Empire V (34 page)

‘Forgive me,' he said. ‘It was because of the
bablos
. You must know that yourself …'

I did know, and therefore was very relieved when Baldur returned to the room.

Positioning the table directly in front of me, Baldur placed the laptop on it. A tangle of cables led out of it into the passage. Adjusting the screen so that it was convenient to my angle of view, he asked:

‘See all right, eh?'

Cupping his hand to his ear, he waited for a response, but when none came, gave up and continued:

‘Silence means assent, ha ha … The conditions of the Order have been fulfilled. I must say, Rama, you've been very lucky. Up till this moment you could have lost your life several times over. But here you are, alive and well. It looks as though you are going to get away with nothing more than a bruised elbow. Congratulations, my young friend.'

I could see the screen with no difficulty. Presently it was filled with a grey snowstorm, through which it was hard to see anything identifiable.

‘Mithra will initiate the transmission himself,' said Baldur. ‘Good luck now.'

I expected Loki to give me one more parting pinch, but nothing happened. The door closed, and I was alone.

For some time the monitor on the laptop in front of me showed the kind of rippling grey lines on a television set before it has been tuned to a channel. Then a bright horizontal line appeared; it spread out to fill the screen, and I saw Mithra. To be precise I saw Mithra's reflection, as he was standing before a mirror combing his hair.

‘Seventh to Fifth, come in Fifth,' he said, imitating a police car, and smiled. ‘Can you hear me?'

He pointed to the glittering pin on his tie, and then stroked it with his finger. I heard a sound like distant thunder.

‘Isn't it amazing what technology can do these days? All the same, there are limits to progress. I've often wondered whether it would be feasible for us to film ourselves flying? We'll find out today. Hera has fixed our appointment in Heartland, right at the bottom. She really has style, that girl. As you'll appreciate, the only way I can get there is to fly on wings of love. I wonder, would you ever have enough fire in your belly to do that?'

He turned away from the mirror and I could no longer see him. But what I could see was a large room with sloping windows – evidently a spacious loft. There was practically no furniture, but along the wall stood statues of well-known people – Mick Jagger, Shamil Basayev, Bill Gates, Madonna. They were as if frozen inside blocks of black ice, their faces fixed in grimaces of suffering. I knew this was currently all the rage in Moscow, probably a remote tribute to the
Chronicles of Narnia
– there was even a company specialising in interior design of this sort, and it was not particularly expensive.

Then I saw Mithra's hands. They were holding a little flask in the shape of a bat with folded wings. Mithra deliberately brought it up to his chest where the camera was, to let me see it clearly. The flask disappeared from view, and I heard the sound of breaking glass – Mithra must have flung it to the floor, as used to be the practice after drinking a toast.

I saw a white leather chair. It moved nearer, then over to the side of the screen, and disappeared. Now I could see the grate of a fireplace. For a long time it did not move – presumably Mithra was sitting and waiting motionless in the chair. Then the picture failed, and grey lines of interference rose up one after the other from the bottom of the screen and disappeared at the top. There was no sound either.

The vision was off for a long time, at least two hours. I dozed. When the picture eventually came back to the screen there was still no sound, so I may have missed something.

A narrow passage swam towards me, carved out of the rock. This was Heartland. Whenever he entered an altar room, Mithra bowed to the mummified head above the altar. I had not realised this was the convention – no one had ever told me to do that.

In one of the rooms Hera was standing beside the altar. I recognised her immediately, despite the unfamiliar clothes she was wearing – a long white dress that made her look like a schoolgirl. It suited her wonderfully. If I had had any way of turning off the computer, I would have done so now. Of course I could not, any more than I could force myself to keep my eyes tight shut.

Hera did not move to face Mithra, but turned away and vanished into a side passage where it was too dark to see anything. Mithra followed her.

The screen went dark. Then appeared a dot of light, which grew into the rectangle of a doorway. I saw Hera again. She was standing leaning against the wall, her head bowed, as if grieving for something. She resembled a sapling, a young willow perhaps, touchingly trying to take root on the banks of an ancient river. A Tree of Life that does not yet know it is the Tree of Life. Or then again, perhaps it does already know … Mithra stopped – and I sensed that what he saw impressed him as much as it did me.

Hera vanished again.

Mithra went forward into the room. It was full of people. But I had no time to study them before something happened.

The screen flickered crazily, zigzags and bands of interference obscuring the picture. Someone's face came momentarily into view, covered with gauze and goggles, then the camera crashed into a wall and stayed there without moving. Now all I could see was the blobs and spots and irregularities of the paint.

I looked at these for several minutes. The camera then swung round and showed bright lights shining down from the ceiling. The ceiling swung off to the right, from which I deduced that Mithra was being dragged somewhere. There was a glimpse of a metal table and people standing round it, wearing surgeons' scrubs. The metal objects they held in their hands looked more like Aztec implements than medical instruments.

Then everything disappeared behind a white fabric screen, which hid both table and surgeons from my view. But for one second before this, a hand appeared on my monitor screen, holding something round – about the size of a football. The hand was holding it in an odd way, for a moment I could not work out how – then I realised it must be by the hair. Only when the round object had vanished from view did I realise what it was.

It was Mithra's severed head.

For a long time all I could see was the fabric of the white screen trembling in the draughts that came from deep underground. Sometimes it seemed to me that I could hear voices, but I was not sure where they were coming from – whether out of the computer speakers or from the neighbouring apartment, where the television was on at full volume. Several times I lapsed into unconsciousness. I do not know how many hours passed. Gradually the tranquilliser began to wear off: I could now move my fingers a little. Next, I found I was able to raise and lower my chin.

All this time thoughts were racing through my mind. The weirdest was the idea that Mithra had never untied me from the bars, and everything that had happened since then had been purely a hallucination, which in real time had lasted no more than a few minutes. This notion seriously alarmed me because it seemed so plausible in terms of my bodily posture, which was exactly as it had been on that far-off day when I had come back to consciousness and seen Brahma sitting on the sofa. But then I figured that the laptop computer sitting on the table in front of me proved the reality of everything that had taken place. And right on cue, to provide further evidence, the screen which was obscuring the view disappeared.

Now I could again see the room, flooded as before with bright light. But now there was no metal table or surgeons, and it could be seen that it was an ordinary altar room, except that it was a completely new one with all kinds of techno-junk on the floor, and it lacked an altar. Where the altar would normally be, in front of the niche in the wall, there towered up a piece of sophisticated medical apparatus attached to a perforated metal framework. As well as the medical equipment, the frame also supported a head hanging in front of the wall, enveloped in snow-white bandages.

The eyes in the head were closed. Below them were wide, black bruises. Below the nose was a half-effaced bloodstain. Another had dried at the corner of the lips. The head was breathing stertorously through transparent tubes inserted in the nose and leading out into some medical cabinet. I thought at first that someone had shaved off Mithra's Spanish-style beard. And then I realised the head was not Mithra's.

It was Hera's.

At the very instant that I recognised her, she opened her eyes and looked at me – that is to say, at the camera. Her swollen face was barely able to register emotions, but it seemed to me that pity and terror passed fleetingly over her features. Then her bandaged head moved aside, disappeared beyond the edge of the screen, and darkness descended.

VAMPILOGUE

A letter delivered by courier is always a gift of fate, since it mandates a brief emergence from the hamlet. And when in addition the letter looks so beautiful and smells so ethereally enticing …

The envelope was rose-pink and smelled delectably of a subtle, artless but at the same time unattainable – not eau de cologne exactly, but a single constituent of it, a secret, intrinsically aromatic ingredient that is almost never experienced by human nostrils in its pure, unadulterated state. It was the scent of secrecy, of unseen hands on the levers of power, of the wellsprings of dominion. The last, one might even say, was accurate in the literal sense – the package came from Ishtar.

I tore open the paper together with its soft lining. Inside was a black velvet pouch tied with a ribbon, accompanied by two folded sheets of paper with typewritten text. I already knew what I should find in the velvet pouch, so decided to begin with the letter.

Mwah, mwah, dear Prince of Hamlet,

How long is it since we saw one another? I've been counting the days, and they come to three whole months. Forgive me for not having been in touch with you before, but there has been so much to do. I'm sure you want to know what my life is like now and what is happening with me. But, you know, it's very hard to put into words. It's a bit like finding yourself the figurehead of a huge ship – you're feeling each one of her sailors as you cleave through the water with your own body. Just imagine being the ship's captain and the figurehead on her bowsprit at one and the same time. You have no arms or legs – but it's still up to you to decide how the sails should be rigged. The wind that fills the sails is the breath of people's lives, and down in the hold goes on the mysterious work thanks to which mankind's existence finds its purpose and creates
bablos
.

In all this, of course, there are some less pleasant sides. The least pleasant is the ultimate prospect. You know what happened to the old woman, our former Prima Donna. It was, of course, dreadful and I am very sorry for her. But I know that one day I myself shall see a yellow silk scarf in the hands of the person entering my room … that is how life is arranged and it is not for us to change it. Now I understand why Borisovna became such a heavy drinker in her last six months. They treated her very harshly. While they were chiselling out a new room in the rock she kept asking everyone what those sounds were, but they all pretended they could hear nothing and that she was imagining things. And then, when it was impossible to keep up the pretence any longer, they lied to her that the lift was being repaired. Finally, towards the end, they said a new underground tunnel was being constructed so that Government high-ups can go straight from Rublevka to the Kremlin. She knew what the truth was, but could do nothing about it. It's terrible, isn't it?

I want to set things up from the very beginning so that no one will ever be able to treat me like that. I need to have friends I can rely on. I am going to institute a special Distinguished Service Order: ‘Friend of Ishtar'. From now on there will be a rank in our hierarchy reserved exclusively for holders of this title. You will be the first Friend of Ishtar, because no one is closer to me than you are. And I will do everything for you. Would you like a hamlet like Enlil's? That is all absolutely possible now.

About Mithra. I know you witnessed everything. I am sure you have thought long and hard about what happened, and it must seem very black to you. But it is always like that when a goddess exchanges her earthly persona. For a new head to be connected to the main brain in the spine you need a complete new nervous system, and another Tongue to act as the linking interface. The Tongue, naturally, does not die, it merely returns to its roots. But Mithra has gone for ever, and that is sad. Until the very last second he did not guess what was happening.

Between ourselves, Enlil and Marduk thought it would be you. Not that you were being fattened up like a sacrificial lamb, but they were practically certain you would be chosen. Hence the lackadaisical attitude to your education. You must have noticed that apart from me no one showed any great interest in your destiny or made much effort to draw you into our community. I expect you just thought you were living in seclusion on the edge of our world? Well, now you know why.

For Enlil the outcome was a huge surprise. For me as well it was a terribly hard choice, to decide which of you would live. In choosing you I went against all the others. So you had better learn once and for all that, except for me, you have no friends. But with me you don't need any others.

Never fear, I will not bash you with my knee again. I don't have one now. But I do have
bablos
, and now it is all ours. All ours, Rama! And as for everything else – we'll think of something.

The rest will have to wait until we meet. And you shouldn't make a goddess wait too long.

P.S. You asked me to remind you about bringing a death candy with you at our next meeting. So, this is a little reminder …
☺

Instead of a signature there was a red facsimile like a single scrawled word ‘Ish'; and below it a stamp with an ancient representation of a winged creature slightly reminiscent of a garuda bird. If the artist had had the Mighty Bat in mind, he had definitely flattered her.

I looked through the window. It was getting dark, and occasional snowflakes were falling. I had no burning desire to fly anywhere through the winter night, but felt I had no alternative. I realised that I no longer thought of her as Hera. Everything was different now.

I sat on the sofa and undid the throat of the velvet pouch. Inside, just as I expected, was a small bottle – but of a completely different design. The previous passport to Ishtar had been a small dark bottle in the shape of a bat with folded wings and a stopper like a skull. This flask was made of white frosted glass and was in the form of a headless woman's body, the tiny stopper resembling a neck cut off high up. It was a macabre reminder of the sacrifice the goddess must make in order to become a goddess. Evidently this Ishtar intended to take her job seriously. There were going to be a lot of changes, I thought, and how lucky I had been to end up on the right side of the watershed. But I was still a prey to uneasy feelings clawing at my vitals.

After letting the single drop fall on to my tongue, I sat in the chair and waited. If I had heard the ominous strains of Verdi's
Requiem
coming through the wall again, it would have been most appropriate. But this time total silence reigned. The television set on the wall was on, with the sound turned off.

In any case, there was no need of sound; everything could be understood without it. The screen seethed with life, a firework display coruscated under southern skies, lighting up laughing bronzed faces. Brandishing his radio mike like a sabre, some international singing star or other resembling a bizarre cross between a goat and a Greek god, was dancing in a t-shirt with the enigmatic inscription ‘30cm = 11¼ in'. For a few minutes I was lost in contemplation of the scene. The star was singing to the accompaniment of an orchestra, which came in whenever he needed to take a breath. Across the bottom of the screen ran a translation of the lyrics:

This is what happens, what happens – a girl gives io-io-io to a boy and looks away – she probably thinks she's making a fool of herself or the boy is bored because he says nothing … Or else she thinks, io-io-io, she ought to gaze romantically through the window at the moon … Don't turn your eyes away, girls! Io-io-io, these are the best moments in a boy's life, and if he says nothing it's only for fear of scaring off the magic moment … io-io-io-io-io!

The singer paused and in came the orchestral French horns and trumpets. Even though you could not hear them, you could feel the power of the sound from the purple faces of the brass players blowing their brains out. I looked into the darkness outside the window.

Well, what of it? One requiem was as good as another …

But what if this time it was a real requiem? Perhaps Ishtar simply needed another Tongue?

A chilling fear gripped me, unfathomable and irresistible, not to be compared with any other. At the same time I recognised it as a normal state of mind for our times, and it was pointless to try to attribute any rational basis to it. One simply had to get used to it, was all. The clock in the passage chimed the hour. Now, I thought, it really was time.

My mind sketched out for me the familiar daredevil journey up the chimney and out to the stars. Prising myself up from the chair on my calloused fists, I somehow blundered round the room, threw myself into the jaws of the fireplace and emerged from the chimney into the cold sky. Making a few slow circles I gradually gained height.

Around me were large but scattered snowflakes, and the lights of Moscow shone mysteriously and romantically through their white shroud. The city was so beautiful it made me catch my breath, and after a few minutes my mood underwent a sea change. The terror disappeared, to be replaced by a contented peace.

I remembered that Hans Ulrich Rudel had once experienced something similar in the Christmas sky over Stalingrad, when thoughts of war and death suddenly morphed into a feeling of serene harmony. And flying over the tanks blazing in the snow, he had sung ‘Silent Night, Holy Night' …

It was too cold for me to sing. A different millennium now lay over the countryside, and beneath my wings blazed not tanks but the headlights of Chaldeans' limousines scorching their way out of town. And if the truth be admitted, the night was not distinguished by any particular sanctity. Nevertheless, the view was superb, and I promised myself that I would document every single thing I was feeling and thinking at this moment – I would record, so to speak, an instantaneous copy of my soul in order never to forget it. This snow, this dusk, those lights down there, I told myself, will be indelibly inscribed on my memory.

And another thing I would record was how I had changed.

Before, I had behaved very stupidly. Loki had been right. But now I had become wiser and had gained much understanding. I understood life, and myself, and the Prince of Denmark, and Hans Ulrich Rudel. And I had made my choice.

I love our empire. I love its glittering glamour hard-gained through suffering, and its bold discourse forged in struggle. I love its people. Not for providing me with bonuses and preferences, but simply because we are of one red liquid, albeit from opposite sides of the formula. And though I can't see it with my eyes, I can feel with my heart the all-powerful drilling towers sucking the black liquid from the arteries of the planet – and know that I have taken my place in the ranks.

Quick March, Comrade Mosquito, Sir!

But the order of things must be held firmly in place, for we face troubled days ahead. In this world of ours, there is not enough red or black liquid to go round. And that means it will not be long before other vampires come to pull the wool over the eyes of our Ivans and confuse their Mind ‘B's, squinting greedily at our
bablos
. And then the front line will again pass through every hearth and every heart.

Exactly how we act to preserve our unique ancient civilisation with its lofty pan-ethnic mission will have to be the subject of much serious thought later on. But for now everything around me was a wide ocean of calm, while towards me floated snow-stars large as butterflies. And with each beat of my wings I was coming nearer to my strange girlfriend – and, it must be admitted, also to the
bablos
.

Which was now all ours.

        
                
All ours.
                  
All ours.
      
    
All ours.
      
All ours.
All ours.

How many times would I have to repeat the phrase before I understood each facet and detail of its meaning? In reality the meaning was as clear as day: mountaineer Rama the Second is filing his report on the conquest of Fuji.

Here, however, was a very important nuance, which demands a few words of explanation.

The summit of Fuji is not at all what one thought it was as a child. By no means is it a sunlit world where grasshoppers and smiling snails sit at ease amid giant blades of grass. It is cold and dark, lonely and deserted on the summit of Fuji. And this is good, because cold and desolation is where the soul finds rest, and for all who finally reach the top of the mountain the way will have been unbearably exhausting. Nor is the mountaineer on the summit the same person who set out at the start of the climb.

I can no longer remember the person I once used to be. The images that come to the surface of my consciousness resemble more an echo of once-seen films than a record of my own history … I see below me dotted lines of light, and realise that they were streets along which not long ago I used to skateboard. At that time my random wanderings in space had no clear goal. Later I was driven around the city in a big black car, still not fully aware where I was going or why. But now, as I fly high aloft in the night sky on resilient, creaking wings, I know everything. This is how, imperceptibly to ourselves, we grow up. We gain in serenity and clarity. But we lose our naïve belief in miracles.

At one time I thought the stars in the sky were other worlds to which cosmic ships from the City of the Sun would one day fly. Now I know their minute needle-points are merely piercings of the armoured canopy that hides and protects us from the pitiless sea of light beyond.

It is on the summit of Fuji that one feels the pressure of this light upon our world most powerfully. And for some reason there comes into one's head thoughts of the ancients.