Babylon (35 page)

   The room he entered blinded him with the golden gleam of its walls and floor, lit by bright studio lights. The sheet-metal cladding of the walls rose up to form a smoothly tapering cone, as though the room were an empty church dome gilded on the inside. Directly opposite the door stood an altar - a cubic gold pediment on which there lay a massive crystal eye with an enamel iris and a bright reflective pupil. In front of the altar there was a gold chalice standing on the floor, and towering up on each side of it were two stone sirrufs, covered in the remnants of gilt and painted designs. Hanging above the eye was a slab of black basalt, which appeared to be very ancient. Chiselled into its very centre was the Egyptian hieroglyph for ‘quick’, which was surrounded by complicated figures - Tatarsky could make out a strange dog with five legs and a woman in a tall tiara reclining on some kind of couch and holding a chalice in her hands. Along the edges of the slab there were images of four terrible-looking beasts, and between the dog and the woman there was a plant growing up out of the ground, resembling a Venus fly-trap, except that for some reason its root was divided into three long branches, each of which was marked with an unintelligible symbol. Also carved into the slab were a large eye and a large ear, and all the rest of the space was taken up by dense columns of cuneiform text.

   Azadovsky, dressed in his gold mask, skirt and red flip-flops, was sitting on a folding stool near the altar. His mirror was lying on his knee. Tatarsky didn’t notice anybody else in the room.

   ‘Right on!’ said Azadovsky, giving the thumbs-up sign. ‘You look just great. Having doubts, are you? Just don’t turn sour on us, OK; don’t you go thinking we’re nothing but a set of fuckheads. Personally I couldn’t give a toss for all this, but if you want to be in our business, you can’t get by without it. To cut it short, I’ll fill in the basic picture for you, and if you want more detail, you can ask our head honcho; he’ll be here in a minute. The important thing is, you just take everything as it comes; be cool. Ever go to pioneer camp?’

   ‘Sure,’ Tatarsky replied.

   ‘Did you have that business with the Day of Neptune? When everybody got dunked in the water?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   ‘Well, you just figure like this is another Day of Neptune. Tradition. The story goes that once there was this ancient goddess. Not that I mean to say she really existed - there was just this legend, see. And the storyline says the gods were mortal as well and carried their deaths around inside them, just like ordinary folks. So when her time was up, this goddess had to die too; and naturally enough, she didn’t fancy the idea. So then she separated into her own death and the part of her that didn’t want to die. See there, on the picture?’ - Azadovsky jabbed his finger in the direction of the bas-relief - ‘That dog there’s her death. And the dame in the fancy headgear - that’s her. To cut it short - from here on in you just listen and don’t interrupt, ‘cause I’m not too hot on this stuff myself - when they split apart, this war immediately started between them, and neither of them could stay on top for long. The final battle in the war took place right above the Ostankino pond - that is, where we are right now, only not underground, but way high up in the air. That’s why they reckon it’s a sacred spot. For a long time no one could win the battle, but then the dog began to overpower the goddess. Then the other gods got frightened for themselves, so they interfered and made them make peace. It’s all written down right here. This is like the text of a peace treaty witnessed in the four corners of the earth by these bulls and…’

   ‘Gryphons.’ Tatarsky prompted him.

   ‘Yeah. And the eye and the ear mean that everyone saw it and everyone heard it. To cut it short, the treaty gave them both a drubbing. It took away the goddess’s body and reduced her to a pure concept. She became gold - not just the metal, though: in a metaphorical sense. You follow me?’

   ‘Not too well.’

   ‘Not surprising,’ sighed Azadovsky. ‘Anyway, to cut it short, she became the thing that all people desire, but not just a heap of gold, say, that’s lying around somewhere, but all gold in general. Sort of like - the idea.’

   ‘Now I’m with you.’

   ‘And her death became this lame dog with five legs who had to sleep for ever in this distant country in the north. You’ve probably guessed which one. There he is on the right, see him? Got a leg instead of a prick. Wouldn’t want to run into him in the back yard.’

   ‘And what’s this dog called?’ Tatarsky asked.

   ‘A good question. To tell the truth, I don’t know. But why d’you ask?’

   ‘I read something similar. In a collection of university articles.’

   ‘What exactly?’

   
It’s a
long story,’ answered Tatarsky. ‘I don’t remember it all.’

   ‘What was the article about, though? Our firm?’ Tatarsky guessed his boss was joking.

   ‘No,’ he said, ‘about Russian swear words. It said swear words only became obscenities under Christianity, but before that they had an entirely different meaning and they signified incredibly ancient pagan gods. One of these gods was the lame dog Phukkup with five legs. In the ancient chronicles he was indicated by a large letter ‘P’ with two commas. Tradition says he sleeps somewhere among the snow, and while he sleeps, life goes along more or less OK; but when he wakes up, he attacks. When that happens, the land won’t yield crops, you get Yeltsin for president, and all that kind of stuff. Of course, they didn’t actually know anything about Yeltsin, but overall it’s pretty similar.’

   ‘And who is it this Phukkup attacks in this article?’ Azadovsky asked.

   ‘Not anyone or anything special - just everything in general. That’s probably why the other gods interfered. I asked what the dog was called specially - I thought maybe it was some kind of transcultural archetype. So what do they call the goddess?’

   ‘They don’t call her anything,’ broke in a voice behind them, and Tatarsky swung round.

   Farsuk Seiful-Farseikin was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a long black cloak with a hood framing his gleaming golden mask, and Tatarsky only recognised him from his voice.

   ‘They don’t call her anything,’ Seiful-Farseikin repeated, entering the room. ‘Once a long time ago they used to call her Ishtar, but her name has changed many times since then. You know the brand No Name, don’t you? And the story’s the same with the lame dog. But you were right about all the rest.’

   ‘You talk to him, will you, Farsuk?’ said Azadovksy. ‘He knows everything anyway, without us telling him.’

   ‘What do you know, I wonder?’ Farseikin asked.

   ‘Just a few bits and pieces,’ answered Tatarsky. ‘For instance, that jagged sign in the centre of the slab. I know what it means.’

   ‘And what does it mean?’

   ‘"Quick" in ancient Egyptian.’

   Farseikin laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s certainly original. New members usually think it’s M amp;M chocolate. Actually it’s a symbol that indicates a certain very ancient and rather obscure dictum. All the ancient languages in which it existed have been dead for ages, and even translating it into Russian is difficult - there aren’t any appropriate glosses. But English has an exact equivalent in Marshall MacLuhan’s phrase: "The medium is the message." That’s why we decode the symbol as two ‘M’s joined together. And we’re not the only ones, of course - altars like this are supplied with all render-servers.’

   ‘You mean the slab isn’t genuine?’

   ‘Why not? It’s absolutely genuine,’ answered Farseikin. ‘Three-thousand-year-old basalt. You can touch it. Of course, I’m not sure this drawing always meant what it means now"

   ‘What’s that Venus fly-trap plant between the goddess and the dog?’

   ‘It’s not a Venus fly-trap; it’s the Tree of Life. It’s also the symbol of the great goddess, because one of her forms is a tree with three roots that blossoms in our souls. This tree also has a name, but that is only learned at the very highest stages of initiation in our society. At your stage you can only know the names of its three roots - that is, the root names.’

   ‘What are these names?’

   Farseikin solemnly pronounced three strange long words that had absolutely no meaning for Tatarsky. He could only note that they contained many sibilants.

   ‘Can they be translated?’

   ‘It’s the same problem of there being no appropriate glosses. The root names can only be rendered very approximately as "oral", "anal" and "displacing".’

   ‘Uhuh,’ said Tatarsky. ‘I see. And what society’s that? What do its members do?’

   ‘As if you really don’t know. How long have you been working for us now? All that is what its members do.’

   ‘What’s it called?’

   ‘Once long ago it was called the Chaldean Guild,’ Farseikin replied. ‘But it was called that by people who weren’t members and had only heard about it. We ourselves call it the Society of Gardeners, because our task is to cultivate the sacred tree that gives life to the great goddess.’

   ‘Has this society existed for a long time?’

   ‘For a very, very long time. They say it was active in Atlantis, but for the sake of simplicity we regard it as coming to us from Babylon via Egypt.’

   Tatarsky adjusted the mask that had slipped from his face. ‘I see.’ he said. ‘So did it build the Tower of Babel?’

   ‘No. Definitely not. We’re not a construction firm. We’re simply servants of the great goddess. To use your terminology, we watch to make sure that Phukkup doesn’t awaken and attack; you understood that part right. I think you understand that here in Russia we bear a special responsibility. The dog sleeps here.’

   ‘But where exactly?’

   ‘All around us,’ replied Farseikin. ‘When they say he sleeps among the snow, that’s a metaphor; but the fact that several times this century he has almost awoken isn’t.’

   ‘So why do they keep cutting back our frequency?’

   Farseikin spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Human frivolity,’ he said, going over to the altar and picking up the golden chalice. ‘Immediate advantage, a short-sighted view of the situation; but they’ll never actually cut us off, don’t worry about that. They watch that very closely. And now, if you have no objections, let us proceed with the ritual.’

   He moved close to Tatarsky and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Kneel down and remove your mask.’

   Tatarsky obediently went down on his knees and removed the mask from his face. Farseikin dipped a finger into the chalice and traced a wet zigzag on Tatarsky’s forehead.

   ‘Thou art the medium, and thou art the message,’ he said, and Tatarsky realised that the line on his forehead was a double ‘M’.

   ‘What liquid is that?’ he asked.

   ‘Dog’s blood. I trust I don’t need to explain the symbolism?’

   ‘No,’ said Tatarsky, rising from the floor. ‘I’m not an idiot; I’ve read a thing or two. What next?’

   ‘Now you must look into the sacred eye.’

   For some reason Tatarsky shuddered at this, and Azadovsky noticed it.

   ‘Don’t be scared,’ he put in. ‘Through this eye the goddess recognises her husband; and since she already has a husband, it’s a pure formality. You take a look at yourself in the eye, it’s clear you’re not the god Marduk, and we calmly get on with business.’

   ‘What god Marduk?’

   ‘Well, maybe not Marduk, then,’ said Azadovsky, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter; ‘it doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean anything in particular. Farsuk, you explain to him; you’ve got it all taped. Meanwhile I’ll take a trip to Marlboro country.’

   ‘It’s another mythologeme,’ said Farseikin. "The great goddess had a husband, also a god, the most important of all the gods, to whom she fed a love potion, and he fell asleep in the shrine on the summit of his ziggurat. Since he was a god, his dreaming was so powerful that… In general, it’s all a bit confused, but all of our world, including all of us, and even the goddess, are apparently his dream. And since he can’t be found, she has a symbolic earthly husband, whom she chooses herself.’

   Tatarsky cast a glance in the direction of Azadovsky, who nodded and released a neat smoke ring through the mouth-hole of his mask.

   ‘You guessed,’ said Farseikin. ‘At the moment it’s him. For Leonid, it’s naturally a rather tense moment when someone else looks into the sacred eye, but so far it’s been all right. Go on.’

   Tatarsky went up to the eye on the stand and knelt down in front of it. The blue enamel iris was separated from the pupil by a fine gold border; the pupil itself was dark and reflected like a mirror. In it Tatarsky could see his own distorted face, Farseikin’s crooked figure and Azadovsky’s bloated knee.

   ‘Turn the light this way,’ Farseikin said to someone. ‘He won’t be able to see like that, and he has to remember for the rest of his life.’

   A bright beam of light fell on the pupil, and Tatarsky could no longer see his own reflection, which was replaced by a blurred golden glimmering, as though he had just spent several minutes watching the rising sun, then closed his eyes and seen its imprint lost and wandering through his nerve endings. ‘Just what was it I was supposed to see?’ he wondered.

   Behind him there was a rapid scuffle, something metallic clanged heavily against the floor and he heard a hoarse gasp. Tatarsky instantly leapt to his feet, sprang back from the altar and swung round.

   The scene that met his eyes was so unreal that it failed to frighten him, and he decided it must be part of the ritual. Sasha Blo and Malyuta, wearing fluffy white skirts, with golden masks dangling at their chests, were strangling Azadovsky with yellow nylon skipping ropes, trying to keep themselves as far away from him as possible, while Azadovsky, his sheep’s eyes staring out of his head, was pulling the thin nylon rope with both hands towards himself with all his might. Alas, it was an unequal struggle: blood appeared on his lacerated palms, staining the yellow string red, and he fell first to his knees and then on to his belly, covering his fallen mask with his chest. Tatarsky caught the moment when the expression of dumbfounded astonishment disappeared from the eyes gazing at him and was not replaced by any other. It was only then he realised that if this was part of the ritual, it was an entirely unexpected part for Azadovsky.