The Sacred Book of the Werewolf (24 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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‘I’m not talking about . . .’
‘But as long as your daily dose is less than three grams,’ I continued, ‘you don’t have to worry about all that stuff he discovered. Basing the analysis of your own behaviour on Freud is about as helpful as relying on Carlos Castaneda’s peyote trips. As least Castaneda has heart, poetry. But all this Freud has is his pince-nez, two lines of coke on the sideboard and a quiver in his sphincter. The bourgeoisie love him
because
he is so loathsome. For his ability to reduce everything in the world to the asshole.’
‘But why should the bourgeoisie love him for that?’
‘Because portfolio investors need prophets who will explain the world in terms they can understand. And who will prove yet again that nothing threatens the objective reality in which they have invested so much money.’
E Hu-Li gave me a rather mocking look.
‘But what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is the tendency to deny objective reality really based on sexual deprivation?’
‘Eh?’ I was flummoxed.
‘To put it more simply, do you agree that the world is regarded as an illusion by those who have problems with sex?’ she said, in the tone of a genial TV presenter.
This was a view of the world that I’d often come across in the National. Supposedly only sexually hung-up losers took refuge from the invigorating clamour of the market in mysticism and obscurantism. It was especially amusing to hear this from a client squirming all over the bed in splendid isolation: if you thought about it, it was the same thing that happened to the poor guy all the rest of the time, only instead of a fox’s tail it was the
Financial Times
that was bamboozling him, and his loneliness was not relative, as it was in my company, but absolute. But to hear such things from my own sister . . . That’s what the consumer society does to us.
‘It’s all the other way round,’ I said. ‘In actual fact the tendency to associate the spiritual search with sexual problems is based on the frustration of the anal vector of the libido.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked sister E, raising her eyebrows.
‘It’s obvious . . . Those who say that should do what they’ve always secretly wanted to do - screw themselves.’
‘What for?’
‘When they start doing something they understand, they’ll stop discussing things that they don’t understand. The way a pig’s neck is made means it can’t look at the sky. But it certainly doesn’t follow that the sky is a sexual neurosis.’
‘I get it . . . Did you pick all this stuff up from the wolf?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Well, well, well,’ said my sister E. ‘And can I get a look at him?’
‘Why the sudden interest?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘No need to be jealous,’ she laughed. ‘I’d just like to see who it is your heart took such a shine to. And apart from that, I’ve never seen any werewolves, I’ve only heard that they can be found somewhere in the north. By the way, the super-werewolf that you’re always lecturing me about is actually more likely to be a wolf than a fox. At least, that’s what my husband thinks. And so does his occult lodge the Pink Sunset.’
I sighed. It was simply incomprehensible to me how E Hu-Li, so astute in some matters, could be so absolutely ignorant in others. How many times did I have to explain the same thing to her? I decided not to get involved in an argument. Instead I asked:
‘Do you think the super-werewolf could turn out to be my Alexander?’
‘As far as I understand it, the super-werewolf is not simply a wolf. He’s something as far removed from a wolf as a wolf is from a fox. But a super-werewolf is not an intermediate stage between a fox and a wolf. He is far
beyond
a wolf.’
‘I don’t understand a thing,’ I said. ‘Where beyond a wolf?’
‘You know, I can’t really explain that coherently. Poor Brian has collected all the available material on the subject. Would you like him to give a brief lecture while he’s still alive to do it? We just happen to have some free time tomorrow afternoon. And you bring Alexander along - I think he’ll find it interesting too. And you can show him to me at the same time.’
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Only Alexander’s English isn’t so good.’
‘Never mind. Brian’s a polyglot and he speaks five languages fluently. Including Russian.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s give it a try.’
E Hu-Li raised her finger.
‘And your lieutenant general will do us one favour in return.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Brian and I have to get into the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour at night. And it has to be the night from Friday to Saturday, around the time of the full moon. Will he be able to arrange that?’
‘I think he will,’ I said. ‘He’s certain to have contacts in the Orthodox Patriarchate. I’ll try having a word with him.’
‘Then I’ll remind you,’ said E Hu-Li.
That’s always the way with her. She solves her problems at your expense and at the same time makes you feel that she’s done you a favour. Although on the other hand, I was terribly curious to get a look at Lord Cricket - the occultist, patron of the fine arts and lover of fox-hunting.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘does your husband have any idea? You know, about you?’
‘No. Are you crazy, or what? This is a hunt. The rules say he must only learn the whole truth at the very last moment.’
‘How do you manage to keep it all secret for so long?’
‘The formalities of English life are helpful. Separate bedrooms, the Victorian horror of nakedness, the demure ritual of preparing for bed. In aristocratic circles it’s easy - all you have to do is establish a definite routine, and then stick to it. The really difficult thing isn’t that, it’s constantly postponing the finale. That really does strain all your emotional faculties.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘your stamina is really amazing.’
‘Brian is my Moby Dick,’ E Hu-Li said and laughed. ‘Although the poor soul’s dick really isn’t all that moby . . .’
‘How long have you been herding him now? Five years? Or six?’
‘Six.’
‘And when are you planning?’
‘Some day soon,’ said E Hu-Li.
I shuddered in surprise. She put her arm round my shoulders and whispered.
‘That’s the reason we’re here.’
‘Why did you decide to do it all here?’
‘It’s less dangerous here. And then, it’s such an incredibly convenient situation. Brian doesn’t merely know the prophecy - according to which the super-werewolf is supposed to appear in this very city - he intends to become the super-werewolf himself. For some reason he’s certain that in order to do that, you have to hold something like a black mass in the church that was destroyed and restored, following the methodology of his idiotic sect. It all has to happen without any witnesses. I’ll be his only helper, since I’ve been initiated into the mystery.’
‘How?’
‘He initiated me.’
I was struck by a sudden conjecture.
‘Hang on now . . . Do
you
believe in the super-werewolf?’
‘In what sense?’
‘That he will come, and we shall see him clearly, and all the rest of it - you know, what you said in your e-mail?’
‘I didn’t say I believed it. I said that was what Brian said. I’m not interested in all that mysticism. The super-werewolf can come or not come, I couldn’t care less about him. But I could never find a better opportunity for . . .’ - she snapped her fingers to make sure I understood what she meant.
‘Why, you cunning beast!’
E Hu-Li smiled enchantingly.
It was only now that I understood her plan. A novice chess-player probably feels something of the kind when a brilliant strategy unfolds before his eyes. The denouement promised to be dazzlingly dramatic, just as the rules of the hunt required: it was hard to imagine a better setting for the final blow than a church at night. And apart from that, from the very beginning there had been a ready-made, bizarre but plausible cover-story to explain the event. In fact, it wasn’t really a cover-story, it was the absolute truth, which the star of the festivities himself believed - and so had I, only a minute ago. How could the investigating authorities suspect anything?
Elegant and natural, without even a hint of falsehood. A masterly plan. Of course, I didn’t approve of this sport, but I had to give my sister her due. E Hu-Li was undoubtedly the finest hunter in the world, the only sportsfox at such a high level. I cleared my throat respectfully.
‘And who’s your next in line? Or haven’t you decided yet?’
‘Oh, I’m really spoilt for choice. There are some extraordinary possibilities, quite unexpected.’
‘Such as?’
E Hu-Li half-closed her eyes and sang in a high, crystal-clear voice:
‘Don’t question why she needs to be so free . . .’
‘Mick Jagger?’ I gasped. ‘How dare you even think of it?’
‘Why not?’ E Hu-Li asked impassively. ‘He’s “Sir Mick” now, after all. A legitimate target. And then, surely you don’t still find those words touching? I think they started sounding like an advert for an aircraft-carrier ages ago.’
 
 
Lord Cricket was a man of indeterminate age. And sex, I feel like adding to make the description more precise. My sister E said that he came from a family with a military tradition, but his appearance gave no indication at all of that. My first look at him even put me in mind of that politically correct expression ‘war hero or shero’ - despite his shaved head and goatee beard. His facial expression was interesting - as if in his youth his soul had aspired towards freedom and light, but failed to break through his armour of self-control and duty and ended up frozen in an interrogatory bubble, puffing out his face into a grimace of disaffected surprise.
He was dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a wide tie in an extremely delicate shade of green. There was a small enamel badge glinting on the lapel of his jacket. It looked like the enamel images of Mao Tse-tung that people used to wear in China, only it wasn’t Mao’s face smiling out of it, but Aleister Crowley’s (I wouldn’t really have recognized the British Satanist myself - E Hu-Li told me).
Alexander and Lord Cricket reacted to each other cautiously. When he saw the military uniform, Lord Cricket smiled. It was an amazing smile, with just the faintest hint of irony that, nevertheless, you couldn’t possibly fail to notice, no matter how hard you tried. How many centuries of effort must have gone into trimming that lawn! At the sight of Lord Cricket, Alexander nervously drew in the air through his nose and closed his eyes; his face darkened, as if he’d just remembered something upsetting.
I was frightened that they would argue. But they quickly got into small talk about the Middle East, Shiite terrorism and the oil business. I must have been looking dour, because Lord Cricket asked me the classic question:
‘Why do you Russians smile so little?’
‘We don’t need to be so competitive,’ I said morosely. ‘We’re a nation of losers in any case.’
Lord Cricket raised one eyebrow.
‘Come now, you exaggerate,’ he said.
But he seemed to be satisfied by my answer and he went back to his conversation with Alexander.
Having made sure they were talking about subjects that were safe, I started getting to grips with the video projector hired from a local business centre. Of course, there was something absurd about an occult Power Point presentation. But then, the whole field of human occultism was such a profanation that not even Microsoft could do anything to debase it.
While we were fiddling with the equipment, I succumbed yet again to the temptation to inoculate my sister E with the germs of moral principle.
‘You can’t possibly imagine,’ I said quickly in a low voice, trying to squeeze as much useful information as possible into the seconds allotted to me, ‘how liberating Kant’s categorical imperative is for the soul. I felt as if I’d grown wings when I realized - yes, yes, don’t laugh now - that for us foxes man can be not just a means to achieve the aim, but the aim itself!’
E Hu-Li frowned. And then she said:
‘You’re right. As soon as I’m done with Brian, I’ll fly to Argentina for a safari. I’ve wanted to go shooting from a helicopter for a long time.’
What on earth could I do with her?
We just couldn’t get the projector hooked up to the laptop. The Bluetooth refused to work, and I’d never had anything to do with it before. For a while I became completely absorbed in technical matters and stopped paying attention to what was happening in the room. And when I finally managed to solve the problem, Lord Cricket and Alexander were already going at it hammer and tongs - about values.
‘Do you seriously believe,’ Lord Cricket was asking, ‘that there is any better way of organizing society than liberal democracy? ’
‘We don’t want any of those liberals here, thank you very much! We’ve suffered enough in ten years. We’ve only just started to draw breath again.’

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