Buddha's Little Finger

175 Pages·2001·1.37 MB·English

by  Victor Pelevin

Praise for Buddha's Little Finger
Televin's fine absurdist mind takes on a bit of his country's dubious
history and molds it into a Buddhist retelling, in which the plague of
doubt cultivated by Russia's past plays beautifully. All the while, his
story works with notions of personal and national identity, creating
a dream world of delightful intensity and literary cunning."
—San Francisco Chronicle
"The sharpest, most astute, and darkly witty Russian writer today."
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
"Pelevin has often been compared, quite rightly, to the science fiction
novelist Philip K. Dick ... he has a gift for making complicated philo
sophical arguments feel both urgent and humane."
—The New York Times Book Review
"Don't miss this book ... it is driven by the profoundest sense of
irony, fueled by Pelevin's awesome ability to dance with the absurd
. through all of it, there are immensely entertaining, more or-less
S( >eratic explorations of psychiatry, Marxism, cocaine, medical prac
tice, politics, vodka, spirituality, Marist theology, Western and Asian
philosophies, the Upanishads, Russian cultural nationalism."
—The Baltimore Sun
"A riotous eruption of a book .,. hypnotically interesting and highly
amusing . . . give yourself over to the wild enjoyment of joke after
joke, extreme situations, mayhem, murder, violent combat, a crazy
blend of Duck Soup and Gone with the Wind."
—The Seattle Times
"A wild, intellectual, crisp and tightly-woven novel that startles,
challenges, and delights . . . Pelevin doesn't fit into any category,
which is a characteristic of only the greatest writers."
—Houston Chronicle
"Marvelous . . . provides a spirited exploration of the Buddhist road
to enlightenment, of the borderland between history and its telling,
and of the nature of reality itself. . . . Buddlia's Little Finger flies the
reader to places never before imagined."
—Bookforum
" In a tale Gogol would be proud of, Pelevin trains his eye on a mythic
Russian figure and finds a terrifying nothingness there ... by far his
strongest work." —Time Out New York
PENGUIN BOOKS
BUDDHA'S LITTLE FINGER
Victor Pelevin was born in 1962 in Moscow, where he
lives today. His books include the novels Oman Ra and
The Life of Insects, the novella The Yellow Arrow, and the
story collections A Werewolf Problem in Central Russia and
The Blue Lantern, which won the Russian "Little Booker"
Prize in 1993. Pelevin's new novel, Homo Zapiens, will be
published by Viking in February of 2002.
Buddha's Little Finger
VICTOR PELEVIN
translated by Andrew Bromfield
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,
Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Gazing at the faces of the horses and the people, at this bound
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England less stream of life raised up by the power of my will and now
First published in the United States of America by Viking Penguin, hurtling into nowhere across the sunset-crimson steppe, I often
a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 2000
think: where am I in this flux?
Published in Penguin Books 2001
GHENGIS KHAN
5 7 9 10 8 6 4
Copyright © Victor Pelevin, 1996
Translation copyright © Andrew Bromfield, 1999
All rights reserved
Originally published in Russia under the title Chapaev I Pustota.
Published in Great Britain by Faber and Faber as The Clay Machine Gun.
An extract from Chapter 6 first appeared in Granta: Russia, The Wild East, 1998.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED
THE HARDCOVER EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Pelevin, Viktor.
[Chapaev i Pustota. English]
Buddha's little finger / Victor Pelevin; translated by Andrew Bromfield.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-670-89168-1 (he.)
ISBN 978-0-14-100232-3 (pbk.)
1. Bromfield, Andrew. II. Title
PG3485.E38 C4813 2000
891.73'44~--dc21 99-089565
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Palatino
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the
condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via
any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and
punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do
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support of the author's rights is appreciated.
PREFACE
For numerous reasons the name of the true author of this
manuscript, written during the early 1920s in one of the
monasteries of Inner Mongolia, cannot be mentioned, and it
is published here under the name of the editor who prepared
it for publication. This version does not include the descrip
tions of a number of magical procedures which figured in the
original, nor does it retain the narrator's rather lengthy rem
iniscences of his life in pre-revolutionary St Petersburg (the
so-called Petersburg Period). The author's definition of the
genre of the work as 'a peculiar flight of free thought' has also
been omitted: it would seem quite clear that it can only be re
garded as a joke.
The story narrated by the author is of interest as a psycho
logical journal which, while it undoubtedly possesses a num
ber of artistic virtues, makes absolutely no claim to anything
beyond that, although at times the author does undertake to
discuss topics which, in our view, are in no need of discus
sion. The somewhat spasmodic nature of the narrative re
flects the fact that the intention underlying the writing of this
text was not to create a 'work of literature', but to record the
mechanical cycles of consciousness in such a way as to
achieve a complete and final cure for what is known as 'the
inner life'. Furthermore, in two or three places, the author ac
tually attempts to point directly to the mind of the reader,
rather than force him to view yet another phantom con
structed out of words; unfortunately this is far too simple a
task for his attempts to prove successful. Literary specialists
will most likely perceive nothing more in our narrative than
yet another product of the critical solipsism which has been
so fashionable in recent years, but the true value of this docu
ment lies in the fact that it represents the first attempt in the
PREFACE XI
x PREFACE
history of culture to embody in the forms of art the Mongo describe. In addition, it should be noted that although Mr
lian Myth of the Eternal Non-Return. Furmanov did meet the historical Chapaev on at least two oc
Let us briefly introduce the main hero of the book. The ed casions, he could not possibly have been the author of this
itor of this text once read me a tanka written by the poet book, for reasons which will emerge in the course of our nar
Pushkin: rative. It is therefore hard to credit that even now many peo
ple regard the text ascribed to him as virtually a documentary
And yet this year of gloom, which carried off
account.
So many victims brave and good and beautiful,
In fact, it is not difficult to detect behind this forgery, now
Is scarce remembered even
more than seventy years old, the activity of well-financed and
In some simple shepherd's song
highly active forces which were interested in concealing the
Of sweet and soft lament.
truth about Chapaev from the peoples of Eurasia for as long
In translation into Mongolian the phrase 'brave victim' has a as possible. However, the very discovery of the present man
strange ring to it; however, this is not the proper place to ex uscript seems to us a clear indication that the balance of
plore that theme, and we merely wished to point out that the power on the continent has shifted.
final three lines of this verse could well be a reference to the To conclude, we have altered the title of the original text
story of Vasily Chapaev. (which was 'Vasily Chapaev') precisely in order to avoid any
What is now known about this man? As far as we are able confusion with the aforementioned fake. The title 'Buddha's
to judge, in the memory of the common people his image has Little Finger' has been chosen as being adequately indicative
assumed the features of pure myth, and Chapaev is now of the major theme, while not overly suggestive, although
Russian folklore's closest equivalent of the famous Khadji the editor did suggest another alternative, 'The Garden of
Nasruddin: he is the hero of an infinite number of jokes de the Divergent Petkas'.
rived from a famous film of the 1930s, in which Chapaev is We dedicate the merit created by this text to the good of all
represented as a Red cavalry commander fighting against the living creatures.
White army, who engages in long, heart-to-heart conversa Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha
tions with his adjutant Petka and his machine-gunner Anka
and finally drowns while attempting to swim across the Ural —Urgan Jambon Tulku VII
river during a White attack. All this, however, bears ab Chairman of the Buddhist Front
solutely no relation whatsoever to the life of the real Chapaev for Full and Final Liberation (FFL (b))
- or if there is some relation, then the true facts have been dis
torted beyond all recognition by conjecture and innuendo.
This tangled web of confusion originated with the book
Chapaev, which was first printed in French by a Paris publish
ing house in 1923 and then reprinted with unaccountable
haste in Russia: we shall not waste any time on demonstrat
ing the book's lack of authenticity. Anyone who wishes to
make the effort will discover in it a mass of discrepancies and
contradictions, while the very spirit of the book is the best
possible proof that the author (or authors) had absolutely no
involvement with the events which they endeavour in vain to
Buddha's Little Finger
1
Tverskoi Boulevard was exactly as it had been when 1 last
saw it, two years before. Once again it was February, with
snowdrifts everywhere and that peculiar gloom which some
how manages to infiltrate the very daylight. The same old
women were perched motionless on the benches; above
them, beyond the black latticework of the branches, there was
the same grey sky, like an old, worn mattress drooping down
towards the earth under the weight of a sleeping God.
Some things, however, were different. This winter the av
enues were scoured by a blizzard straight off the steppes, and
I should not have been in the least surprised to have come
face to face with a pair of wolves during the course of my
walk. The bronze Pushkin seemed a little sadder than usual -
no doubt because his breast was covered with a red apron
bearing the inscription: 'Long Live the First Anniversary of
the Revolution/. I felt not the slightest inclination for ironical
comment on the fact that the cheers were intended for an
event which could not by definition last longer than a single
day - just recently I had been afforded more than ample op
portunity to glimpse the demonic face concealed behind such
lapidary absurdities inscribed on red.
It was beginning to get dark, but I could still make out
Strastnoi Monastery through the snowy haze. On the square
in front of it were two open trucks, their tall side walls tightly
strung with bright scarlet material; there was a crowd jostling
around them and the orator's voice carried to where I stood. I
could scarcely make out anything of what he said, but the
general meaning was clear enough from his intonation and
the machine-gun rattle of the V in the words 'proletariat' and
'terror'. Two drunken soldiers walked past me, the bayonets
on their rifles swaying behind their shoulders. They were
2 VICTOR PELEVIN BUDDHA'S LITTLE FINGER 3
hurrying towards the square, but one of them fixed his slow and solemn, but he makes rapid progress, and the three-
brazen gaze on me, slowed his pace and opened his mouth as headed dog barking soundlessly in pursuit has no chance of
though about to say something; fortunately - for him and for overtaking him. I laughed quietly, and at that very moment a
me - his companion tugged him by the sleeve and they hand slapped me on the shoulder.
walked on. I stepped to one side and swung round sharply, feeling for
I turned and set off down the incline of the boulevard, the handle of the revolver in my pocket, when to my amaze
guessing at what it was in my appearance that constantly ment I saw before me the face of Grigory Vorblei, an aquain-
aroused the suspicions of all these scum. Of course, I was tance from childhood. But, my God, his appearance! He was
dressed in outrageously bad taste; I was wearing a dirty coat dressed from head to toe in black leather, a holster with a
cut in the English style with a broad half-belt, a military cap Mauser dangled at his hip, and in his hand he was clutching
(naturally, without the cockade) like the one that Alexander II a ridiculous kind of obstetrician's travelling bag.
used to wear, and officer's boots. But it did not seem to be just T'm glad you're still capable of laughter,' he said.
a matter of my clothes. There were, after all, plenty of other 'Hello, Grisha/ 1 said, 'how strange to see you.'
people around who looked far more absurd. On Tverskaya 'Why strange?'
Street, for instance, I had seen a completely insane gentleman 'It just is strange.'
wearing gold-rimmed spectacles holding an icon ahead of 'Where have you come from?' he asked in a cheerful voice.
him as he walked towards the black, deserted Kremlin, but no 'And where are you going?'
one had paid him the slightest attention. Meanwhile, I was all 'From Petersburg/1 replied. 'As for where I'm going, I'd be
the time aware of people casting sidelong glances at me, and glad if I knew that myself.'
on each occasion I was reminded that I had neither money nor 'Then come to my place,' said Vorblei, 'I'm living just near
documents about my person. The previous day, in the water- by, with an entire flat all to myself.'
closet at the railway station, I had tried sticking a red bow on As we walked on down the boulevard we exchanged
my chest, but I removed it as soon as I caught sight of my re glances, smiles and meaningless snatches of conversation.
flection in the cracked mirror; with the ribbon I looked not Since the time of our last meeting, Vorblei had grown a beard
merely stupid, I looked doubly suspicious. which made his face look like a sprouting onion, and his
It is possible, of course, that no one was actually directing cheeks had grown weathered and ruddy, as though his
their gaze at me any more than at anyone else, and that my health had benefited greatly from several consecutive winters
tight-strung nerves and the anticipation of arrest were to of ice-skating.
blame for everything. I did not feel any fear of death. Per We had studied in the same grammar school, but since
haps, I thought, it had already happened, and this icy boule then we had seen each other only rarely. I had encountered
vard along which I was walking was merely the threshold of him a couple of times in the literary salons of St Petersburg -
the world of shadows. I had realized long before that Russian he had taken to writing verse in a contrary style which was
souls must be fated to cross the Styx when it is frozen, with only heightened by its obvious self-satisfaction. I was rather
their fare collected not by a ferryman, but by a figure garbed irritated by his manner of sniffing cocaine in public and his
in grey who hires out a pair of skates - the same spiritual constant hints at his connections in social-democratic circles;
essence, naturally. however, to judge from his present appearance, the hints
Suddenly I could picture the scene in the finest of detail: must have been true. It was instructive to see someone who at
Count Tolstoy in black tights, waving his arms about, skates one time was quite adept at expounding the mystical signifi
over the ice towards the distant horizon - his movements are cance of the Holy Trinity now sporting the unmistakable
4 VICTOR PELEVIN BUDDHA'S LITTLE FINGER 5
signs of belonging to the hosts of evil. But then, of course, on which there was a clearly defined lighter coloured rectan
there was really nothing surprising in this transformation: gular area which showed where a name plaque had once
many decadents, such as Mayakovsky, sensing the clearly in been. He opened the door, and we went into a dark hallway
fernal character of the new authority, had hastened to offer when a telephone on the wall immediately began to jangle.
their services to it. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that they Vorblei picked up the receiver. 'Yes, comrade Babayasin,'
were not motivated by conscious satanism - they were too in he roared into the ebony cup of the mouthpiece. 'Yes, I re
fantile for that - but by aesthetic instinct: after all, a red pen member . . . No, don't send them . . . Comrade Babayasin, I
tagram does complement a yellow blouse so marvellously can't do that, it will look ridiculous ... Just imagine - with the
well. sailors, it will be a disgrace ... What? I will follow orders, but
'How are things in Petersburg?' asked Vorblei. I must register a vigorous protest... What?'
'As if you didn't know/ He glanced sideways at me and, not wishing to embarrass
'That's right/ agreed Vorblei, suddenly seeming to lose in him, I went through into the lounge.
terest. T do know.' The floor there was covered with newspapers - most of
We turned off the boulevard, crossed the roadway and them banned long ago. I supposed there must have been files
found ourselves in front of a seven-storey apartment house. It of them left behind in the flat. Other traces of the place's for
was directly opposite the Palace Hotel, in front of which two mer life were also visible: there was a delightful Turkish car
machine-gun installations were visible; they were manned by pet hanging on the wall and below it stood a secretaire
sailors smoking cigarettes, and a red flag flapped in the wind decorated with enamel rhomboids of various colours. As
at the end of a long stick. soon as I saw it I realized that a well-to-do bourgeois family
Vorblei tugged at my sleeve. 'Look over there/ he said. must have lived there. A large mirror stood against the oppo
I turned my head. On the street outside the entrance to the site wall. Beside it hung a crucifix in the art-nouveau style,
house stood a black limousine with a tiny cabin for passen and for a moment I pondered the nature of the religious feel
gers and open front seats, on which the snow had piled up. ing which might correspond to such a work of art. A consid
'What?' I asked. erable part of the space was occupied by an immense bed
'It's mine/ said Vorblei. 'It goes with the job.' under a yellow canopy. The items that stood on the round
'Ah/ I said, 'congratulations.' table in the centre of the room seemed to me - possibly be
We entered the apartment building. The lift was not work cause of their proximity to the crucifix ~ to be a still-life com
ing and we had to make our way up a dark staircase, from posed of esoteric Christian motifs: a large bottle of vodka, a
which the carpet runner had not yet been ripped away. halvah tin shaped like a heart, a staircase leading into empti
'What is it that you do?' I asked. ness constructed out of pieces of black bread laid one on top
'Oh/ said Vorblei, 'it's not something I can explain in a few of another, three tooth glasses and a cross-shaped can-
words. There's really a lot of work - too much, in fact. First opener.
one thing, then another, and then something else, and all the Lying on the floor beside the mirror was a pile of packages
time you have to try to keep up. First one place, then another. whose shapes put me in mind of contraband; a sour smell of
Someone has to do it all.' leg-wrappings and stale drink hung in the air, and there were
'In the cultural line, is it?' also a great many empty bottles in the room. I sat on the table.
He inclined his head to one side in a rather indefinite fash Shortly afterwards the door squeaked open and Vorblei
ion. I did not try to ask any more questions. came in. He took off his leather jacket, exposing an emphati
When we reached the fifth floor we approached a tall door cally military tunic.