Empire V (33 page)

It turned out that the poet had had almost the same vision as the creators of my favourite film trilogy
Aliens
.

In the film a more efficient form of life has developed inside another organism and after some time reveals itself in an original and unexpected way. Much the same happened in Russian history, except that the process occurred not just once but cyclically, as each successive monster hatched inside the stomach of its predecessor. Contemporaries in the various epochs sensed this, but did not always grasp clearly enough the true meaning of the events reflected in maxims such as ‘through the disintegrating inertia of the routine motions of the empire could be glimpsed the glowing contours of the new world'; ‘from the seventh decade of the twentieth century onwards Russia was pregnant with
perestroika
', and such-like rhetorical flourishes.

Russia's ‘special kindness' consisted in the unpredictable anatomy of the newborn creature. If Europe could be seen as a succession of identical personages trying desperately to adapt their decrepit frames to the fresh demands of the moment, Russia was eternally young – but her youth could only be maintained by wholesale rejections of her former identity, because each new monster at the moment of its birth ripped its predecessor into shreds, and (in accord with the laws of physics) began by being smaller but quickly gained weight. This alternative system of evolution was destructively spasmodic, as more thoughtful observers had perceived as far back as the nineteenth century. A Cartesian reason directed towards personal survival could hardly find anything reassuring in such a state of affairs, which was why the poet had said that Russia could only ‘be believed'.

The result of this insight was that I realised once again how much courage and will were required to be a vampire in our country. And I felt even more contempt for the Chaldean elite, those predatory carrion crows gobbling up the remains of the latest dismembered carcase and priding themselves that in so doing they were ‘controlling' or ‘regulating' something or other. Moreover, they too would soon face a confrontation with the newborn monster that for the time being was gathering strength and keeping out of sight somewhere among the bulkheads of the spaceship's baggage hold.

All these thoughts passed through my mind in, at most, a couple of minutes. Then I began to feel an ominously minatory warning in verse breaking out inside me, straining at the leash – and it was exactly on the prescribed theme.

I put down everything I could. It was not easy, because most constructions in Internet newspeak were of little use in pinning down the intricate spiritual images that were opening themselves to my mental vision, all other linguistic paradigms being blocked. Each word had to be laboriously dredged up from the deep recesses of my mind. The tropes I was obliged to choose were very approximate and demonstrably inferior to the refined imagery of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, there were instances of benefit to the expressivity of the verse. When I had typed it all out, I still had a good five minutes to concentrate my attention on what I had written.

This was the result:

NOUS OF ARCHONS 403

Why, OzzyMantis Hilton Paris,
Your laden's bong bin gucci grey?
Who are your Benny, Fishy, Aries?
OM NOM they dig your GDP?

Why do you stride in consequence
Squelching through mud, you head(less) honcho??
For whom swing you your stale incense?
Your Pale Horse! Your pinstripe poncho!

You're XJ now, the wind doth blow
The happy hayricks in your eyes
But don't chillax – through the slime below
The Lord Snake creeps – and crucifies.

I read through this bleak prophecy three times, checking and correcting any mistakes. I realised with some pride that I myself did not fully understand the poem as written. The only thing that was really clear was the provenance of the title: there is a Gnostic text, ‘The Hypostasis of the Archons', which we had gone through in one of the Discourse lessons. I remember thinking at the time what a good name it would be for a Moscow restaurateur (‘that darling of the Moscow bohemian crowd, Hypostas Archontov, is opening a glamorous new den:
Plato's Caveiar
'). And now the beam of the warrior muse had alighted on that memory.
Nous
was another Greek term, similar to hypostasis, for underlying reality.

I was particularly pleased with the twelfth line: the awe-inspiring meaning of the whole poem, foretelling the destruction of the King of Kings, Ruler of This World, by that same Gnostic snake with the head of a lion (or lion with the head of a snake,

what difference does it make?) was now, as required, distilled in a single line. Having said this, it could also refer to Ishtar herself because of her long serpent-like necks. But I suppressed the unpatriotic association.

It would also be difficult to ignore the Headless Horseman, mounted on one of the horses of the Apocalypse: thus two great motifs in human culture were able to meet in the mind of a simple Russian vampire and unobtrusively shake hands and hooves with one another.

Twenty seconds before the red second hand on my screen crossed the finishing line I clicked the ‘Send' button. I had done it.

The screen flickered and went dark. When it came to life again it was divided into two vertical sections. My poem could be seen on the right. The poem written by Mithra came up on the left. It looked like this:

MOSCowITO

    
                
Mosquito
    
                
on the palm
  
              
though very small,
    
            
from the proportions
              
of its body
    
        
is like a mighty warrior
          
now sunk in thought
    
    
With its tiny head
      
and torso long and round,
    
were he a man
  
he would be –
Hero.

Mithra had chosen the safe option.

This was without doubt a most ignoble way to fight – a scrupulously written, politically correct verse from a plodding careerist, reminiscent of those earnest reflections on the young Lenin from the culture of the last century. The mosquito always was for vampires what the
sakura
is to the Japanese – a symbol of beauty, consummate in its transience, flying by. It also had, so it seemed, a mystical subtext: the fresco in Enlil Maratovich's hamlet included a representation of the death of Count Dracula, a noble knight in black armour, from whose open breastplate could be seen flying off into the grey sky the humble mosquito of his soul.

The poem was written in the reverse stairway form Baldur had mentioned, and now that I saw it I at last understood what this was.

Even so, he had not completely succeeded in bringing off his twelfth line. That the mosquito is a hero, no one can deny. As the saying about Lenin goes, ‘he lived, he lives, he will live forever'. But syntactically it was not quite correct to write ‘he would be Hero'.

But then it dawned on me. Mithra was not merely describing the mosquito as a hero, he was making the association with Hera. Needless to say, despite the long, round body and the tiny head, this was an iron-clad compliment. It was tantamount to calling some ordinary girl an angel.

On the other hand, I thought bitterly, in my poem the main theme had been given poetical expression, in verse imbued with true lyric power. It touched on the most important strata of philosophy and
Weltanschauung
, and showed the drama of the human spirit. Above all, it fully reflected the culture and vitally important problems of contemporary civilisation …

But in my heart of hearts I already knew I had lost. Mithra's poem was better as any vampire would be forced to agree. My one remaining hope was that Hera would recognise some features of my style, and if she so wished …

The screen flickered again and I knew my fate was about to be decided. The side of the screen on which Mithra's poem was displayed went dark, and some writing appeared diagonally across the lines of verse, as if someone was scribbling on the monitor with a marker pen:

Mack
you!

But that's not necessarily conclusive, I thought, clinging obstinately to hope. A second later my half of the screen went dark, and across it splashed in flamboyantly lurid letters:

YJLTG JGL

I felt a slight twinge in the region of my elbow where the needle had gone under the skin, and thought I must have loosened the bandage with an awkward movement. I tried to fasten it with my free hand – but the hand would not obey. Then a wave of somehow involuntary fatigue flooded through my mind, and I took little or no further interest in the proceedings.

Of the next hour or two I can remember only disconnected glimpses. Baldur's and Loki's faces appeared before me a few times. Loki removed the needle from my arm and Baldur began to read out, in an officiously bureaucratic tone, Mithra's Duel Order. It went like this:

To Loki IX from Mithra VI.
Confidential

Duel Order

Rama the Second's conduct is stupid and insulting, but provokes only pity for him. In the event of my victory in this idiotic contest I request that he be tied to those Swedish bars from which some time ago I freed him in order to welcome him to our world. I further request that on a table before him be placed a computer monitor to which will be transmitted images from a camera attached to my tiepin. I wish Rama the Second to view every last detail of my encounter with that individual whose forbearance and goodwill he has so shamelessly abused. Two concerns motivate me. The first is that he should be made to understand how a civilised man should behave in the presence of a lady. The second is that, knowing Rama the Second's predilections for such spectacles, I wish to afford him some enjoyment. It is finally time for Rama the Second to abandon his alienating links with the Nazi air ace Rudel, through which he currently seeks solace from his solitude.

In this connection I am ready to meet God.

Mithra the Sixth

Even through the dark torpor of my trance this enraged me – but despite my fury I was unable even to lift one finger.

Loki and Baldur pulled me up out of the chair and carried me into the study. Both Nabokovs stared straight at me with immeasurable disgust, as if unable to forgive my defeat.

Baldur and Loki then bound me to the Swedish bars. I could scarcely feel them touching me; only when they twisted my arm too hard did I experience a dull sort of pain, as if through layers of cotton wool. Then Baldur left the room, and I remained alone with Loki.

Loki stood in front of me, and spent some time staring into my eyes, pulling up the lids with his finger. Then he pinched me hard in the stomach. This was extremely painful: the stomach was the one part of the body that evidently retained full sensitivity. I tried to cry out, but could not. Loki pinched me again, much harder this time. The pain was unbearable, but I had no way of reacting to it.

‘Fool!' said Loki. ‘Stupid, stupid fool! Who do you think you are, eh? What were you playing at with all that stuff about the “Nous of the Archons”? What are you, a real vampo or a woolly, layabout, left-wing dreamer? “The Lord of This World” and “The Mosquito” are the
same theme
! Exactly the same! Simply a different formulation. Did you really not grasp that?'

He then pinched me again, this time with such force that everything went dark before my eyes.

‘We were all so sure that you would win,' he went on. ‘All of us! We even gave you time to go into the study and choose whatever preparation you wanted. I staked my entire store of
bablos
on you – five whole grams. More than a whole lifetime's accumulation! You're a cheap little swine, that's what you are!'

I thought he was going to pinch me again, but instead he suddenly broke into sobs – an old man's weeping, feeble and hopeless. Then he wiped away the tears with his sleeve, along with the smeared mascara, and continued speaking, now in an almost affectionate tone:

‘You know what they say, Rama – everyone has a Prince of Denmark in his hamlet. It's quite understandable. But your prince has somehow set everyone's teeth on edge. Because of him, you've become a pain in the neck to everyone around you. It's high time you got over all that left-wing posturing. You've got to grow up. Because the road you're on now is going nowhere, I tell you that as your older comrade. You know they say there's a war between heaven and earth. Did you never think what it's about? I'll tell you. The war is because no one knows where earth is and where heaven is. There are two heavens, two heights fighting one another, each intent on turning the other upside down. When the matter is resolved the losing side will become earth. But until it is, nobody knows which way it will go. You are a field commander in this war, do you know that? The Lord of This World – that's you. But if you're not up to it, just go off into a distant trench by yourself and put a bullet in your head. Before you do, though, pass on the baton of the Tongue. And don't bother shooting yourself metaphorically in some stupid poem, do it for real. That's how it is …'

I breathed in deeply, and at that moment he pinched me with incredible force in the navel. The pain made me lose consciousness for several seconds – Loki had presumably eaten a death candy. When I came to, he was calmer.