location.'

‘But according to the logic of the thing,' I observed, ‘the prison must be wherever Ishtar's body is.'

‘You don't understand,' replied Osiris. ‘Ishtar's body is itself part of the prison. The prison is not
some
where, it is
every
where. If you are in a cell and examine its walls through a magnifying glass, you will find that you have entered another cell. You can pick up a speck of dust from the floor, look at it magnified hundreds of times in a microscope, see into yet another cell, and so on and so on, many times over. This is what some philosophers term “the malignant infinity”, organised according to the principle of the kaleidoscope. Even illusions are so arranged that any one element in them can disintegrate into an infinite number of further illusions. The dream which you are dreaming, turns second by second into something else.'

‘So the whole world is a prison of this kind?'

‘Yes,' said Osiris. ‘And it is very well built, down to the smallest imaginable details. Take the stars, for example. People in ancient times believed they were decorative points in the spheres which surround the earth. In essence, that is what they are: that is their main function, to be golden points in the sky. But at the same time it is possible for a rocket to fly to any of these points and after many millions of years arrive at an enormous ball of fire. Further, it would be possible to land on a planet orbiting this star, to take from the planet's surface a sample of some mineral deposit, and analyse its chemical composition. There is no end to the number of these ornamental entities. But neither is there any point in journeying to them. All you would be doing is touring round casemates from which there can be no possibility of escape.'

‘Just a second,' I said. ‘Let us accept that our planet was created in order to function as a prison, and that the stars are merely golden dots in the sky. But surely the universe, including the stars, existed long before the appearance of our planet. Is that not so?'

‘You cannot conceive with what subtlety this prison has been put together. It has been made full of traces of the past. But they are all simply elements in the design of the prison.'