Empire V (21 page)

‘They are not stupid. It's simply the way life is arranged. People are born into the world in order to create
bablos
out of Glamour concentrate. It has different names in different eras, but the formula of human destiny has not changed for many centuries.'

‘What is that formula?'

‘“Illusion – money – illusion”. Do you know what is the principal characteristic of mankind as a biological species? People are constantly chasing after visions that arise within their heads. But for some reason they do not capture them there inside their heads, where they appear, but pursue them in the real physical world, on which the visions are merely superimposed. And then, when the visions dissipate, the man stops and says to himself: oh Mama, what was that? Where am I, and why am I, and what am I supposed to do now? This syndrome applies not just to individuals, but to entire civilisations. To live amidst illusions is the natural habitat for people just as it is for a grasshopper to sit in the grass. Because it is precisely human illusions that produce
bablos
…'

They're obsessed with that bloody grasshopper
, I thought. All the same, there was something very dispiriting about these older vampires always trying to talk to me in language they thought I would understand.

‘What does it mean, to live in the real world?' I asked.

‘It was very well put by Count Dracula. He said, “The image is nothing, the thirst is everything.”'

‘Is there a formula for vampires' destiny?'

‘Yes. “Red liquid – money – red liquid”. If we forget about political correctness, “blood – money –
bablos
”. The red liquid in the formula is human, but not the
bablos
.'

‘But how can “red liquid” be the name for both
bablos
and human … er, you know what I mean?'

‘Because,' answered Ishtar, ‘they are the same thing on different levels of the dialectical spiral. Not only in their colour but also in their essential quality. Like, for instance, beer and cognac …'

Pronouncing the word ‘cognac' she glanced at the table, then at me, and winked. Trying not to make any noise, I poured out the remainder of the Hennessy XO into my glass and thence into the mouth of the head. Again with great agility she dived under the glass, and not a drop fell to the floor.

I could not work out where the cognac could be going to, once she had drunk it. Presumably there was some sort of craw in her neck. At all events, the full effect of the alcohol was now visible. Her face was flushed, and I could see what I had not noticed before, lines of scars from plastic surgery just below the ears.

I heard a meaningful cough behind the screen, from the unseen girl. I decided Ishtar would not get any more spirits from me.

‘But the difference consists in the degree of concentration of the essence,' went on Ishtar. ‘There are five litres of red liquid in a man. But in the whole of his life no more than a gram of
bablos
can be extracted from him. Do you see?'

I nodded.

‘You can get a whole gram from a WASP in America. Our Russkies are far stingier … I wish I had some to offer you. Hey, girls, have we any
bablos
?'

‘No,' said the girl's voice behind the screen.

‘So you see,' said Ishtar. ‘The cobbler has no shoes. I'm the one who makes the stuff, and I don't have any.'

‘How do you make it?'

‘Would you like to know the complete technological process? Want to creep under my skirts?
Bablos
is my milk …'

Obviously I had once again failed wholly to mask my feelings, because Ishtar burst out laughing. I bit my lip, pasting on to my face a serious and respectful expression. She found this even more amusing.

‘Enlil gave you the drawing from a dollar bill, didn't he?' she asked. ‘The one with the pyramid and the eye? That shows how the production is achieved technologically, and it is also at the same time my allegorical portrait. Well, not precisely mine, but any Ishtar in any country …'

‘You're much prettier,' I put in.

‘Thank you. The pyramid is the body of the goddess in which the
bablos
is condensed. The significance of the eye in the triangle is that it represents a disposable head which allows the goddess to see humans and restore contact with them after any catastrophe or major shift in their world. The eye is separate from the pyramid, therefore it makes no difference to vampires what people might believe in, or what kind of paper currency might be circulating among them in a hundred years' time – dollars or dinars. We are like deepwater fish – we are not disturbed by any hurricane which may arise on the surface; it does not touch us.'

‘I understand,' I said.

‘And about me being prettier – well, you're not very good at pretending. You're very amusing, all the same … By the way, thanks for your thoughts about my hairdo. I'll bear them in mind.'

I had said nothing to her about her coiffure, but realised that my initial impression must have had time to embed itself in my red liquid.

‘Please forgive me,' I said, shamefacedly.

‘No offence, I'm not a fool. You're quite right. The only thing is, I too get bored and lonely. After all, I have to watch television, and read glossy magazines, and now there's the Internet. And they're all so full of advertisements! They keep on at you: “Buy it! Because you're worth it,” ha ha …'

Ishtar cackled with laughter again, and I realised she was now completely drunk.

‘I do believe it,' she continued. ‘I know I'm worth it, because I'm the one who keeps the whole schmear on the road. But I can't go off and buy a Learjet, can I? Or a yacht … well I could, as a matter of fact, but what would I do with it? I tell you what, forget the damn yacht … I saw an ad just a while ago. In a magazine – there it is, have a look …'

She nodded towards the table.

Lying near the edge was a magazine folded open at a full-page photograph. A bride, all in spotless white, was standing beside a wedding limousine, her face buried in a bouquet of lilacs. The cavalcade of wedding cars waited while the groom meditatively twiddled his moustache by the door of the car. The photographer had skilfully caught the envious glance of a woman in a little red jalopy passing from the opposite direction. The caption below the photo read: “OKsana Panty-liners. We Dry Harder!”'

Only now did I finally grasp the point of Enlil Maratovich's joke about the bush which isn't. It now struck me as hideously cruel.

‘I may be worth all the money in the world,' said Ishtar sadly. ‘But I don't even need those, no matter how hard they try or dry … So why shouldn't I play about with my hairdo? And my make-up? Stick some earrings in my ears? All that sort of thing? You really ought not to laugh at a foolish old woman.'

I was ashamed of myself. And I also felt a rush of pity for her. Thank God I had not spotted the stitches of the facelift until after she had bitten me. Let her think that at least that was done successfully.

The ringtone of the mobile phone sounded.

‘Yes?' answered Ishtar.

I could hear the quiet squawking of a male voice coming through the earpiece.

‘With me now,' said Ishtar. ‘We're having a talk, yes … Nice boy, very nice. When he gets a bit older I'll appoint him instead of you, you fat old git, do you hear? What's that? Did you get such a fright you've pissed yourself? Ha ha ha …'

The earpiece resumed its squawking.

‘All right then,' she agreed. ‘He'd better go, if that's the situation.'

She raised her eyes and looked at me.

‘Enlil. He says it's time for you to go back up.'

‘How do I do that?'

‘There's a lift.'

Ishtar nodded towards the wall.

Now I saw that there was no way out of the room except the one I had come in by. We were in the last room of the gallery. What Ishtar was indicating was not a doorway to the next altar room, but the doors of a lift.

‘I wish I'd come down that way,' I said. ‘I almost drowned.'

‘There's no way down to here in the lift. It only goes upwards. And only if you're lucky. That's all now; I'll say goodbye. I'm beginning to feel rather poorly.'

‘Why, what is it?' I asked in alarm.

‘The
bablos
is coming on. And I've had too much to drink … I get mixed up with my wings … You'd better go. No, before you do, come over here …'

I thought she was probably going to bite me again.

‘Do you want to …?'

‘No,' she said. ‘Just come here, don't be afraid.'

I came up close to her.

‘Bend down and close your eyes.'

The moment I did as she asked, something wet smacked me in the middle of my forehead, as if a post-office stamp had been put there.

‘That's all.'

‘Goodbye,' I said, and headed towards the lift.

As I was getting in I turned and looked at Ishtar.

‘One other thing,' she announced, fixing me with her gaze. ‘About Hera. Be very careful. Many years ago Enlil had a girlfriend like her. They had an affair, went out together, spent their whole time billing and cooing. But they never got as far as going to bed. I once asked Enlil, why not? Do you know what he said? “If you never ask a black mamba to bite you, you can have a long and happy time enjoying her warmth …” I thought then that he was a cold fish, cynical and heartless. But now I realise that that is precisely the reason he is still with us …'

I wanted to ask what this had to do with Hera, but did not have time to, before the doors closed and the lift started to move upwards. Looking at my reflection in the polished steel doors, I saw on my forehead the imprint of Ishtar's lips – like a scarlet rose.

ACHILLES STRIKES BACK

Enlil Maratovich met me at the lift.

‘You're only just in time,' he said, looking at my forehead. ‘They're casting the lots now.'

‘Casting lots?

‘Yes. They're choosing a Chaldean for your degustation.'

‘Who does the choosing?'

‘They always do it themselves, we don't interfere. They have a ritual, a rather beautiful one. Little bits of paper, each with a name on it, a red top hat … You'll see.'

We passed his study and stopped outside the door leading into the round hall. Besides ourselves there was no one else in the corridor.

‘We'll wait here,' said Enlil Maratovich. ‘When they have finished drawing the lots, they'll come out to us.'

‘I'd like to wipe my forehead clean. I need a napkin.'

‘Absolutely not, not under any circumstances. Ishtar's kiss is your ticket to a new life. Everyone must see it.'

‘Funny place for a ticket,' I said.

‘No, it's entirely appropriate. After all, don't people put all kinds of coloured stamps on your skin at a disco, so as not to have to fuss around with little bits of paper? It's the same here … It'll probably get you free drinks, ha ha …'

‘Enlil Maratovich,' I said, ‘since you mention drinks – when am I going to be given some
bablos
?

Enlil Maratovich looked at me with incredulity bordering almost on contempt.

‘You really believe you are fit for service?'

I found this response rather cheering.
Yes of course
, I thought –
service. Vampires are just another form of public service; I could have guessed that.

But aloud I said something else:

‘Why not? Ishtar Borisovna herself invited me to have some, but there was none available.'

Enlil Maratovich laughed.

‘Rama,' he said, ‘that was Ishtar's little joke. I am honestly at a loss to know how to deal with your ignorance. Things are not as simple in our world as you seem to think they are.'

‘What complications are there?'

‘You're about to find out. Have you got your death candy with you?'

‘What for?' I felt my heart beat faster.

‘Have you, or haven't you?'

I shook my head. The smile disappeared from Enlil Maratovich's face.

‘Didn't Loki tell you a vampire never leaves his house without a death candy?'

‘He did say something of the sort. It's just that …'

‘Don't try to excuse yourself. For this inexcusable, I repeat
inexcusable
, dereliction you deserve to be sent into this degustation empty-handed. You would be taught a lesson you would remember for the rest of your life. If I refrain from doing that to you, it is only because these proceedings are so important for the reputation of our whole community. We cannot take the risk …'

A candy appeared in Enlil Maratovich's hand, in a brilliant green wrapper edged with a gold border. I had not seen one like it before.

‘Eat it now,' he commanded. ‘Otherwise you'll probably forget this one as well.'

Unwrapping the sweet, I placed it in my cheek.

‘Why do I need it?'

‘You are going to have to penetrate into the soul of a Chaldean and reveal to the assembled company his most deeply hidden secrets. This is a dangerous thing to do.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of the souls these Chaldeans have. When you start laying out for public inspection exactly what the subject whose red liquid you have tasted is most deeply ashamed of, most likely he is going to want to stop your mouth. He might even want to kill you. Without the death candy, things might not go too well for you.'

‘Hold on a minute,' I said in alarm. ‘This isn't what we agreed at all! You told me it would be just a simple degustation …'

‘That is what it is, simply a degustation. But the only visible guarantee of the validity of the episode has always been the emotional reaction of the individual who has been bitten. Therefore your job is to dig all the nasty nuggets out of him, do you understand? Make sure you find whatever it is that he has buried most deeply within himself, that engenders the most painful humiliation in him. Turn him completely inside out. But be prepared for him to do anything he can to stop you.'

‘Suppose he manages to do that?'

‘Are you afraid?'

‘Yes, I am,' I confessed.

‘Then you must be absolutely certain who you are,' said Enlil Maratovich. ‘That's the great Dostoyevskian question – are you a feeble trembling creature or do you have the right … Well, which is it?'

I definitely did not want to be a feeble, trembling creature.

‘I have the right,' I said. ‘Well, I hope I do.'

‘Prove it, then. Most of all to yourself. And to everyone else at the same time. It's easier than you think. What are you afraid of? You have the death candy, and the Chaldean won't have one.'

‘I hope you gave me a good one,' I worried. ‘Wasn't past its best-before date, was it?'

‘We'll soon know,' smiled Enlil Maratovich.

Remembering that I also had to psych myself up with the warrior spirit, I took the required number of breaths in and out in the right sequence, and immediately felt a springy lightness throughout my body. It was all just as it had been during my lessons with Loki, except that now there was also something new and unexpected: I was aware of everything that was going on behind me. I could feel the outline of the corridor, the surface of the walls and the unevenness of the floor – it was as if I had a fish-eye in the back of my head. The sensation was quite breathtaking.

The doors to the hall opened, and into the corridor came Marduk Semyonovich and Loki. It was obvious from their expression that something unforeseen had occurred.

‘Well, who is to be?' asked Enlil Maratovich.

‘Bit of a train wreck,' said Marduk Semyonovich. ‘They've chosen Semnyukov. Deputy Minister.'

‘Bloody hell,' muttered Enlil Maratovich. ‘That's all we need.'

‘What's happened?' I asked in a fright.

‘Now,' said Enlil Maratovich, ‘you'd better give me back that candy … Oh, you've already eaten it … Ha ha ha, never fear, I'm only joking. The only thing is, don't go too far and actually kill him, all right? That would not be at all a good idea from our point of view. I mean, it wouldn't quite be one of those times when we get wall-to-wall
Swan Lake
on our television screens – still, all the same he is a prominent figure.'

‘I'm not planning to kill anyone. I'm more interested in staying alive myself.'

‘Actually, it would be all right, in principle, if you do kill him,' went on Enlil Maratovich. ‘So long as you do it beautifully. We can always pass it off as a car crash …'

And with that he steered me towards the doors, behind which I could hear the noise of voices and music. His touch was gentle and friendly, but I felt like a gladiator being propelled into the arena under the lash.

The hall had been completely rearranged. It was now lit by electric lamps, and had indeed taken on the aspect of a setting for a duel. The buffet tables had been moved back against the walls, and the Chaldeans were crowded round an empty space in the middle of the room, forming a living ring. There were more of them now; evidently some had aristocratically elected to come late, in time for the second act. Here and there in the crowd could be seen human faces. These belonged to vampires who from the sea of glittering, expressionless gold masks flashed me encouraging smiles.

Some of the Chaldeans were wearing strange clothes like fluffed-out skirts, made of something resembling either soft feathers or long-haired sheepskin. Only a few wore these skirts; all of whom were distinguished by exceptional physical development. Obviously this particular get-up was chic for Chaldean fitness fans.

One half-naked Hercules was standing in the empty space in the middle of the room, his arms folded over his chest, the electric light playing pitilessly on his metallic visage. His hirsute upper torso rippled with muscles, and the substantial beer gut below, while detracting from the overall harmony of the ensemble, only added to the terrifying aspect. It struck me that had the Huns or the Vandals left behind sculptural monuments to themselves, they would have been representations of bodies such as this. In the black foliage of his chest hung a chain with amulets – totemic little animals of some sort, and birds.

Even if I had not myself been aware of the seriousness of the moment, the expression in the eyes of the vampires watching me would have told me all I needed to know. On one side of the line was our fragile world, protected only by centuries-old prejudice and the death candy; on the other the merciless herd of humanity …

I decided to arm myself with the spirit one more time. After repeating the prescribed combination of intakes and outtakes of breath, I advanced on the half-naked Chaldean, inclined my head in sober, soldierly fashion, and said:

‘Greetings. As you know, we two are to appear today … er … in tandem, so to say. I suppose we had better introduce ourselves. My name is Rama. What is yours? I know only your surname.'

The mask turned in my direction.

‘I believe,' it said, ‘it is for you to find that out. Is that not so?'

‘Does that mean you will not object if I …'

‘I most definitely will,' returned the mask with an air of finality.

Laughter broke out in the hall.

‘In that case I shall be obliged to use force. Needless to say, within limits strictly defined by necessity.'

‘Let us see if you can,' replied Semnyukov.

I took a step towards him, and he casually adopted a boxer's posture. One blow from that fist could kill me on the spot, therefore I decided not to risk approaching him too closely from the front.

I resolved to come at him from behind.

What I did caused me considerable pain in the muscles and joints, but it was undoubtedly executed beautifully, as required by Enlil Maratovich. The sequence of movements whereby I ended up in the desired position took no more than a second. From my perspective, however, it was a very long, elastic second, the length of a complete gymnastic display.

To begin with I took a slow and uncertain step towards him. Mockingly, he spread his arms out wide, as if waiting to enfold me in an embrace. At that moment I darted forwards. So quick was I that before he realised I had moved at all, I had already dived underneath his arm. The moment he noticed my movement, from my vantage point behind him I leant against his back in a mirror image of his own derisive pose and opened my arms wide. He started to turn round, and at the risk of dislocating my neck, in a movement at once relaxed and inconceivably rapid, I turned my head and executed the bite. I may say, with no false modesty, that this second-long movement was worthy of being filmed, even perhaps needing a high-speed camera.

By the time Semnyukov had turned round to face me I was already beyond the reach of his fists. I therefore had no need to turn round to face him. But when he started to move in my direction, without looking round I stopped him with a gesture.

‘Stop,' I said, ‘stop right there. It's all over, Ivan Grigorievich. I have bitten you. Our functions are now reversed. It is for me to provoke you to aggression, and for you to resist the temptation with all the power at your command.'

‘Everyone in this hall knows I am Ivan Grigorievich,' retorted Semnyukov.

Smacking my lips several times (for dramatic effect, and possibly in imitation of older vampires), I said:

‘I propose a gentleman's agreement. Immediately in front of your feet is a thick black line. It's a kind of decorative design on the floor. Do you see it?'

Of course I could not see the line myself, but I knew exactly where it was and where it went. It was as though the navigation system in my head was giving me all the information I needed. Enlil Maratovich must have given me a special kind of death candy, senior officer's issue.

‘Let us agree,' I went on, ‘that if you cross this line you will have lost. Do we have an understanding?'

‘What do I need a gentleman's agreement for?' asked Semnyukov.

‘To give you an opportunity to become a gentleman, if only for a short time.'

‘Interesting,' said Semnyukov politely. ‘Well, all right, let's try it.'

I sensed that he had taken a step backwards.

Furrowing my brow, I made my face assume an expression of the utmost concentration. Approximately a minute passed, after which absolute silence reigned in the hall. Then I said:

‘Well, Ivan Grigorievich, what are we to say of your soul? It is widely believed that even in the wickedest of men some good can be found. The reason I have been silent for so long is that I have been searching for this element of good in you … Alas. There are in you only two character traits that lend you the slightest vestige of humanity. They are, one, that you are a paedophile, and two, that you are an agent of Mossad. Everything else is inexpressibly appalling. So appalling that it makes even me, a professional vampire, feel queasy in your presence. And, make no mistake, I have seen into the abyss …'

Semnyukov said nothing. A strained silence hung over the hall.

‘Rama, we know you have seen into the abyss,' came the voice of Enlil Maratovich from behind me. ‘So has everyone here. Try not to shake the heavens to no purpose. We're all used to this sort of rubbish, and it's not particularly compromising.'

‘I'm not producing this information because it's compromising,' I answered. ‘Quite the opposite. But if you want the filthiest, most appalling, most humiliating and most painful secrets of this soul, you must bear with me … I shall pass over the details of this gentleman's private life. I shall not refer to his lack of financial probity, nor his pathological propensity to lie, because Ivan Grigorievich himself makes no attempt to hide these qualities, considering that they all contribute to making him a model of a dynamic modern man. Unhappily, in this he is perfectly correct. Nevertheless, there is one thing of which Ivan Grigorievich is ashamed. Something hidden very, very deep. Perhaps I ought not to mention it?'