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?’
I sensed an increase in the intensity of the electric atmosphere among the watchers.
‘No, all things considered I probably should bring it out,’ I concluded after a pause. ‘Here it is. Ivan Grigorievich is on a friendly footing with many financial big shots and powerful businessmen, some of whom are here tonight. They are all extremely wealthy people. They know Ivan Grigorievich as a powerful businessman in his own right, whose company is currently confidentially managed by a group of lawyers. This is because our hero has been for many years in the service of the Government …’
I sensed that Semnyukov’s head was moving from side to side as if in denial of something. I paused, assuming that he wished to make some response. But he said not a word.
‘And so, gentlemen,’ I continued, ‘the most shameful, dark and repulsive secret of Ivan Grigorievich is that this confidential direction, these shares, these lawyers, are all a sham, and in reality he has no business at all. All he has are a couple of brass-plate Potemkin firms, consisting of an accommodation address for legal purposes, a company name and logo. He has not set up these companies for any particularly dubious purposes, but merely in order to give the impression of being engaged in dubious practices. As an interesting aside, gentlemen, the example of Ivan Grigorievich provides a perfect formulation of the principle establishing the divide between the rich and the poor in our country today. The rich man goes to great lengths to suggest that he has less money than he really has. The poor man pretends to have more. By this criterion Ivan Grigorievich is unquestionably a poor man, and his poverty causes him more humiliation than anything else, despite the fact that the majority of our contemporaries consider him to be very rich. He has invented numerous devices to conceal the true state of his affairs, including the not trivial matter of a Potemkin offshore company. But the truth is that he lives off bribes like any official. And even though the bribes can be very substantial, they are not enough, because the way of life Ivan Grigorievich seeks to maintain does not come cheap. And of course he cannot keep himself on a level to match the kind of people he consorts with in Davos and Courchevel … Well, there you have it.’
‘I knew that,’ said a male voice from the group of Chaldeans.
‘Well, I never did,’ chimed in another.
‘Nor I,’ announced a third.
Ivan Grigorievich crossed the line on the floor. He was probably not aware he had done so, but the fateful step had been noted by many of the watchers, and the hall resounded with voices calling: ‘He’s gone over! He’s over the line!’ or ‘He’s lost!’ as though we were present at a quiz show being filmed for television. Ivan Grigorievich meekly bowed his head, accepting defeat, and then launched himself at me with his fists.
I could not see it, but I sensed his arm speeding towards the back of my head. I tilted my head and his fist, appearing from behind my back, whizzed past my ear. I saw on his wrist the white disc with the doubled Maltese Cross symbol of a Vacheron Constantin watch.
The strangest thing was that, although events in the physical world seemed to be taking place very slowly, my thoughts were moving at their accustomed tempo. Why the Maltese Cross? I thought, and immediately told myself not to be distracted. I recalled the advice Hector had given to Paris before the duel in the film Troy: ‘Think only of his sword and of your sword.’ But instead of swords, I was suddenly envisaging the psychoanalyst’s couch. How disgusting this Discourse is …
What happened next was in real time practically instantaneous, but according to my subjective chronometer took about as long as it does to make a sandwich or change the batteries in a torch.
Before Ivan Grigorievich reached the place where I had been standing, I had already jumped to one side, and as his corpulent carcase lumbered past I took hold of his shoulder and let his momentum jerk me after him. We sailed over the space together like a figure-skating duo. He was too big for me to hit him with my bare fists; I needed something heavy, preferably made of metal. The only suitable object within reach was his mask. I tore it from him, whirled it in the air and brought the expressionless golden face down upon his head. Immediately after the blow I let go of his shoulder and we separated. The mask stayed in my hand. There was nothing at all complicated about this manoeuvre, but from the fierce spurts of my movements and the tension, my joints were aching.
After I had come to rest he took a few steps and crashed face downwards to the floor. I thought he had decided to avoid total disgrace by pretending to be stunned. Evidently the turning of my thoughts towards Hector had not been in vain. The whole mise en scène reminded me so vividly of the sequence in Troy where Brad Pitt kills the Thessalonian giant that I could not resist the temptation to become Achilles for a moment. Advancing on the crowd of Chaldeans, I clasped Ivan Grigorievich’s mask to my face, surveyed them, and using the words of Brad Pitt said: ‘Is there no one else?’
As in the film, the answer was silence.
The mask proved to be very uncomfortable; it was pressing on my nose. When I took it off, I noticed that its golden nose had been flattened, as if by a hammer. Perhaps Ivan Grigorievich had not been shamming after all.
‘Rama,’ called Enlil Maratovich softly, ‘no need to overdo things. Better keep it all in proportion …’
Turning back to the stage, he clapped his hands and commanded: ‘Music!’
The music released the hall from the paralysis that had overtaken it. A few of the Chaldeans came up to Ivan Grigorievich, bent over his prone form, lifted him up and hauled him to the exit. I was relieved to see that he was able to stumble out on his legs.
The Chaldeans gradually recovered themselves – they split up into groups and dispersed around the room, getting hold of drinks, striking up conversations with one another. They avoided me. I stood alone in the empty space in the middle of the room, the heavy mask in my hand, wondering what I should do next. Enlil Maratovich looked sternly at me and made a sign that I should join him. I was sure I was going to receive a dressing down. But I was wrong.
‘Very good,’ he said quietly, although his face was frowning. ‘That’s the only way to deal with those bastards. Well done. You frightened the shit out of the lot of them. That’s what it means to have young muscles. I can’t do it any longer.’
‘Why just the muscles?’ I said, offended. ‘Seems to me the main role is played by the intellect.’
Enlil Maratovich pretended not to have heard this observation.
‘But that’s not all you have to do,’ he said. ‘Now you have got to try to make them like you. Take part in their conversations.’
Saying these words he wagged his finger censoriously at me. From a distance our colloquy would have looked as though a strict papa was telling off his naughty little son. The inappropriateness of his gestures to the words he was speaking was highly entertaining.
‘So I get to be the Queen of the Ball, do I?’ I asked.
‘You don’t have to change your gender,’ smiled Enlil Maratovich. ‘All you have to do is make the acquaintance of the most important of our guests, so that they get to know you personally. Come along, I’ll introduce you. And make sure you smile at them as broadly as possible – they must be persuaded that you are a heartless, hypocritical swine.’