The next three days of my life vanished without trace in the hamlet – sunk in mindless gloom, as Count Dracula had perceptively observed. On the morning of the fourth day Enlil Maratovich telephoned.
‘Well, Rama,’ he said, ‘I offer you my congratulations.’
‘What has happened?’
‘Today there is to be a Red Ceremony. You are to be given bablos to try. An important day in your life.’
I said nothing.
‘The idea was that Mithra should call for you,’ went on Enlil Maratovich, ‘but he cannot be found at the moment. I would have come myself, but I’m busy. Do you think you can get yourself to Baal’s dacha?’
‘Where?’
‘To Baal Petrovich’s place. He is my neighbour. Your driver knows where he lives.’
‘I’m sure I can, then, if the driver knows. What time should I be there?’
‘There’s no hurry. It won’t begin without you. Hera will be there as well.’
‘What should I wear?’
‘Up to you. But don’t eat anything. Bablos is always taken on an empty stomach. That’s all for now, take care.’
Twenty minutes later I was in the car.
‘Baal Petrovich?’ asked Ivan. ‘I know where he lives. Sosnovka38. Are we in a hurry?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s a very urgent matter.’
I was so nervous that I went into a kind of trance. I felt that the highway we were travelling along was like a river bearing me inexorably towards the abyss. My head was in a complete whirl. I could not decide which desire was the more desperate: to get to Baal Petrovich’s place as quickly as possible, or to go straight to Domodedovo Airport, buy a ticket and fly immediately to anywhere that would take me without a visa. In fact, this option was not feasible since I had no documents of any kind with me.
The traffic was light and we arrived at our destination quickly, a rare enough event in Moscow. After being waved through a barrier, not unlike a border post, in a security fence bristling with CCTV cameras, Ivan brought the car to a stop in an empty parking area next to the house.
Baal Petrovich’s house reminded me of something midway between an embryonic Lenin Library and a prematurely born Reich Chancellery. The building itself was not so enormous, but its wide staircases and ranks of square columns faced in dark yellow stone lent it a monumental and majestic appearance. It was an appropriate setting for an initiation ceremony. Or perhaps for some black magic ritual.
‘There’s her new one,’ said Ivan.
‘Her new what?’
‘Hera Vladimirovna’s car. The Bentley.’
I looked all round but could not see anything.
‘Where is it?’
‘Over there, underneath that tree.’
Ivan pointed towards some bushes growing at the edge of the parking area, and then I saw a huge green car resembling a bourgeois chest of drawers daringly responding to the challenge of the times. The chest of drawers was parked on the grass, well away from the edge of the asphalt of the hard standing, half-concealed by the bushes, which was why I had not seen it at first.
‘Shall I beep her?’ asked Ivan.
‘No, don’t,’ I replied. ‘I’ll go over and take a look.’
The back door of the car was half open. I could see movements inside, and then heard laughter which I thought sounded like Hera’s. I quickened my pace, and at that moment a car horn sounded. Ivan had tooted after all.
Hera’s head came into view inside the car, and beside it I caught a glimpse of another head, a man’s, but did not recognise it.
‘Hera,’ I called, ‘Hello!’
But the door, instead of opening wider, suddenly slammed shut. Something I had not expected was going on. I froze on the spot, watching the wind flutter a St George’s Ribbon tied to the door handle. I could not decide whether to go on or turn back, and was just about to go back when the door flung open and out stepped Mithra.
His appearance was dishevelled (hair all tousled, yellow bow tie halfway down his shirt front) and extremely unfriendly. I had not seen him like that before. He looked ready to punch me.
‘Spying, are we?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘all it was … I just saw the car.’
‘Seems to me, if a car is parked somewhere like this, any fool would know better than to come near it.’
‘Any fool might,’ I replied, ‘but I’m not a fool. And it’s not your car.’
Hera emerged from the car. She nodded to me, smiled guiltily and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Rama,’ said Mithra, ‘if you’re having trouble, how shall I put it, making out on your own, let me send you some of those preparations that Brahma left behind. There’s enough for a year there. You’ll be able to work out your problems by yourself and stop bothering others.’
Hera took hold of his sleeve.
‘Please, that’s enough.’
I could see that Mithra was deliberately trying to insult me, and this for some reason unsettled me. Instead of becoming angry I felt disoriented. No doubt I did look rather foolish. I was rescued by the sound of a horn: Ivan was tooting again.
‘Chief,’ he called, ‘you’re wanted over here.’
I turned on my heel and walked back to the parking area.
A black-suited man I did not know was standing by my car. He was small, tubby, with a handlebar moustache like an elderly musketeer.
‘Baal Petrovich,’ he introduced himself and shook my hand. ‘But aren’t there supposed to be two of you? Where is Hera?
‘She’s just coming.’
‘Why are you so pale?’ asked Baal Petrovich. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘There’s nothing to fear. It is very many years since anything untoward has occurred during a Red Ceremony. We have the best possible equipment … Ah, you must be Hera? Happy to make your acquaintance.’
Hera was alone. Mithra had stayed back with the car.
‘Now then, my friends,’ said Baal Petrovich, ‘please come with me.’
He turned and led the way into his Reichskanzlei. We followed, Hera avoiding looking at me.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, we don’t need to talk about it just now, do we? This day must not be spoilt.’
‘Don’t you want to see me?’
‘I like you very much,’ she said. ‘If you must know, much more than I do Mithra. That’s the truth. But please don’t tell him that, OK?’
‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘Tell me, though, did you kick him in the balls as well? Or is it only me you do that to, because you like me so much?’
‘I don’t wish to talk about it.’
‘If you like me so much, why do you spend time with Mithra?’
‘I’m in a phase of my life just now when I need him with me. You wouldn’t understand. Or you might understand, but wrongly.’
‘That’s quite beyond me. Will there be another phase of your life? When you will want me with you?’
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s like the worst kind of soap opera,’ I said. ‘Honestly. I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.’
‘It will all become clear to you in due course. Now let’s drop the subject.’
Inside, Baal Petrovich’s abode seemed to have no connection with the Nordic totalitarianism of its exterior. The entrance hall was decorated in early oligarch-eclectic style, with a life-size German Knight of the Sword sandwiched between a German musical box and a seascape by Aivazovsky. The only feature distinguishing the surroundings from the furnishings of a crooked accountant on the take was that the knight’s armour and the Aivazovsky were genuine.
We went along the passage and stopped before a high double door. Baal Petrovich turned to Hera and me.
‘Before going in,’ he said, ‘we must become better acquainted.’
Taking a step towards me he brought his face closer to mine and pecked at it with his chin, as if he were nodding towards sleep. I took a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my neck, but the bite had been accomplished with consummate skill and not a trace was to be seen on the handkerchief.
Baal Petrovich closed his eyes and smacked his lips for a full minute. It made me feel uncomfortable – I wanted to bite him myself, to understand just what he was seeing for such a long time. At last he opened his eyes and looked at me with a twinkle.
‘So you have been thinking of joining the Tolstoyans, have you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Osiris. You were intending to join his sect?’
‘Not at the moment,’ I replied proudly. ‘I was simply, ah, wanting to broaden my circle of acquaintances. But please don’t mention it to Enlil Maratovich. Why upset the old man?’
‘I won’t say anything, don’t worry. That’s all right, Rama. We’ll give you some bablos, and then you won’t need to visit any of these sectarians.’
I shrugged my shoulders. Baal Petrovich advanced on Hera, bent down towards her ear and nodded his head as though responding to her quiet question. I had never before seen a vampire bite two people in such quick succession, but obviously Baal Petrovich was a specialist with great experience. After a few lip-smacking sounds, he said: ‘Very good to meet such a purposeful individual.’
He behaved to Hera with great gallantry. Also, he devoted much less time to probing her.
‘For some reason all my recent acquaintances seem to lead to the same outcome,’ muttered Hera.
‘Nothing personal,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘These bites are for purely professional purposes. I have to find out the best way to instruct you on the procedure, and for that, my friends, I need to gain an accurate picture of your inner world. Now, please come in …’
And with that he flung open the doors.
What was revealed was a brightly lit circular hall in which two colours predominated: gold and blue. The walls themselves were light blue, while gold gleamed from the pilasters, the mouldings of the ceiling and the frames of the pictures. The pictures were not interesting in themselves; in their somnolent lack of variety they were more like wallpaper: romantic ruins, noblemen on horseback, gallant rendezvous in woodland clearings. The painted ceiling was a representation of a skyscape with clouds, from the centre of which protruded a large gilded relief of the sun, backlit by concealed lamps. The sun had eyes and ears, a smiling mouth, and the general impression was of Khrushchev hiding in the ceiling. His round, complacent face beamed down to be reflected in the polished parquet floor.
Overcome by the splendour, I lingered in the doorway. Hera also stopped.
‘Please come in,’ Baal Petrovich repeated. ‘We don’t have too much time.’
We entered the hall. It contained no furniture except five big armchairs arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace let into one wall. The chairs were high-tech military style, equipped with servo drives, open-face helmets and a plethora of complicated couplings. Beside the group of chairs was a level control desk, raised above the floor on a steel support. In the fireplace a fire was burning, which struck me as odd since the air-conditioning was on full. Two Chaldeans in gold masks were tending to the fire.
‘Interesting,’ I said, ‘you have very much the same set-up as Enlil Maratovich. He also has a circular hall, a fireplace in the wall, and chairs. But his, of course, is more modest.’
‘Nothing to be wondered at,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘All buildings designed for a similar function have things in common, just as all violins have a similar form. Please sit down.’
He signed to the Chaldeans to leave the room. One of them stayed behind a little to add some fuel to the fire from a paper packet marked ‘BBQ Charcoal’.
‘As part of the Red Ceremony,’ explained Baal Petrovich, ‘it is customary to burn some banknotes. There is no practical point to this, it is simply one of our national traditions, reflected in folklore. We are not short of money, nevertheless, out of respect for human labour we prefer to burn old currency, which we get from the State Mint.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Now I must go to change my clothes. Please do not touch anything in the meantime.’
Warming us with an encouraging smile, Baal Petrovich followed the Chaldeans out of the room.
‘Weird chairs,’ remarked Hera. ‘A bit like at the dentist’s.’
To me they seemed more like props for a space odyssey film.
‘Yes, they are strange,’ I agreed. ‘Especially this breastplate thing.’
Each chair was equipped with a device familiar from sci-fi films featuring interstellar foot-soldiers – it came down over the cosmonauts’ chests to keep them in place during landing and take-off.
‘I expect they’re to keep us from falling to the floor if we start writhing in convulsions,’ I suggested.
‘Probably,’ agreed Hera.
‘Aren’t you at all nervous?’
She shook her head.
‘Mithra told me it was a wonderful experience. A little painful at the beginning, but then …’
‘Would you mind awfully not talking any more about Mithra?’
‘All right,’ replied Hera. ‘Then let’s not talk about anything.’
We had no more conversation until Baal Petrovich returned. I studied the pictures on the walls with exaggerated interest, and she sat on the edge of her seat looking at the floor.
When Baal Petrovich re-entered the room I did not recognise him. He had changed into a long robe of dark red silk and carried in his hand a bag like a cash-in-transit courier’s. I remembered where I had seen a robe like it before.
‘Baal Petrovich, have you ever been in Enlil Maratovich’s study?’
‘Many times,’ he replied.
‘There is a picture on the wall in it,’ I went on. ‘Some odd-looking people in top hats are sitting round a fire, strapped to their chairs, and with something like gags in their mouths. Near them stands a man in a red robe exactly like the one you are wearing. Is that picture an illustration of the Red Ceremony?’
‘Yes,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘Or rather, a representation of what it would have looked like two hundred years ago. At that time the ceremony was attended by certain risks to health. But nowadays it is a completely safe procedure.’
‘But how were they able to swallow the bablos? I mean the people in the picture. They had gags in their mouths.’
‘They’re not gags,’ replied Baal Petrovich, going over to the control desk. ‘They are special appliances in which are incorporated a capsule of bablos made from the bladder of a fish. They also protect the tongue and the lips from trauma. The technology we use now is quite different.’
He pressed a knob on the control desk and the breastplates rose with a humming noise above the chairs.
‘You may sit down now.’
I sat in the end chair. Hera settled herself two chairs away from me.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘We’re ready.’
Baal Petrovich shot me a disapproving look.
‘I cannot approve such a frivolous attitude. How do you know whether or not you are ready, when you do not even know what is about to take place?
I shrugged.
‘Why don’t you explain, then?’
‘Listen to me very carefully,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘Since I know what sort of rubbish your heads are filled with, I wish you to be clear that the experience you are about to undergo will be surprising and not at all what you imagine. For you to have a correct understanding of what will take place it is essential from the start to grasp one fact that you may find damaging to your self-esteem. It is not we who suck bablos. It is the Tongue.’
‘Are we not one entity?’ asked Hera.
‘Up to a certain point. And this is that point.’
‘But we will feel something, won’t we?’
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘In no small measure. But it will be nothing like what the Tongue experiences.’
‘What does the Tongue experience?’ I asked.
‘I do not know,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘No one knows.’
I had not anticipated this answer.
‘How is that possible?’ I asked in dismay.
Baal Petrovich burst out laughing.
‘You were asking me about a picture in Enlil’s study,’ he said. ‘But do you remember the picture that hangs in your own study? Napoleon on horseback?’
‘To be honest,’ I replied, ‘I long ago became heartily sick of being compared to a horse.’
‘This is the last time, I swear. Does the horse know what Napoleon is thinking? What is your opinion?’
‘I think not.’
‘And I agree. But when Napoleon canters round the field of battle before his army, he and his horse appear as a single organism. In a sense that is what they are … And when Napoleon pats his faithful steed on the neck …’
‘Why bother to go on?’ I said. ‘There’s no point trying to explain anything to a horse, is there? Napoleon certainly wouldn’t have done so.’
‘Rama, I understand your feelings,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘But life is much simpler than is commonly believed. There are two paths. If a person is fortunate, incredibly fortunate – as you and Hera have been – he or she can become the horse that carries Napoleon. But by the same token, without that stroke of luck the person will remain a mere beast of burden.’
‘Could we have done with horse-breeding?’ asked Hera. ‘Let’s get on with the matter in hand.’
‘With pleasure,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘So, the Red Ceremony is in two parts. First the Tongue sucks in bablos. This is the greatest mystery in the vampire’s world. But as I have already said, this procedure does not take place with us personally, and we know little of its essential nature. During this time what you experience will be extremely varied and fairly unpleasant, and can even be painful. You must endure. Do you understand?’
I nodded.
‘After that the pain passes and the second part of the experience begins,’ continued Baal Petrovich. ‘Physiologically, what happens is this: having absorbed enough bablos, the Tongue injects directly into the brain a charge from an extremely powerful neurotransmitter we call dopamen, which compensates for the negative experiences arising from the first part of the procedure.’
‘Why is this compensation needed?’ I asked. ‘After all, the pain has already gone.’
‘Quite so,’ said Ball Petrovich. ‘But disagreeable memories persist. The neurotransmitter secreted by the Tongue, however, is powerful enough to alter the content of the memory. To be precise, not the memory itself, but the emotional balance connected with it. As a result the final impression the vampire retains of the Red Ceremony is in the highest degree positive, so much so that many vampires become psychologically dependent on bablos, a condition we call Thirst. This is, of course, a paradoxical reaction since the intake of bablos is in itself a fairly painful procedure.’
‘What exactly is a neurotransmitter?’ I asked.
‘In our case it is an agent which generates in the brain a sequence of electrochemical processes, experienced subjectively as happiness. In a normal person dopamine is responsible for similar processes. Its chemical name is 3.4 dihydroxiphenylethylamine. Dopamen is a closely related substance, as you will see if you look at the formula – on the right side of the molecule is the same nitric dioxide, but different figures for carbon and hydrogen. From a strictly chemical perspective the name is incorrect; it was invented in the sixties as a joke: “dope amen”, which became “dopamen”. At that time vampires were making an intensive study of their brains. This work was later curtailed, but the name stuck.’
‘Why was the work curtailed?’
‘The Mighty Bat became concerned that vampires might learn how to synthesise bablos themselves, and this could upset the time-hallowed order. If you’re interested we can go more deeply into the subject. Would you like me to write down the formula for dopamen?’
I shook my head.
‘Dopamen is also very similar to dopamine in the mechanism of its effect,’ continued Baal Petrovich, ‘but it is significantly stronger, approximately in proportion as crack is to cocaine. The Tongue injects it directly into the brain and it instantly generates its own reward circuits, which differ from the standard neuronal pathways of human happiness. It is therefore scientifically accurate to state that for a few minutes after receiving bablos the vampire experiences superhuman happiness.’
‘Superhuman happiness,’ I repeated dreamily to myself.
‘However, this is not what you might imagine it to be,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘The best thing is not to have any expectations. That way you will not be disappointed. Well, that is enough by way of explanation, I think. We may now begin.’
Hera and I exchanged glances.
‘Raise your legs and spread your arms out wide,’ commanded Baal Petrovich.
Cautiously I adopted the required position, resting my legs on a supporting ledge that slid out from beneath the chair. The chair itself was extremely comfortable; the body was hardly aware of it at any point.
Baal Petrovich touched a knob and the breastplate descended, gently pressing on my chest. He strapped my arms and legs to the chair with shackles made of what looked like thick plastic, and then repeated the procedure for Hera.
‘Now lift your chin …’
As soon as I obeyed he placed in position on the back of my head something like a motorcycle crash helmet. Now the only part of my body I could move was my fingers.
‘During the ceremony your body may appear to be travelling through space. This is an illusion. In reality you will stay exactly where you are at all times. Remember this, and do not be afraid.’
‘Why do I have to be I strapped down like this?’ I asked.
‘Because,’ answered Baal Petrovich, ‘the illusion is extremely powerful and the body engages in uncontrollable movements to compensate for the imaginary motion in space. This can result in severe trauma. In the past there were numerous instances of this … Well, all is ready now. Do either of you have any more questions?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Please be aware that once the procedure has started there is no way back. Your only option is to endure until the end. Therefore, do not attempt to remove your shackles or get up from your chairs. You will not be able to. Is that clear?’
‘Quite clear,’ answered Hera.
Baal Petrovich once again looked carefully over both of us and appeared satisfied with what he saw.
‘Well, then, shall we go?’
‘Into darkness, back and down,’ I replied.
‘Good luck.’
Baal Petrovich moved behind the chair, out of my line of sight. I heard a quiet humming noise. From the right-hand side of the helmet extruded a small, transparent tube, which came to rest exactly above my mouth. Simultaneously two soft rubber plugs exerted pressure on my cheeks, one on either side. My mouth opened and at the moment a single bright crimson drop escaped from the end of the tube and fell into my mouth.
It fell directly on to my tongue, and in a reflex motion I pressed it up against my soft palate. The liquid was thick and viscous, tangy and sweet to the taste, as though someone had combined syrup with cider vinegar. I had the impression that it was instantly absorbed, as though a tiny mouth had opened just there and sucked it in.
My head began to spin. The sensation increased in intensity for several seconds and culminated in total spatial disorientation. I was relieved that my body was firmly strapped in so that it could not fall. Then it seemed to me as though the chair itself was rising from the floor.
This was most strange. I continued to see everything around me – Hera, the fireplace, the walls, the sun in the ceiling, Baal Petrovich in his dark red gown. Yet at the same time I had an unmistakeable sensation of my body and the chair ascending, moreover at a velocity such that I experienced the G-force a cosmonaut does when his rocket lifts off.
The gravity became so extreme that I had difficulty in breathing. I was frightened of suffocating, and tried to communicate this to Baal Petrovich. But my mouth would not answer to my commands; all I could do was move my fingers.
Gradually it became easier to breathe. I felt the speed of my ascent decelerating, as though I was approaching an invisible summit. I realised that I was on the point of overshooting, and then …
I just had time to curl my fingers into fists before my body plunged into a dizzy, delirious but at the same time terrifying weightlessness. I felt something cold tickling in the pit of my stomach as my body hurtled downwards at an appalling speed – and all this while I was sitting still in a motionless chair.
‘Close your eyes,’ said Baal Petrovich.
I glanced over at Hera. Her eyes were tight shut, so I followed suit in screwing mine fast shut as well, and that was even more terrifying because the sensation of flight was now all-consuming and utterly real, and I could no longer see the room around me, to reassure me second by second that what was happening was no more than a vestibular hallucination. I tried to open my eyes once more but could not. Evidently I had begun to whimper from terror; I heard a low laugh from Baal Petrovich.
Now a visual element was added to my hallucinations. The illusion of flying through the cloud-covered night sky was complete. All around was dark, but even so amid the darkness there were some clouds of a yet more impenetrable murk, like dense emboli of steam, and these I passed through with incredible speed. I seemed to be enveloped in a kind of crease in space which was absorbing air friction. From time to time I felt something inside my head tauten and the direction of my travel alter, which was a deeply unpleasant sensation.
Soon I began to distinguish something like luminous dotted lines among the clouds. At first they were so dim as to be hardly visible, but gradually they became clearer. I knew that these points of light had some kind of connection to people: either they were human souls, or thoughts, or dreams, or perhaps an element common to all these …
And then at last I knew what they were.
They were that part of human consciousness Enlil Maratovich had identified as Mind ‘B’. They appeared like spheres in which flickered a softly appealing, nacreous luminescence – the ‘Northern Lights’, he had called it earlier. Linking the spheres was an invisible thread, looping them into long garlands. Countless numbers of these garlands spiralled upwards to culminate in a tiny speck of sheer black, which was where Ishtar had to be found. I could not see her, but her presence was as plainly perceptible as the sun above one’s head on a hot day.
All of a sudden my body executed a sharp manoeuvre which was extremely painful and felt as though my bones had all been crunched sideways, upon which I found myself actually on one of the threads. Then I was moving along it, skewering the cerebral capsules one by one as I passed.
As far as I could see this had no effect on them. In fact it could not have – because they were not real. The Tongue’s objective was not the capsules themselves but the bright-red drop of hope and meaning germinating within each one. One after the other the Tongue greedily drank down these drops, each time swelling with a dreadful kind of electric exultation, which increasingly filled me with terror.
I felt like a shade flying among thousands of dreams and feeding from them. The souls of all these people were as an open book to me: I could instantly understand everything about them. I was feeding on the reality of those waking dreams into which a man would lapse unconsciously many times a day, whenever his glance might fall upon a glossy page, a monitor screen, or a face in the crowd.
The crimson flower of hope could blossom in any soul, and the fact that this hope was wholly without meaning, like the farewell ‘cock-a-doodle-do’ of a broiler chicken, made no difference at all. The flowers themselves were real, and the unseen reaper whom I bore on my foam-lathered back scythed them down with alacrity. A red spiral of energy throbbed in the people, a glowing discharge oscillating between what they imagined was real and what they thought were fantasies. Both poles were delusional, but the sparks flying between them were real enough. The Tongue gulped down these sparks, inflating and shaking my poor skull.
It became harder and harder for me to keep going in this helter-skelter dash. The pace at which I had to assimilate all that was going on was unsustainable. In some unknown way I was looking into each person through whose mind I flew, and it was physically painful to keep up the tempo. There seemed only one way to step off the hurtling treadmill, and that was deliberately to think human thoughts, at a slow human speed, thoughts composed of clumsy, dependable human words. Doing so went some way to neutralise the effects of the crazily spinning sandpaper in my brain.
Somewhere children are asleep, I thought, dreaming dreams that seem childish, but in reality they are already producing bablos just as the grown-ups do … Everyone is put to work, from infancy on …
I was no exception. I could remember this bright-red germ of hope growing in me … We imagine we are just on the point of understanding something important, of figuring it all out at last, of achieving something, after which a new life will begin, the right life, the real life. But this never happens because the red drop of sense and hope always vanishes, and we must begin again to grow it and nurture it from nothing. And then it disappears once again, and so it goes on throughout our life, while we become more and more tired until finally nothing is left to us but to lie on our beds, turn our faces to the wall, and die …
Now I knew what invariably happens to the red drop of hope. I fell ever more quickly through other lives as my rider was deftly scooping up the last remaining drops of meaning, swallowing them as it sated its inscrutable hunger. Many people I saw were on the brink of understanding what was happening, they guessed it but were incapable of thinking about it. All were deafened by the cry of the Mighty Bat, so that nothing remained for them but a dim memory that once upon a time their head had played host to a crucially important thought that had instantly vanished, never to return.
We were now nearing the final destination of our journey – the vast, invisible mass of Ishtar. I knew that it would all come to an end at the moment of impact. In the last second of the voyage I remembered that all of this had been familiar to me when I was a child. Then I had seen vampires flying through my dreams and knew that they were taking from me the most important thing in life. But in the real world it is forbidden for humans to know what they can know in dreams – and therefore, on waking, I took for the cause of my terror the fan hanging above my bed like a great bat …
This last second was followed by the impact. I understood that the Tongue had handed over to Ishtar its accumulated harvest, and after that something happened that I have no words to describe. Indeed, it bore no relation to me – it was connected solely with the Tongue. Then I lapsed into semi-consciousness.
My mind became calm, as the surface of a lake when a complete lull descends upon it. There was no activity at all. I cannot say how much time elapsed. And then on to the surface of this nothingness fell a single drop.
I do not know exactly what the drop struck that caused it to shatter. But in an instant the eternal, motionless background against which everything other than itself had taken place broke into movement. It was like the moment when you are looking at the sky and the branches of the trees, and suddenly a ripple passes over them and you realise that what you have been seeing was not the world but its reflection in the water. Before, I had not known that the background was even there. But the moment I saw it, I knew that I had never properly understood all that had been happening. And at once I became easy of mind and cheerful.
Before, I thought that life consisted of events that happened to me and to others. The events could be either good or bad, and for some reason many more of them seemed to be bad than were good. And all these events take place on the surface of an immense globe to which we are bound by the force of gravity, while the globe itself flies to an unknown destination through the cosmic void.
That was what I thought I knew. But now I understood that I, and the events, and everything in the universe – Ishtar, vampires, people, fans glued to the wall, jeeps bound to the earth, comets, asteroids, stars and the cosmic void through which they fly – are simply waves dispersing through that invisible background. They were the same waves as the one which a few moments ago had passed through my consciousness following the falling of the drop. One substance makes up everything there is in the whole world. And this substance was myself.
In the light of the knowledge I now possessed, the fears that had been building up in my soul for years dissolved instantly. Nothing whatsoever could threaten me in this world, nor could I be a threat to anyone or anything else. Nothing bad could happen to me, nor to others; the world was so arranged as to make this an impossibility. To know this was the greatest happiness that could be imagined. I knew it for an absolute certainty; rapture filled my entire being, and nothing that had ever happened to me before could remotely be compared to it.
Why had I never seen this before? I asked myself in utter perplexity. And immediately knew the answer. For something to be seen it must have form, colour, volume or dimension. But this background had nothing of the kind. Everything that existed did so as vortices and waves of this substance – but as for the substance itself, there was nothing able to persuade any of the sense organs that it was really there.
Nothing, that is, except the drop that had fallen from I knew not where, and in a single fleeting moment had wrenched me out of the world of illusion (now I knew for certain that it was a world of illusion, even though everyone else around me believed it was real). Now, I thought with quiet triumph, every aspect of my life would be changed, and never would I forget what I had just understood.
And at once understood that I had already forgotten it.
It was all over. Around me was once again the stifling blanket of calcified, imprisoning life, with its fireplaces, its armchairs, its smirking golden sun in the ceiling, its pictures on the walls, and Baal Petrovich in his long red gown. Nothing that I had so recently perceived could help me now, because the moment when it had happened was already in the past. Now I was in the present, where everything was real and concrete, where it made no difference what substance the thorns and prickles of this world were made of. All that mattered was how deeply they would pierce the body. Indeed with every passing second they penetrated ever deeper, until the world became again as it always had been.
‘Well, how was it?’ asked Baal Petrovich, appearing once more in my field of vision. ‘How do you feel now?’
I was going to say that everything was fine, but instead asked:
‘Can we do it again?’
‘Yes,’ said Hera. ‘I should like to as well. Can we?’
Baal Petrovich laughed.
‘There you are! You have already discovered what Thirst is.’
‘So can we or not?’ insisted Hera.
‘No. You will have to wait until the next time.’
‘Will we have the same experience?’ I asked.
Baal Petrovich nodded.
‘It is always the same as the first time. The whole thing is just as fresh, just as vivid. And just as intangible. You will want to experience these feelings over and over again. And the inconveniences of the first part of the ceremony will be quite irrelevant.’
‘Is it possible to recapture the same feelings on one’s own?’ asked Hera. ‘Without bablos?’
‘That is a difficult question,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know the answer. Tolstoyans, for instance, believe it is possible if you achieve sufficient simplicity in your life. But so far as I can judge, none of them has yet managed to do so.’
‘What about Osiris?’ I asked.
‘Osiris?’ Baal Petrovich frowned. ‘There are all sorts of rumours about him. Some say that in the sixties he injected bablos – shot up, as people called it then. What that did to his head I can’t imagine. As a result everyone today is afraid to bite him. Nobody knows what is in his mind, or what sort of a Tolstoyan he is. Osiris is, in a word, terra incognita. But from another point of view, experiences of this kind may be accessible to saints. Still others say that something similar may be perceived on the highest levels of yogic practice.’
‘What are those levels?’ asked Hera.
‘That I cannot tell you. No vampire has ever succeeded in biting an advanced yogi master in this particular state. Not to mention saints, of whom there have been no real examples for a very long time. To keep it simple, it is better to think along lines like this: the only true way for a vampire to slake his thirst is to suck bablos. Thirst and bablos together constitute the biological mechanism by which the survival of the Mighty Bat is assured, in much the same way as sexual pleasure ensures the continuation of the species.’
He jabbed something on the control desk and I heard a low electrical humming sound. The breastplate rose into the air, after which the shackles loosed themselves from my arms and legs.
I stood up. My head was still spinning, and just in case I held on to the back of the chair for support.
The courier’s bag lay open and empty near the fireplace. In the ashes behind the bars of the grate could still be seen fragments of partially burned thousand-rouble notes. Baal Petrovich evidently fulfilled his role with an exemplary sense of responsibility. No doubt he approached it as a religious ritual in which he acted as the high priest.
Hera also got to her feet, her face pale and serious. When she lifted her arm to straighten her hair, I noticed that her fingers were shaking. Baal Petrovich turned to her.
‘Just one other little formality,’ he said. ‘Courtesy demands that I begin with the lady.’
In his hand appeared a gleaming circular object, like a large coin, which he carefully pinned to Hera’s t-shirt. The brooch was heavy, and the shirt immediately sagged.
‘What is it?’ asked Hera.
‘A commemorative badge for the “God of Money”,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘Now you know why we are all named after gods.’
He turned to me.
‘At one time I was a jeweller,’ he explained. ‘I make these badges myself, for old times’ sake. They are all different. For you I made a special one – with wings of oak.’
‘Why?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘It’s all right, no nasty tricks. It just turned out like that. I started making them as wings, but they turned out in the shape of oak leaves. Thank God, though, we’re vampires, not fascists, so they are not oak leaves but oak wings. Take a look. They’re rather lovely, I think.’
On his palm was a dull platinum disc with two golden wings protruding from it. They did indeed look like oak leaves. The characters ‘R II’ were picked out in small diamonds.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Baal Petrovich.
I nodded my thanks, not so much because I really did like it but out of politeness.
‘There is a motto on the back,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘By tradition, I choose it as well.’
I turned the badge over. On the reverse was a safety pin and an inscription engraved in a circle round the edge:
It is not I who must suck it, but all the others. Count Dracula
Like all sayings of Count Dracula, the meaning may not have been the freshest, but there was nothing to object to in it. Baal Petrovich took his handiwork from me and pinned it on my chest, scratching me with the pin as he did so.
‘Now you are true vampires,’ he said.
‘Where should it be worn?’ I asked.
‘Hang it in your hamlet,’ said Baal Petrovich. ‘That’s what most of our people do.’
‘When will the next ceremony be?’ asked Hera.
Baal Petrovich spread his arms wide.
‘It’s not up to me. Enlil draws up the schedule and has it confirmed by the Prima Donna.’
I understood he was referring to Ishtar Borisovna.
‘What is the frequency on average?’ I asked.
‘Frequency?’ queried Baal Petrovich. ‘Hmm … interesting point. I’ve never even thought about it. Just a moment.’
He took a mobile phone from the pocket of his robe and tapped in some numbers.
‘The frequency is …’ he said after a long pause, ‘3.086 x 10-7Hz.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That’s the frequency. So many cycles a second, isn’t it? That is how many. The next ceremony will be in approximately one month.’
‘Once a month isn’t very often,’ said Hera. ‘It’s not nearly enough. That’s no good.’
‘Talk to the management,’ replied Baal Petrovich. ‘We also have our hierarchy, you see. The lower you hang, the higher you fly. Enlil over there has his own home-based station. He and the Prima Donna can suck bablos every day if they want to. But at the start of your creative path, my dears, you are not likely to get it more than once a month.’
He looked at his watch.
‘Now, are there any more questions? I’ve got to be going.’
There were no more questions.
Having made our farewells to Baal Petrovich, Hera and I went out into the passage. I took her hand. Like that we walked all the way to the entrance, but just before the front door she took her hand away.
‘Shall we see one another soon?’ I said.
‘Not right away,’ she replied. ‘Don’t ring me just yet. I’ll ring you.’
Seeing us come out, Mithra came to meet us.
‘Hera,’ he began, screwing up his eyes against the sun, ‘today is a red letter day for you. I want you to remember it for ever. So I’ve prepared …’
He fell silent and looked at me.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Rama,’ he said, ‘I like you, but you are somewhat de trop just at the moment.’
‘It’s also a red letter day for me,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Mithra. ‘I really can’t think what’s to be done about it … But here are two suggestions to help you in your battle with loneliness. First, you have Ivan. I bit him while I was waiting for Hera, and he likes you, rest assured of it. The other idea is for you to ring up Loki. He’s a bit past it himself, of course, but if you fancy engaging his friend I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Unlike me …’
Hera grinned. Again I was lost for words – true, my head was still going round and round after the ceremony. Mithra put his arm through Hera’s and led her away. She did not look back, not even once. Something strange was happening to her. She was not behaving as she should, not at all. I could not understand what it all meant.
They got into the car.
Ring up Loki, I thought. Well, why not? That might indeed be a solution. Of course it was the solution. There was no other, of that I was sure.
When I got to my car I sat in the back and slammed the door shut.
‘Where to, Chief?’ asked Ivan.
‘Home.’
Ivan moved off, but had to brake in order to let Hera’s car through as it emerged from the bushes. Nothing could be seen through its tinted windows – and the opacity inflamed my imagination with a blistering heat, so much so that any lingering doubts about my proposed course of action were dissipated.
I dialled Loki’s number.
‘Rama? Hello. What can I do for you?’
‘Do you remember telling me about vampire duels?’
‘Of course I do. Why are you asking? Are you planning to challenge someone?’
It was clear from his lighthearted tone of voice that he did not consider this a serious proposition.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’
‘Yes, I am. How do I go about it?’
‘All you have to do is tell me,’ replied Loki. ‘I arrange everything; it’s part of my job. But I have to be certain that what you are saying is completely serious.’
‘What I am saying is completely serious.’
‘Whom are you challenging?’
‘Mithra.’
Loki said nothing for a while.
‘May I,’ he said at last, ‘ask the reason?’
‘It’s personal.’
‘Does it have anything to do with his role in your fate? I mean Brahma perishing?’
‘No.’
‘Have you really thought this through?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Rama,’ said Loki, ‘I must warn you this is not a joke. If you really want to issue a challenge to Mithra, I shall set the wheels in motion. But if I do and you change your mind, it could lead to a most embarrassing situation.’
‘I. Really. Want. To. Challenge. Mithra,’ I repeated. ‘And I shall not change my mind.’
‘Well, then. What is your preference in the matter of weapons? The rules say the choice lies with the person who is challenged, but a consensus is sometimes possible.’
‘Entirely at your discretion.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Loki. ‘In that case please email me a Duel Order. If you don’t remember what that is, you are obliged to set out in it the penalty you wish to be applied to Mithra should you prevail. But don’t do it now. Write it tomorrow morning, when your head is clear, and when you have had a chance to think it over once again. When I receive it, I shall act.’
‘Good. What form should my letter take?’
‘I shall send you a template. Generally speaking, the form is not laid down, but the final line must be exactly as follows: “In this connection I am ready to meet God”.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Not at all. This is no place for a joke. A duel is a very serious matter. One must be clearly aware of the unthinkable horror that may have to be faced as a result …’