Empire V (32 page)

‘What genocide?'

‘Who do you think slaughtered the Neanderthals? Thirty thousand years ago? Did you think we would forget? We will not forget, and we will not forgive. With genocide it began, and with genocide it will end, you mark my words. So don't go heaping all the blame on us vampires …'

‘You have not understood me,' said the Moldavian, alarmed. ‘I am not blaming it all on vampires. Each room must answer for its own conduct. It may invite God to come in. Or your associates. Every room naturally inclines to the divine. But the majority of them, as a result of the glamour and the discourse, have come to the conclusion that it all comes down to interior design. And if that is what a room believes, you can be sure the bats are already flying about in it. God is not likely to enter such a room. But I am not blaming vampires. You are not, after all, rooms in the palace. You are bats. You have your work to do.'

‘And what, in your view, will become of the palace in the end?'

‘God has many palaces. When all the rooms in a palace have been occupied by bats, God destroys it. That is to say, he stops creating it, which comes to the same thing. It is said that this event resembles a light of such inconceivable power that it burns up the whole world. But what in fact happens is that matter, which is an illusion, disappears and the nature of God, which then will permeate everything, is finally seen as it really is. Much the same, it is believed, happens at the end of each individual life. Our own palace is now experiencing bad times. Almost all of the rooms are populated by bats. Everywhere one hears the crunching and squelching of a wine press squeezing out Aggregate “M-5” …'

‘You are well informed,' I said.

‘The question comes down to this: what are we to do when God finally loses patience and abandons this project?'

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I don't know. Perhaps we shall be sent to another planet to continue our work there. But something else interests me. You are a trained theologian. You speak of God as if he were an old acquaintance. Please then tell me why he made our lives so empty and senseless?'

‘If
your
life had any meaning,' said the Moldavian, emphasising the word ‘your', ‘it would follow that those rooms which welcome the bats were following the right path. And God would have nowhere to live.'

‘I see. Why, then, are you telling me all this?'

‘I want to give you a telephone number,' replied the Moldavian, handing me a gold-edged card. ‘If you would like to, come to one of our prayer meetings. I cannot promise you an easy way back. But God is merciful.'

I took the card. On it was written:

The Way to God through the Word of God
Logos CataCombo House of Prayer

On the back was a telephone number.

As I put the card away in my pocket, my hand passed over the place on my belt where the little case with the death candy should be. It was not there. Once again I had come out empty-handed. Even had it been there, however, I would certainly not have followed Osiris's advice. It was a reflex movement.

‘That's clear,' I said. ‘Instead of a wine press we shall install a candle-making cottage industry in the Villa of Mysteries, shall we? Your attempts will not succeed: the Chaldeans won't allow it. At best you'll muddle away with your hackwork in a corner. If, that is, there's anywhere left for you to do it …'

‘Don't be facetious. You'd do better to reflect on this at leisure.'

‘I will think about it,' I replied. ‘I can see you are a good person. Thank you for involving yourself in my life.'

The Moldavian smiled a melancholy smile.

‘I have to go now,' he said, touching the plaster on his neck. ‘The Chief doesn't like to be kept waiting. Please remember that you promised not to mention our conversation to anyone.'

‘I doubt anyone would be interested. Although … you know what? Why not have a go at recruiting Ishtar Borisovna? She's ripe for it. I'm giving you inside information.'

‘Think about it,' repeated the Moldavian. ‘The way back is still open to you.'

He turned and started walking up the staircase.

I went outside and shuffled back to the car.

The way back
, I thought. But where to? Will there be anything left there?

Settled in the car, I raised my eyes to look at Ivan in the driving mirror. He smiled, artfully managing to keep up his resentful expression while doing so.

‘I was just thinking about life,' he said, almost suffocating me with the pungent aroma of mint pastilles. ‘And I thought up a Chinese proverb. Or maybe it's a quotation from Mao Zedong. Would you like to hear it?'

‘Tell me.'

‘However long you suck a dick, it will never make you an emperor.'

The argument was irrefutable, but the use of the verb ‘suck', even in this neutral context, bordered on the offensive. I suddenly realised he was drunk, and may have been since morning. Perhaps he had not been sober on any of our previous meetings. This frightened me. I had no idea what was in his mind.

‘Yes,' I said, cautiously leaning forward in my seat, ‘social mobility is definitely on the wane in our society. Yes, something really should be done about it. On the other hand … no, you're not going to be an emperor. But an empress, well, that might be possible …'

In the middle of the phrase my head jerked back in its accustomed manner. Then I leant back in my seat and spent a little while analysing Ivan's personality map.

There was nothing to fear there. Except a car crash. But Hera … How humiliating to flirt with a driver …

But then
, I thought scornfully,
what else would you expect? It's just an occupational habit …

THE LORD OF THIS WORLD

At eight o'clock in the morning Loki rang up to tell me that the duel had been scheduled for today.

‘We will come to you at eleven o'clock,' he said. ‘Make sure you're ready. And don't drink a lot of liquid.'

He hung up without waiting, and I had no time to ask for any details. When I tried to ring back, there was no reply.

In the remaining three hours my imagination worked at double speed.

Firearms or blades?

In my mind I tried to picture what it would feel like to be killed by a bullet. I thought it might be something like a blow from a white-hot rod. Vampires are forbidden to shoot one another in the head, so Mithra would aim at my stomach, as happened to Pushkin …

But what if rapiers were the chosen weapons? What does a man feel when skewered by a blade? Probably it is like being cut with a bread knife, only much deeper, as deep as the heart. I tried visualising this several times but each time, racked with anguish, abandoned the attempt.

However, neither these nor similar phantasmagoria terrified me; on the contrary I found them relatively calming. Nor was I particularly worried by alternatives like those special weapons I remembered Loki having spoken of. It was not the duel itself I had to fear.

The main threat, the one which was terrible to contemplate, would be embodied in Mithra's Duel Order. He might in truth be writing me a one-way ticket to a meeting with God, so that I could be about to find out for myself which of them had the right answer – Osiris or his red liquid provider. Even if such was not the penalty Mithra was planning to inflict, I was sure he would have devised some hideous abomination it would be better not to know about.
Thus is forged the will to victory
, as the old Red Army saying had it …

Half an hour before the appointed time I realised I had still not considered how I should dress for the occasion. Looking through the clothes in the wardrobe I found a black suit, jacket and trousers. It was slightly too big for me, but at least, I thought, it would not cramp my movements. I put on shoes with reinforced toecaps, not because I was seriously anticipating a physical fight, but just in case. Then I applied some gel to my hair, drank some whisky to give myself Dutch courage, settled myself in the chair and awaited my guests.

At eleven o'clock the doorbell rang.

Loki and Baldur were freshly shaved, smelling pleasingly of eau de cologne, and wearing expressions of ceremonious gravity. Loki was carrying a capacious black holdall.

‘We seem to have aroused a certain amount of suspicion,' he said cheerfully. ‘There was a policeman asking to see our papers – right here at the entrance to the flats.'

‘Yes, he looked like a canny old dog,' added Baldur, ‘as if he knew what was going on but could not say anything.'

I decided my own demeanour, too, should be high-spirited and jaunty.

‘I expect he thought you were estate agents. There are always undesirables of one kind and another prowling about here, sniffing for their prey. It's a nice, quiet neighbourhood right in the centre of the city.'

Baldur and Loki sat down in the armchairs.

‘Mithra wanted the duel to take place in a circus,' said Baldur.

‘Why?'

‘To point up the idiocy of the proceedings.'

‘Idiocy, is it?' said Loki. ‘It's rare enough these days that anyone shows a spark of self-respect and courage as in the old days. Nowadays this is classified as idiocy. Rama, you should be proud of yourself.'

Baldur winked at me.

‘With him,' he said, nodding towards Loki, ‘there are always two versions – one for the challenger and one for the challenged.'

I looked at Loki. There were traces of violet eyeshadow with gold specks on his left eyelid, the result of hastily removed make-up which could still be seen when he blinked. I supposed the rubber woman must have gone on maternity leave and he had had to act as a stand-in for her. Or perhaps he had simply been instructing someone else in his knee technique.

‘So, are we off to the circus?'

‘No,' said Baldur. ‘We weren't able to organise the circus. There's a new concept for the duel, a complete break with tradition.'

I felt the pit of my stomach protesting.

‘What is the concept?'

‘You have three guesses,' smirked Loki.

‘If it's a break with tradition,' I said, ‘I presume it's some unconventional form of weapon?'

Loki nodded agreement.

‘Poison?'

Loki shook his head.

‘Poison is not allowed. You should know that.'

‘Yes, I should,' I agreed. ‘Perhaps, then, let's see … what else could it be … electricity?'

‘Nothing of the sort. One last try.'

‘Will we have to strangle one another at the bottom of the Moscow River?'

‘All wide of the mark,' said Loki.

‘Well, what is it, then?'

Loki pulled over and opened up his holdall. I saw some equipment with wires coming out of it, and a laptop computer.

‘What's all that?'

‘News of your affair has leaked out,' said Loki. ‘Enlil and Marduk both know about it. As far as my information goes, the duel is taking place on account of a certain third party. We put our heads together to find a way of settling your stupid quarrel with minimal risk. It was decided that the duel should be fought remotely.'

‘How are we going to do that?' I asked.

‘You are both going to write a poem.'

‘A poem?'

‘Yes,' said Loki. ‘It was Enlil's idea, and I think an excellent one. A romantic dispute calls for a romantic resolution. This one brings to the foreground not the macho brutality of the death candy, but the refinements of spiritual disposition and depth of feeling.'

‘What will determine the outcome of the duel?' I asked. ‘I mean, how will it be decided who has won?'

‘For this purpose we decided to involve that very third party who was the cause of the quarrel being ignited. The victor's prize will be an immediate meeting with her. Neat, isn't it?'

I found it hard to share the enthusiasm. I would have preferred anything at all – Russian roulette, a fight with chessboards as weapons – to writing poetry. Versification and I were incompatible elements. I had put this to the test on a number of occasions.

Baldur decided to take a hand in the conversation.

‘What are you tormenting the boy for? Tell him exactly what the procedure is going to be.'

‘By all means,' agreed Loki. ‘So, according to the rules of the engagement you and your rival must each compose a poem. The form of the poem must be a vampiric sonnet.'

‘What is that?' I asked.

Loki looked enquiringly at Baldur.

‘Did we not tell you?' groaned Baldur. ‘What an omission. A vampiric sonnet is a poem consisting of twelve lines. Rhyme and metre, if any, are optional. The most important thing is that the last line must metaphorically suck, so to say, all the meaning out of the poem, expressing and encapsulating with maximum brevity the quintessence of the verse. The last line thus symbolises the process whereby red liquid is sublimated into
bablos
, which you then ritually present to the Mosquito Muse. Understand?'

‘Approximately,' I said.

‘But this is a lyric poetry convention, not a strict rule,' continued Baldur. ‘Each poet can decide for himself the manner in which he proposes to convey the sense of the whole poem in a single line. After all, only the author knows what it is, is that not so?'

Loki nodded importantly.

‘There's one other rule for the vampiric sonnet – it should be written as a reverse stairway. The result is a kind of ladder of meanings, symbolising the vampire's descent to the lowest essence. But actually that's not obligatory either.'

‘What do you mean by a reverse stairway? What would it look like?'

‘Like Mayakovsky,' said Baldur. ‘Only backwards.'

I had no idea what he had in mind, but did not press the matter since the rule was not mandatory in any case.

Loki looked at his watch.

‘It's time to begin. I'll get everything prepared. Why don't you go to the toilet? If you lose you will be paralysed for the next forty hours or so.'

He put the holdall on the table. I went out of the room and headed towards the bathroom.

Somewhere I had read that many great men had been visited by inspiration while sitting on the can. There seemed to be some truth in this because there it was that an idea came into my head, not an entirely ethical one but potentially very promising.

So great was its promise that I hesitated not a second, but set about putting it into practice with as little hesitation as a homeless person in the Metro would show before bending down to scoop up an accidentally dropped purse.

Coming back into the passage I tiptoed to the study, silently opened the door and hurried over to the escritoire. Opening it (unlike the filing cabinet it did not squeak), and trying not to make any noise with the glass, I took at random the first test tube I came across in the shambles there. It was the one labelled ‘Tyutchev + Internet slang'.
Just what the doctor ordered
, I thought, and tipped all the contents into my mouth.

‘Rama, where are you?' called Loki from the sitting room.

‘Coming,' I replied. ‘I'm closing the windows, just in case.'

‘Good idea.'

A few seconds later I went back into the sitting room.

‘Are you worried?' asked Baldur. ‘You look rather pale.'

I said nothing. I did not want to speak because, having taken such a massive overdose of the preparation, I could easily blurt out the wrong thing.

‘Now then,' said Loki. ‘Everything is ready.'

I looked at the table.

On it was a motley collection of objects: a laptop computer connected both to a mobile phone and to the box I had glimpsed in the holdall. This box was now equipped with a flashing red light, and laid out next to it was a black cloth ribbon with rubber bands and hooks. To the ribbon was attached a syringe with a cumbersome-looking electronic machine. Two wires led from the machine to the box with the red flashing light. In addition, on the table lay a clip of identical needles with green couplings.

‘What's all this for?' I asked.

‘It's for this,' said Loki. ‘See the syringe? It contains a tranquilliser. As I've already told you, it induces virtually total paralysis of the body for approximately forty hours. The syringe is controlled remotely by an electronic drive plugged into the computer. The poems will be sent instantly to the person of your mutual acquaintance, but she will not know which one is your work and which has been written by Mithra. When she has read them and chosen the winner, the result will be as instantly communicated back. At that point one of the servo motors connected to the syringes – either yours or the one on Mithra's arm – will be activated. After the injection the Duel Order will be proclaimed and immediately implemented. Any questions?'

‘No, it's all clear enough,' I answered.

‘Please then seat yourself at the computer.'

I did as I was told.

‘Roll up your sleeve …'

When I had done so, Loki moistened some cotton wool with spirit and began to rub the bend in my elbow.

‘I'm not feeling too well,' I droned limply.

I was not shamming. The truth was, though, that it had nothing to do with what was being done to me, but was the result of the preparation I had imbibed.

‘You brought all this on yourself,' said Loki. ‘You should have thought more about it beforehand. This part may hurt a bit – I'm just inserting this nice wee needle …'

‘Ow!' I recoiled involuntarily.

‘All right now, that's all. Don't move your arm for a while, let the bandage get secure … that's right …'

‘How am I going to type with my arm like this?'

‘Carefully and slowly, that's how. You have masses of time, you can type with one finger … Now look at the screen.'

I did so.

‘There is a clock in the top corner. The countdown will begin from the moment you and Mithra are given the subjects for the poems.'

‘Are the subjects different?'

‘We'll see. Each of you will have exactly half an hour. If either of you fails to complete his poem in the time available, that person will automatically be deemed to have lost. Are you ready?'

I shrugged.

‘I take it that means you are.'

Loki took out his mobile phone, dialled a number, and held the phone to his ear.

‘Everything all right at your end?' he asked. ‘Splendid. Then we'll begin.'

Replacing his phone, he turned to me.

‘The clock is ticking.'

Two rectangles appeared on the laptop's screen. The one on the left had ‘Mithra' written on it, the one on the right – ‘Rama'. Next, letters began appearing one by one in the rectangles, as if someone was typing. Mithra's subject was ‘The Mosquito'. Mine was ‘The Lord of This World'.

This was a bonus, because the poet Tyutchev, whose presence I had already been sensing for some time, had a good deal to say on this theme.

However, there was a problem. The only verbal clothing I could now find for my thoughts had become extraordinarily ugly and monotonous: Internet newspeak was a young language but already a dead one. However, the issue of form was one to be resolved later – first I had to sort out the content, and I immersed myself in contemplation of the spiritual horizons now opening before me.

I could not see anything at all about life in the nineteenth century. On the other hand, I immediately realised that now I knew what one very famous quatrain by Tyutchev was all about:

You cannot grasp her with the mind,
No common yardstick takes her measure.
Russia is of a special kind,
You only can believe her treasure.