He had changed a lot since the last time we’d seen each other. Now he had a fashionable haircut, and he was no longer dressed in retro-gangster gear, but wearing a stylish black suit from Diesel’s ‘rebel shareholder’ collection. Under the jacket he had a black T-shirt with the words ‘I Fucked Andy Warhol’. A gold chain peeped out from under the T-shirt - not really thick, and not really thin, just exactly right. A simple round, steel watch, black Nike Air trainers like Mick Jagger’s on his feet. What a very long way the security services had come since those times when I used to travel to Yezhov’s dacha for the latest Nabokov . . .
‘Hi there, Mikhalich,’ I said.
‘Hello, Adele.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘With the instrument.’
‘You haven’t got any such instrument. Don’t give me that. Sasha told me.’
He sat down beside me on the bench.
‘I do have an instrument, Adele, I do, my girl. It’s just that it’s secret. And the comrade colonel general was following instructions when he spoke to you. I disobeyed those instructions when I showed it to you. And the comrade colonel general put me right afterwards, is that clear? As it happens, I’m disobeying instructions again now when I say that I do have an instrument. But the comrade colonel general always follows them very strictly.’
I couldn’t tell any longer which of them was lying.
‘And does the cleaning lady from the equestrian complex really work for you?’
‘We have many different methods,’ he said evasively. ‘We couldn’t manage otherwise. It’s a very big country.’
‘That’s true.’
We sat there in silence for a minute or two. Mikhalich observed the kids jumping off the ramp with interest.
‘And how’s Pavel Ivanovich?’ I asked, to my own surprise. ‘Still consulting?’
Mikhalich nodded.
‘He came to see us just the other day. He recommended a book, now what was it . . .’
He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and showed it to me. I saw the words:
Martin Wolf: Why Globalisation Works
written on it in ballpoint pen.
‘He said things weren’t really all that bad after all.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Well, that’s really great. I was starting to worry. Listen, I’ve been wanting to ask this for a long time. All those well-known figures, Wolfenson from the World Bank, Wolfovitz from the Defence Department - or maybe it was the other way around - were they all, you know, as well?’
‘There are all sorts of wolves, just like people,’ Mikhalich said. ‘Only now they can’t even come close to us. Our department’s stepped up to a completely new level. There’s only one Nagual Rinpoche in the world.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s what we call the comrade colonel general.’
‘How is he, by the way?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘Well.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s snowed under with work. And after work he sits in the archive. Analysing past experience.’
‘Whose experience?’
‘Comrade Sharikov’s.’
‘Ah, him. The one Bulgakov wrote about in
A Dog’s Heart
?’
‘Don’t talk about things if you don’t know anything,’ Mikhalich said sternly. ‘There are all sorts of lies going round about him, slanderous rumours. But no one knows the truth. When the comrade colonel general first turned up for work in his new uniform, the oldest members of staff even shed a few tears. They hadn’t seen anything like it since nineteen fifty-nine. Not since comrade Sharikov was killed. It was after that everything fell to pieces. He was the one holding it all together.’
‘And how was he killed?’
‘He wanted to be the first to fly into space. And he went, just as soon as they made a cockpit big enough for a dog to fit into. You can’t hold someone like that back . . . The risk was immense - during the early launches every second flight crashed. But he made his mind up anyway. And then . . .’
‘The idiot,’ I said. ‘The vain nonentity.’
‘Vanity has absolutely nothing to do with it. Why did comrade Sharikov fly into space? He wanted to happen to the void before the void happened to him. But he didn’t get the chance. He was just three seconds of arc short . . .’
‘And Alexander knows about Sharikov?’ I asked.
‘He does now. I told you, he spends days at a time in the archives.’
‘And what has he said about it?’
‘The comrade colonel general has said this: even titans have their limitations.’
‘I see. And what questions do the titans have for me?’
‘None, really. I was ordered to convey a verbal communication to you.’
‘Well, convey it, then.’
‘Seems you’re putting it about that you’re the super-werewolf.’
‘Well, and what of it?’
‘I’ll tell you what. This is a unique country we live in, not like the rest of the world. Here everybody has to know who they answer to. People and werewolves.’
‘And how am I interfering with that?’
‘You’re not. But there can only be one super-werewolf. Otherwise, what kind of super-werewolf is he?’
‘That trivial kind of understanding of the word “super-werewolf”, ’ I said, ‘smacks of prison-camp Nietzcheanism. I -’
‘Listen,’ said Mikhalich, raising his open hand, ‘I wasn’t sent here to jaw. I’m here to tell you.’
‘I understand,’ I sighed. ‘And what am I supposed to do now? Hit the road?’
‘No, why? Just leave it out. Remember who’s the super-werewolf around here. And never put your foot in it again. So there’s no confusion in anybody’s mind . . . Get it?’
‘I could take issue with you,’ I said, ‘over whose minds are filled with confusion. First of all -’
‘We’re not going to argue about it,’ Mikhalich interrupted again. ‘As Nagual Rinpoche says, if you meet the Buddha, don’t kill him, but don’t let him take you for a ride.’
‘Okay then, if we’re not going to argue, we’re not. Is that all?’
‘No, there’s one more question. A personal one.’
‘What is it?’
‘Marry me.’
That was unexpected. I realized he wasn’t joking and looked him over carefully.
The man sitting in front of me was in his fifties, still in robust health, braced for his final headlong rush at life, but he still had-n’t understood (fortunately for him) just how that rush ended. I’d seen off plenty like him. They always see me as their last chance. Grown men, and they don’t understand that they themselves are their last chance. But then, they aren’t even aware what kind of chance it is. Sasha had understood something at least. But this one . . . Hardly.
Mikhalich was looking at me with insane hope in his eyes. I knew that look too. What a long time I have spent in this world, I thought sadly.
‘It would be like living on your own island,’ Mikhalich said in a husky voice. ‘Or you could really live on your own island if you like. Your very own coconut Bounty bar. I’ll do everything for you.’
‘And what’s this island called?’ I asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘An island has to have a name. Ultima Thule, for instance. Or Atlantis.’
‘We can call it whatever you like,’ he said with a grin. ‘Is that really a problem?’
It was time to wind up the conversation.
‘Okay, Mikhalich,’ I said. ‘This is a serious decision. I’ll think about it, okay? For a week or so.’
‘Do that,’ he said. ‘Only bear this in mind. In the first place, now I’m the big shot in the apparat when it comes to oil. That’s a fact. It’s my stopcock all those oligarchs suck their oil out of. And they’d suck the other thing too, if I so much as frowned. And in the second place, just remember this. You like wolves, don’t you? I know about that. I’m a wolf, a real wolf. But the comrade colonel general . . . Of course, he holds a superior post, with immense responsibility. The whole department idolizes him. But just between you and me, my thing is twice as big.’
‘Please don’t go into detail.’
‘Okay then, no detail. But you think about it anyway - maybe it’s better with a decent detail after all? You know all about the comrade colonel general anyway . . .’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘And bear in mind that he’s vowed never to turn back into a man as long as the country has any external or internal enemies. Like comrade Sharikov did before . . . The whole department was in tears. But to be honest, I don’t think the enemies have anything to do with it. He just gets bored now being a man.’
‘I understand, Mikhalich. I understand everything.’
‘I know.’ He said. ‘You’re a clever one.’
‘All right. You go now. I want to be alone for a while.’
‘Why don’t you teach me that thing,’ he said wistfully, ‘you know, the
tailechery
. . .’
‘He told you about that as well?’
‘Nah, he didn’t tell me anything. We’ve got no time to waste on you now. We’re up to our eyes in work, you ought to understand that.’
‘And what sort of work is it?’
‘The country needs purging. Until we catch all the offshore fat cats, there’s no time for yapping.’
‘How are you going to catch them, if they’re offshore?’
‘Nagual Rinpoche has a nose for them. He can smell them through the wall. And he really didn’t tell me anything about the tails. I heard it on the instrument. You were arguing about them, about ... e-egh ... the best way to twist them together.’
‘You heard it on the instrument, I see. Okay, go now, you shameless wolf.’
‘I’ll be waiting for your call. You be sure to keep in touch with us. Don’t forget what country you live in.’
‘As if I could.’
‘All right then. Call me.’
He got up and walked towards the forest.
‘Listen, Mikhalich,’ I called to him when he was already a few metres away.
‘Eh?’ he asked, looking back.
‘Don’t wear that T-shirt. Andy Warhol died in nineteen eighty-seven. It makes it too obvious that you’re getting on a bit.’
‘I heard you have a few problems in that area yourself,’ he said imperturbably. ‘Only I still like you anyway. What difference does it make to me how old you are? Not going to shag your passport, am I? Especially since it’s a fake.’
I smiled. I had to admit that he did have charm - a werewolf is a werewolf.
‘Right Mikhalich, not the passport. You’ll be shagging dead Andy Warhol.’
He laughed.
‘Personally speaking, I’ve got nothing against it,’ I went on. ‘But it dismays me to think that you’re looking for him in me. Even though I like you so much as a
human being
.’
I had hit him with the most terrible insult possible in our circles, but he simply roared with laughter. The dumb stud was probably totally impervious.
‘So don’t wear that T-shirt, Mikhalich, really. It positions you as a gay necrophile.’
‘Can you say that in Russian?’
‘Sure. A stiff-shagging faggot.’
He chuckled, stuck his tongue out, waved the end about suggestively in the air and repeated:
‘Call, I’ll be waiting. Maybe we’ll get the entire department to think up an answer for you.’
Then he swung round and set off towards the forest. I watched the black square of his back until it dissolved into the greenery. Malevich sold here . . . But then, who needed these allusions any more.
I only have a very little left to say. I have lived in this country for a long time and I understand the significance of accidental meetings like this, of conversations ending with advice to keep in touch with the security services. I spent a few days sorting out my old manuscripts and burning them. In fact, the only sorting I did was to run my eye diagonally over the pages covered with writing before I threw them into the flames. I had accumulated an especially large number of poems:
She’s not a wingless fly on someone’s Thule,
He’s not a one who fears the night around.
The two night prowlers are the fox A Hu-Li
And her dark friend, the sudden Pizdets hound.
It saddened me most of all to burn the poems: I never had a chance to read them to anyone. But what can I do - my dark friend is too busy. I have only one task left to carry out now, and that is already close to completion (which is why my narrative is shifting from the past tense into the present). It is the task of which the Yellow Master spoke to me twelve centuries ago. I must reveal to all foxes how they can attain freedom. In effect, I have almost done this already - it only remains to draw together everything that has been said into clear, precise instructions.
I have already said that foxes use their tails to implant the illusion of this world in their own minds. This is expressed symbolically by the sign of the
uroborus
, round which my mind has been circling for so many centuries, sensing the great mystery that is concealed within it. A snake biting its own tail . . .