Over the next few days I did not see any vampires. I was reluctant to speak to Hera on the telephone; I was even afraid she might ring me, because now she had bitten me I felt exposed not merely as an emperor with no clothes but as a stripped bare pretender with a rude word tattooed on his back. I was especially ashamed of having been caught trying to grandstand before her.
In my mind I kept going through what she would have been able to see: how the photographic image of myself as a world-weary demon with a signet ring had been achieved, a memory which now made me writhe. Then I had only to think of how, at the same time, I had used her photograph, to begin shaking with anguish.
‘Mwah, mwah,’ I muttered to myself, ‘bloody mwah mwah to the lot of you.’ So intense was my suffering that as often happens, the resultant catharsis, when it came, proved to be emotionally valuable, shining a light not just on the source of my pain but on the whole context that had brought it about. I wrote in my notebook:
The compulsion to relentless and pointless posturing is a widespread Russian disease to which vampires also are not immune. It stems not so much from the vulgarity of our national character as from a combination of European refinement and Asiatic oppression, a combination in which is to be found the essential characteristic of our life. The Russian, in carpeting the area with his airs and disgraces, is not trying to show that he is better than the people to whom he struts his stuff. It’s just the opposite. He is calling out, ‘See! I’m just like you! I also have a claim on happiness. You must not despise me because life has been so cruel to me!’ Only through compassion is it possible to gain a true understanding of this condition.
My words about compassion came, of course, from rhetorical inertia. Compassion was an emotion that surfaced only rarely in me – although, like all vampires, I was sure that I fully deserved it from others. Alas, in common with human beings, we are bad at seeing ourselves from the outside.
I spent the time mooching about, visiting restaurants and clubs. Once or twice I bought drinks for girls I did not know, and tried to engage them in deeply meaningful conversation, but each time I lost interest in the proceedings when it was clearly time to progress to a more specific stage.
This may have been because I was not yet ready to put Loki’s instructions into practice. But more likely it was because none of them looked enough like Hera … This led me to reflect whether, supposing I were to meet a girl who did remind me enough of Hera, I would in fact act as Loki had taught me. In short, so confused was I on the personal front that I probably ought to have consulted a psychotherapist.
As often happens, I compensated for my inner turmoil by going on an excessive buying spree. In those few days I purchased a pile of schmutter in Archetypique Boutique and even, having correctly guessed the make of car – a yellow Lamborghini Diablero – featured in ‘Wheelbarrow No. 2’, went so far as to qualify for a discount on a ‘Days of the Week 7-Pack Top Executive’ set of silk ties.
All this time I was filled with a premonition that I was soon to face a new ordeal, one more serious than its predecessors. As soon as the premonition had acquired sufficient density and bulk, it materialised in the shape of Mithra. He arrived in the morning, with no preliminary telephone call. By this time most of my anger towards him had evaporated.
‘I didn’t expect this of you,’ I said. ‘Why did you tell Hera all that?’
He was taken aback.
‘All what?’
‘About the “Rudel ZOO” preparation. You told her I drank it all.’
‘I didn’t say that at all,’ said Mithra. ‘We were talking about various unusual preparations, and I mentioned it as one you had inherited. Regarding you scoffing the lot, she worked that out for herself. Hera is extraordinarily perceptive.’
‘You had no business saying anything to her about it at all. Couldn’t you see that?’
‘I do now. Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘We are bidden to go to see Enlil Maratovich. Today is a busy day, and night as well. In the afternoon you are to be presented to the Goddess. In the evening there will be a party.’
‘What sort of party?’
‘It’s a ritual evening celebrating the friendship between vampires and Chaldeans. To put it in a nutshell, cunning and inhuman creatures organise a get-together at which each side tries to persuade the other that they are filled with open-hearted goodwill to which no human feeling can be a stranger …’
‘Who will be there?’
‘Of those whom you know, your teachers. Oh, and also your classmate. I’m sure you’re missing her.’
‘You mean Hera’s going to be there?’ I asked nervously.
‘What’s Hera got to do with it?’
‘Whom are you referring to then?’
‘Loki’s going to bring along his rubber woman … Oh, goodness, what a look! I’m all shrivelled up, ha ha! Not for you, you fool, it’s just tradition. Sort of a joke. You’d better go and get changed now.’
Leaving Mithra in the sitting room, I went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Since my walk with Hera, the matching outfits I had bought from the mannequin aroused a feeling of revulsion in me. I now looked on them as a themed exhibit from a museum of Darwinism: the mating feathers of a parrot that had failed to make the natural selection cut. I dressed completely in black with a cotton t-shirt under my jacket.
I’m actually quite pleased Hera isn’t going to be there, I thought. She might run away with the idea she has too much influence over my taste …
Mithra’s verdict was encouraging.
‘You look like a real vampire now,’ was his comment.
He too was dressed in black, but with considerably more chic than I. Under his tuxedo he had on a black shirt front and a tiny scarlet moiré bow tie. He smelled fragrantly of ‘New World Odour’ eau de cologne from Gap. The combined effect was of a gypsy baron who had graduated from Yale.
Down below the same car that had brought Hera and me from Enlil Maratovich’s house was waiting for us – a black limousine of unknown make. I recognised the chauffeur behind the wheel. When we got in to the car he gave me a polite smile in the mirror. We set off, and Mithra pressed a button to make the glass screen rise up, cutting us off from the driver.
‘Who are the Chaldeans?’ I asked.
‘Members of an organisation which functions as an interface between the world of vampires and the world of people. Their official title is “The Chaldean Society”.’
‘Why do we need them?’
‘Human beings have to be kept on a tight rein. That’s what the Chaldeans do. They are our enforcement agency. They have been doing the job for thousands of years.’
‘Do they control people?’
‘Yes. Through the organs of the power structure, which they infiltrate. Chaldeans control all the levers of social status. No one can rise further than their allotted career level without their say-so.’
‘I see. A Masonic conspiracy? World government?’
‘Something like that,’ smiled Mithra. ‘Human conspiracy theory is actually extremely useful to us. People are aware that somewhere out there, there exists some kind of a secret society that controls everything. But who and what exactly this society is, has been hotly debated since time immemorial. And as you will appreciate, the arguments will continue for ever and a day.’
‘Why do Chaldeans submit to the authority of vampires?’
‘Tradition. Things have always been like that.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked, surprised.
‘How else could it be? The power of any king depends entirely on the fact that he was also king yesterday. When he wakes up in bed in the morning, he has no levers of power or strings in his hand that he can pull. Any servant coming into the bedroom can wring his neck.’
‘Do you mean people could … wring our necks?’
‘Theoretically, yes,’ replied Mithra. ‘But in practice it’s very unlikely. All fundamental values would vanish along with us. Humanity would be left without a skeleton.’
‘Values, skeletons … that’s all just talk,’ I said. ‘You can’t keep people down with restraints like that today. Don’t we have any real control?’
‘In the first place, tradition. That is a very real medium of control, believe me. Secondly, we keep the Chaldeans on a lead, and we control their red liquid. We are privy to all their thoughts, and that creates an indelible impression on people. They cannot hide anything from us. Human beings are suckers for all kinds of inside information. We can, so to speak, bring it to the outside for them. This is the basic material we trade with human beings in return for their services.’
‘How is it that people know nothing of this?’
‘What do you mean, people know nothing of it? Of course they know, and have done for a very long time. For instance, for many centuries the Privy Counsellors of the Kings of England were known as “Lord-Tasters” – now you understand what the phrase means. They’re even mentioned in the history textbooks. Of course, what is written there is ridiculous, that they were supposed to have tasted the King’s food to make sure that it hadn’t been poisoned. Nice job for a Lord. Might as well make a bit of extra cash cleaning up the loo … We know it’s impossible to dam up every single leak of information, but what we can do is make sure that it is scrambled so as to be unintelligible. People think we are far more supernatural beings than we really are. That helps. Proximity to the abyss seems to addle their brains. The funny thing is that by comparison with the abyss people have themselves fallen into, ours is quite shallow …’
I thought back to the chasm over which I had flown during the Great Fall. Which was in fact deeper – the black well of Heartland at the point where I had just begun to descend into it, or the yawning pit of the supermarket where I had worked as an unloader? It wasn’t just a matter of the supermarket – any life choice available to a young person of my age was a rabbit hole leading straight to the dark pit below. The only variation was in the steepness of the corridor’s decline. If one really thought it out, it was people, not vampires, who were hanging upside down, and what they thought of as height was in reality the abyss …
‘Chaldeans,’ I muttered, ‘Chaldeans … I seem to remember something about them in Discourse … weren’t they the inhabitants of Babylon? Or are they what criminals call a waiter?’
‘I don’t know about waiters. But you’re right about Babylon. The Chaldean society arose in Babylon, and that is where its name comes from. They have existed since the time of the New Babylon Kingdom, at which time the town was ruled by the Chaldean dynasty. Incidentally, it is in this same Near Eastern tradition that we find the first mention of the Tree of Life.’
‘Tree of Life? What is that?’
‘It is where the Great Goddess lives. Different religions have different opinions about which part of it she actually lives in – the trunk or the branches, but every country has such a tree.’
‘You mean, it is imported to each country from somewhere else?’
‘The exact opposite. Every individual human nation takes root where there is a Tree of Life – around it, so to say – together with its language and culture. At the same time, however, all Trees of Life are one and the same tree.’
‘And who is the Great Goddess?’
Mithra laughed. ‘You’ll find out this evening,’ he said. ‘I can promise you she will make a very strong impression on you.’
I felt a tremor of alarm, but decided not to show it.
‘All the same,’ I said, ‘I still can’t understand how it is that a secret company of people who control society’s upward mobility are content to work for vampires. Why would they work for anyone except themselves?’
‘I told you. Their souls are an open book to us.’
‘Oh, come on! All it would take is one St Bartholomew’s Night and nobody anywhere will ever read anything again. If the Chaldeans have enough power to control this whole nuclear-financial snake pit, why should they bow the knee to anyone? People nowadays are very pragmatic. The higher they haul themselves up by exercising their levers of power, the more pragmatic they become. Respect for tradition doesn’t drive anything much these days.’
Mithra sighed.
‘You understand it all very well. Nevertheless, the people at the very top of the human chain protect the Great Goddess, and their reasons are entirely pragmatic. Pragmatism, you see, can be defined as concentrating attention on the practical achievement of a goal. Without a goal, there can be no such thing as pragmatism. And it is thanks to the Great Goddess that the goal becomes visible to people.’
‘In what way?’
‘Enlil Maratovich will explain that to you.’
‘What’s bablos? Could you at least tell me what that consists of?’
Mithra winced as if in pain.
‘To Enlil!’ he called out and waved his arms about furiously, as if warding off a host of bats.
The driver glanced back, evidently having heard something through the glass divide or seen Mithra’s movements. I turned and looked out of the window.
Behind the window passed, repassed and disappeared block after block of eighteen-storey apartment buildings, the construction boom sites of the Soviet era’s sunset. I had arrived in the Soviet Union just as it was preparing finally to fade from view. I was too small to understand what was happening, but I could still remember the sounds and colours of the time. Soviet power had brought these buildings into existence, shipped in the people to live in them, and then suddenly ceased to be. The whole process seemed to embody a kind of tentative plea for forgiveness.
What was odd, however, was that the people were still there in the same old concrete boxes of their Soviet homes. But broken now were the invisible threads that used to bind them to each other, and following years of zero-gravity drifting, they were being drawn into another, very different pattern. The world was now an unrecognisable place, even though there was no technological device capable of tracking the changes that had taken place. I found something stupendous about this. If such things could take place before my very eyes, why should I be so astounded by what Mithra was saying?
I knew that we were nearing Enlil Maratovich’s house when I began to see glimpses of pine trees through the windows. We slowed down and the wheels bumped over one sleeping policeman, then another. We passed through a raised barrier, which I had not noticed last time, and stopped at gates in the high encircling wall. The wall I did remember, but not the gateway through it.
This was a substantial structure built of bricks in three shades of yellow, forming a complicated but unobtrusive decorative pattern. It occurred to me that such a gateway might have been a back entrance to Babylon. The two sections of the gates, made of something like the armour of a tank, slowly opened, and we drove in.
The road led down into the underground garage from which we had emerged last time, but instead we turned off into a side alley, passing along an avenue of ancient pines. We found ourselves in an open space filled with parked cars, several of which had flashing beacons mounted on the roof. The car drew to a halt; the chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for us.
I could see nothing resembling a house in the normal sense of the word. In front of us was a series of asymmetrical white surfaces rising straight out of the ground. In the nearest of them was a door, up to which led wide stone steps.
On one side of the steps was a beautiful waterfall of unusual design, resembling a stretch of river: the water ran down over wide ledges and disappeared into a concrete trench. Anchored in the stream were boats of different colours carved from stone. In every boat sat a stone knight, and a stone lady with a fan. It was evidently an ancient Chinese sculpture. Only the boats still had their original colour; from their occupants it had almost completely vanished. I noticed that the gentlemen were of two types: the first wore expressions of serious concentration, their hands grasped oars and they were rowing. The other kind raised broadly smiling faces to the sky and held lutes in their hands. They did not seem to think this particular crossing merited the effort of rowing. The ladies in all the boats were all alike: intense, dignified. The only differences between them lay in their stone coiffures and the shape of the fans they held in their hands.
‘Crossing, crossing, river crossing.’ I recalled the old wartime verses which promised: ‘to some – the memory, some – the glory, and to some – the pitch-dark flood …’ In fact for none of them was there any difference at all – the poet was being smoothly politic – but at the time probably no other sentiment could have been published.
Mithra and I climbed the steps. ‘Enlil’s house is very unusual,’ he said. ‘It’s basically a multilevel dugout with see-through ceilings.’
‘Why would he want to build it like that?’
‘He says there is no peace when there are people the other side of the wall. But when it is mother earth, one sleeps better … He’s a traditionalist.’
As soon as we came up to the door it opened. We walked past a liveried footman (I had never in my life seen one before) and along a winding corridor, to find ourselves in a large circular hall.
It was a very beautiful, airy room, full of light streaming through the clear segments of the ceiling and falling on a floor of tiles laid out in a complex geometric design. The decoration was classically restrained, with pictures and tapestries hanging on the walls separated by busts of philosophers and emperors from the ancient world – I recognised Socrates, Caesar, Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius. Judging by a couple of missing noses, they were originals.
One surprising detail was the fireplace in one of the walls: despite its imposing dimensions it was obviously too small to heat this immense space. Either the architect had miscalculated, or it was some kind of modishly recherché feature – the gates of hell, for instance. In a semicircle round the fireplace were several protectively covered armchairs. A small stage protruded from the wall on the opposite side, and in the centre of the room stood several tables laid out for a buffet supper.
I saw Enlil Maratovich, Baldur, Loki and Jehovah, but no one else I knew. I was particularly struck by the huge, red-haired man with an air of menacing authority standing beside Enlil Maratovich. However, his complexion was too ruddy for a vampire.
While Baldur, Jehovah and Loki confined their greeting to a nod of the head from afar, Enlil Maratovich advanced on me to shake my hand. After him the red-haired giant also extended his hand, and held my palm in his for some time.
‘Marduk,’ he said.
‘Marduk Semyonovich,’ corrected Enlil Maratovich, and raised one eyebrow meaningfully. I understood that I should treat the redhead with as much respect as I would Enlil Maratovich himself.
‘Ah me,’ sighed Marduk, shaking my hand and gazing penetratingly into my eyes, ‘the things you do to us, you youngsters …’
‘What are we doing, exactly?’ I asked.
‘Chasing us to an early grave,’ responded the redhead bitterly. ‘It’s the changing of the guard, time for us old-timers to leave the square …’
‘That’s quite enough of that, Marduk,’ laughed Enlil Maratovich. ‘You have plenty of sucking to do before you come to your grave. But the young are certainly pushing me in that direction. I only understand about half of the words they use.’
The ginger giant finally let go of my hand.
‘No one’s ever going to push you into a grave, Enlil,’ he said. ‘You moved there yourself while you were still alive, ha ha. That’s where we all are now. Very farsighted … Well, shall we begin?’
Enlil Maratovich nodded.
‘Then I shall admit the Chaldeans,’ said Marduk Semyonovich. ‘You have five minutes to get everything ready.’ He turned and made for the doors.
I looked inquiringly at Enlil Maratovich.
‘Now for our little ceremonial opening to the proceedings,’ he said. ‘Did Mithra explain to you who the Chaldeans are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent.’
He took my elbow and steered me towards the stage with the microphone.
‘Your presentation today will be in two parts,’ he said. ‘First you must welcome our Chaldean guests.’
‘What do I have to say?’
‘Say whatever you like. You’re a vampire. The world belongs to you.’
My face visibly failing to reflect particular enthusiasm for the part I was down to play, Enlil Maratovich relented.
‘Well, tell them you are glad to be in their company. Talk about the historic succession of the ages and how they are linked, but use vague language so that you don’t inadvertently blurt something out. It doesn’t really matter what you say. What you do next is much more important.’
‘What is that?’
‘You must bite a Chaldean and prove to the others that you have gone deep into his soul. This is a truly serious responsibility. They must be convinced anew that they are unable to conceal anything from us.’
‘Whom do I have to bite?’
‘The Chaldeans choose the victim themselves.’
‘When does this happen? Right now?’
‘No. Later, at night. It’s a traditional number in our celebrations. It’s supposed to look like a bit of a turn, a party trick. But in fact it is the most serious part of the evening.’
‘And will this Chaldean be happy to let me bite him?’
‘That should not concern you. The main thing is that you should be prepared.’
Enlil Maratovich’s words hinted at a completely novel emotional condition, one composed of pride, confidence, detachment. It was a mental disposition I imagined proper to a Nietzschean superman, and I was ashamed that I could not measure up to this high standard but was obliged at each step to keep asking questions like a first-grade schoolboy.
We climbed up on to the stage. It was a small platform, enough to accommodate an instrumental trio or mini jazz combo. It had a microphone, two spotlights and some loudspeaker cabinets. On the wall was a dark panel, which from some distance away I had taken to be part of the music amplification set-up.
In fact it had nothing to do with music.
It was an ancient bas-relief with a half-effaced carving, attached to the wall by metal brackets. In the centre, above a crudely represented surface of the earth, was an image of a tree with large, round fruits, resembling either eyes with lashes or perhaps apples with teeth. Surrounding the tree were figures, a wolf on one side, a woman bearing a goblet on the other. Round the edge of the panel were carved figures of legendary creatures, one of which resembled a vampire in flight. In the spaces between them were lines of cuneiform script.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘It’s an illustration to the Epic of Gilgamesh,’ replied Enlil Maratovich. ‘There is a mention in it of the Tree of Life. That is what you see.’
‘What has the woman got in the cup she is bearing? Could it be bablos?’
‘Aha,’ said Enlil Maratovich, ‘you’ve heard about that, have you?’
‘Yes, out of the corner of my ear. I know it’s a drink made from money, and all …’
Enlil Maratovich nodded. He seemed reluctant to expand on the subject.
‘Is that a vampire?’ I asked, indicating the winged creature in the corner of the panel.
‘Yes,’ said Enlil Maratovich. ‘This bas-relief is a sacred object of Chaldean society. It is nearly four thousand years old. In times of old one like it would be found in every temple.’
‘Are any Chaldean temples still in existence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Any place where such a bas-relief has been installed becomes a temple. You should know that for the members of the society who are about to appear before us, this is a thrilling moment: they are meeting with their gods … And here they come.’
The doors opened, and into the hall entered strange-looking people. Their multi-coloured garments were clearly not from the present era but harked back, so it would seem, to what the Ancient Persians used to wear. However, the most striking thing about them was not their extravagant costumes, which by a willing stretch of the imagination could be inordinately long and colourful domestic housecoats, but the gleaming gold masks covering their faces. Hanging from the Chaldeans’ belts were metal articles I at first took to be old frying pans, but they were much too shiny and I realised they were ancient mirrors. The faces of the incoming guests were inclined towards the floor.
I had a memory of the film Alien vs. Predator, which has a scene I must have watched at least twenty times. A cosmic Hunter stands at the top of an ancient pyramid receiving the obeisance of a procession of priests who ascend towards him up an endless staircase. It was, in my opinion, one of the most meaningful frames in all American cinematography. How could I have imagined that I would one day find myself in a similar role?
A shiver ran down my spine. It struck me that I had violated some time-hallowed commandment and had set in train the creation of a reality through the power of my thought – that I might in truth dare to become a god … and this, it suddenly came to me, was the only sense in which the words ‘The Great Fall’ could have real meaning.
My head swam at the implications, but only for a second. As the mask-wearers approached the stage, they politely applauded me and Enlil Maratovich. The priests in the film had done nothing of the sort as they rose up to the summit, and I pulled myself together – there was no occasion to panic. If one ignored the strange garb of the incomers, the proceedings were much like a routine business presentation.
Raising his hand, Enlil Maratovich asked for and obtained silence.
‘Today,’ he began, ‘is a day both of sadness and of joy. The sadness is because Brahma is no longer with us. The joy is because Brahma is still with us, only his name is Rama. He has become much younger and better looking. My friends, it is with great pleasure that I present to you Rama the Second!’
The masked guests once again broke into polite applause. Enlil Maratovich turned to me and with a gesture invited me to the microphone.
While I cleared my throat, I tried to conceive what I should say. Obviously I should be neither too serious nor too flippant. I decided to copy the tone and intonation of Enlil Maratovich.
‘Friends,’ I said, ‘I have never seen any of you before. At the same time, I have seen you countless times in the past. Such is the ancient mystery we share, which binds us together. I am heartily glad of this new encounter … perhaps it is not an appropriate example, but I have just been reminded of a scene in a film I saw …’
At this point it dawned on me that it could be regarded as tactless and arrogant on my part to refer to the scene in Alien vs. Predator. It would look as though I were comparing the gathering before me to a crowd of ignorant Indians. Fortunately, I immediately lit on an alternative:
‘Do you remember that film by Michael Moore to which Quentin Tarantino awarded the Palme d’Or at Cannes? About President Bush? In this film Bush says in the course of a meeting with pillars of the American Establishment: “Some people call you the elite. I call you my base …” With your permission, I should now like to repeat the same words to you, with a small elaboration. You are the elite because you are my base. And you are my base because you are the elite. I am sure you understand how inseparable these two conditions are. I have no doubt that in this millennium too our collaboration will be fruitful. Together we will ascend to new heights and advance still nearer to our … er … our magnificent dream! I believe in you. I trust you. Thank you for coming today.’
And I bowed my head in a dignified gesture of deference.
Applause broke out in the hall. Enlil Maratovich clapped me on the shoulder and steered me away from the microphone, which he then took himself.
‘What was said about the base was quite correct,’ he said, and swept his eyes severely over the hall, ‘but there was just one sentiment with which I could not agree. It was the reference to belief. On this issue we abide by a three-part rule: never, to no one, and to nothing. The vampire does not believe. The vampire knows … Neither do we need this Bush. As the Great Goddess says: “The only bush I trust is mine …”’
Enlil Maratovich assumed a serious expression.
‘Of course, there might seem to be a contradiction here with something I have just said,’ he observed in a concerned tone of voice. ‘It lies in the word “trust”. But the contradiction is only apparent. There is no suggestion that the Great Goddess trusts anything. Quite the contrary. She says this because … well, who will be the first to guess the reason why?’
I heard laughter from several vampires in the hall. Evidently I had missed the point of the joke. Enlil Maratovich bowed in acknowledgment, took me by the arm and we left the stage together.
The Chaldeans were picking up their drinks and talking among themselves. It was clear they all knew one another and were friends. I was curious to see how they were going to manage to eat and drink in their masks. In fact the problem was easily solved: the mask was fastened to a round leather cap and when the wearer went up to the buffet table he simply turned the mask round 180 degrees so that the golden faces now appeared at the back of the head.
‘Tell me please, Enlil Maratovich,’ I asked, ‘what was the point of your joke about “the only bush I trust is mine”? I’m afraid I didn’t get it.’
‘It was a pun, Rama,’ replied Enlil Maratovich. ‘And from the Great Goddess’s point of view it is no more than a phantom pain.’
Once again I could not work out what he was talking about. This irritated me.
Marduk Semyonovich came to my aid.
‘According to legend,’ he said, ‘the Great Goddess was transformed into a shower of golden rain, rather like Zeus in the myth of Danae. You will understand that this is a metaphor: in both cases a divinity is changed into money – or more precisely, not into money but into something which stands for it. From that time forward, all human minds have striven to gain access to the Goddess. She is that faint radiance which through the centuries has driven all humanity delirious with longing. Figuratively speaking, there is a thread which connects her to everyone. You, Rama, are therefore already acquainted with her.’
‘Yes,’ added Enlil Maratovich. ‘The Great Goddess is the summit of Fuji. Do you understand?’
I nodded.
‘But once the Goddess had become a shower of golden rain, she no longer had a body. And not having a body meant that she had no bush. Therefore the Goddess could safely say that she trusts it. What does not exist cannot betray or deceive.’
As a joke, it hardly merited the effort of teasing out its meaning. But that was not the reason for my irritation. I was getting bored with this prolonged game of hide-and-seek.
‘Enlil Maratovich, when are you going let me into the secret of how this whole business really works?’
‘Why be in such a hurry, little boy?’ asked Enlil Maratovich sadly. ‘The greater the wisdom, the greater the sorrow.’
‘Please hear me out,’ I said, trying to keep my voice under control and make it steady and authoritative. ‘First, I stopped being a little boy long ago. Secondly, I feel myself to be in an ambiguous position. You have presented me to this company as a fully fledged vampire, yet I am still kept in the dark about the most important and fundamental elements of our way of life. The result is that I am forced to ask about the meaning of every phrase. Do you not think it is time …’
‘It is time,’ sighed Enlil Maratovich. ‘You are quite right, Rama. Let us go into my study.’
I looked at the company gathered in the hall.
‘Will we be returning to them?’
‘I hope so,’ replied Enlil Maratovich.