Buddha's Little Finger Page 12

  I spent the next half-hour adding black blotches of shrapnel shell-bursts to the sky over the wheatfield. I drew them all identically - a small dense black cloud of solid charcoal, and fragments scattering like arrows in all directions, leaving long trails of dark red behind them.

  The result was very similar to that well-known painting by Van Gogh, the name of which I cannot recall, where a black cloud of crows looking like thick, crudely drawn ‘V’s circles above a field of wheat. I thought of how hopelessly despairing the condition of the artist is in this world: at first the thought gave me a certain bitter satisfaction, but then I suddenly felt it to be unbearably false. It was not merely a question of its banality, but of its institutional meanness: everybody involved in art repeated it in one way or another, classifying themselves as members of some special existential caste, but why? Did the life of a machine-gunner or a medical orderly, for instance, lead to any other outcome? Or were they any less filled with the torment of the absurd? And was the unfathomable tragedy of existence really linked in any way with the pursuits in which a person was engaged in their lifetime?

  I turned to look at my companions. Serdyuk and Maria were absorbed in the bust of Aristotle (Maria was concentrating so hard that he had even stuck the tip of his tongue out of his mouth), but Volodin was attentively following the changes in the drawing on my sheet of cardboard. Catching my gaze on him, he smiled inquiringly at me.

  ‘Volodin,’ I began, ‘may I ask you a question?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘What is your profession?’

  ‘I am an entrepreneur,’ said Volodin, ‘or a new Russian, as they say nowadays. At least, I was. But why do you ask?’

  ‘You know, I was just thinking… People go on and on about the tragedy of the artist, the tragedy of the artist. But why the artist in particular? It is really rather unfair. The fact is, you see, that artists are very visible individuals and therefore the troubles that they encounter in life are bandied about and exposed to the public eye… but does anyone ever think about… Well, no, they might well remember an entrepreneur… Let us say, an engine-driver? No matter how tragic his life might be?’

  ‘You’re coming at the question from the wrong side entirely, Pyotr.’ said Volodin.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re getting your concepts confused. The tragedy doesn’t happen to the artist or the engine-driver, it takes place in the mind of the artist or the engine-driver.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Granted, granted,’ Volodin purred and turned back to his drawing-board.

  It was several seconds before Volodin’s words sank in and I realized what he meant. But the mental listlessness induced by the injection completely blocked out any response.

  Turning back to my sheet of cardboard, I drew in several columns of thick black smoke above the field, using up all my charcoal. Together with the dark spots of the shrapnel-bursts, they lent the picture a certain air of menace and hopelessness. I suddenly felt unwell, and I dedicated myself to covering the horizon with small figures of horsemen galloping through the wheat to cut off the attackers.

  ‘You missed your vocation - you should have been a battle artist,’ observed Volodin. From time to time he would look up to glance at my sheet of cardboard.

  ‘A fine comment, coming from you.’ I replied. ‘After all, you are the one who keeps drawing an explosion in a camp-fire.’

  ‘An explosion in a camp-fire?’

  I pointed to the wall where the drawings hung.

  ‘If you think that’s an explosion in a camp-fire, then I have nothing more to say to you,’ replied Volodin, ‘nothing whatsoever.’

  He seemed to have taken offence.

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘It’s the descent of the light of heaven,’ he answered. ‘Can’t you see that it comes down from on high? It’s drawn like that deliberately.’

  My mind raced through several consecutive conclusions.

  ‘Can I assume, then, that they’re keeping you here because of this heavenly light?’

  ‘You can,’ said Volodin.

  ‘That’s hardly surprising,’ I said politely. ‘I sensed immediately that you were no ordinary man. But what exactly have they charged you with? With having seen that light? Or with attempting to tell others about it?’

  ‘With being the light,’ said Volodin. ‘As is usual in such cases.’

  ‘I must assume that you are joking,’ I said. ‘But seriously?’

  Volodin shrugged.

  ‘I had two assistants,’ he said, ‘about your age. You know, garbage men - they were very useful for cleaning up reality, you can’t do business without them these days. They’re in the drawing here, by the way - see, those two shadows. Well, to cut it short, I made it a rule to discuss such exalted subjects with them. And then one day we happened to go into the forest and I showed them - I don’t even know how to explain it - the way everything is. I didn’t even show them - they saw it all for themselves. That’s the moment shown in the drawings. And it had such an effect on them that a week later they ran off and turned me in. Stupid idiots, each of them had a dozen stiffs to answer for, but they still reckoned that was nothing compared with what they had to report. Modern man has the very basest of instincts, let me assure you.’

  ‘Indeed you are right,’ I replied, thinking of something else entirely.

  For lunch Barbolin led us to a small dining-room rather like the room with the baths, except that the place of the baths was taken by plastic tables situated next to a serving-hatch. Only one of the tables was laid. We hardly spoke at all during the meal. When I had finished my soup and begun eating my gruel I suddenly noticed that Volodin had pushed away his plate and was staring hard at me. At first I tried not to pay any attention, but then I could stand it no longer, and I looked up and stared boldly into his eyes. He smiled peaceably - in the sense that there was nothing menacing in his expression, and said:

  ‘You know, Pyotr, I have the feeling that you and I have met in circumstances that were extremely important - for me, at least.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Do you by any chance have an acquaintance with a red face, three eyes and a necklace of skulls,’ he asked, ‘who dances between fires? Mm? Very tall, he was. And he waves these crooked swords around.’

  ‘Maybe I do.’ I said politely, ‘but I cannot quite tell just who it is you have in mind. The features you mention are very common, after all. It could be almost anybody.’

  ‘I see,’ said Volodin, and he went back to his plate.

  I reached out for the teapot in order to pour some tea into my glass, but Maria shook his head.

  ‘Better not.’ he said. ‘Bromide. Takes away your natural sexuality.’

  Volodin and Serdyuk, however, drank the tea without appearing in the slightest manner concerned.

  After lunch we went back to the ward and Barbolin immediately disappeared off somewhere. My three companions were obviously accustomed to such a routine and fell asleep almost as soon as they had laid down on their beds. I stretched out on my back and stared at the ceiling for a long time, savouring the state, rare for me, of an entirely empty mind, which was possibly a consequence of the morning’s injection.

  In fact, it would not be entirely correct to say that my mind was empty of all thoughts, for the simple reason that my consciousness, having entirely liberated itself of thought, continued nonetheless to react to external stimuli, but without reflecting upon them. And when I noticed the total absence of thoughts in my head, that in itself became already a thought about the absence of thoughts. Thus, I reasoned, a genuine absence of thoughts appeared impossible, because it cannot be recorded in any way - or one might say that it was equivalent to non-existence.

  But this was still a marvellous state, as dissimilar as possible from the routine internal ticking of the everyday mind. Incidentally, I have always been astounded by one particular feature typical of people who are unaware of their
own psychological processes. A person of that kind may be isolated for a long period from external stimuli, without experiencing any real needs, and then, for no apparent reason, a spontaneous psychological process suddenly arises within him which compels him to launch into a series of unpredictable actions in the external world. It must appear very strange to anyone who happens to observe it: there is the person lying on his back, he lies there for an hour, for two, for three, and I hen suddenly leaps up, thrusts his feet into his slippers and sets out for goodness knows where, simply because for some obscure reason - or perhaps without any reason at all - his I fain of thought has gone dashing off in some entirely arbitrary direction. The majority of people are actually like that, and it is these lunatics who determine the fate of our world.

  The universe that extended in all directions around my bed was full of the most varied sounds. Some of them I recognized - the blows of a hammer on the floor below, the sound of a shutter banging in the wind somewhere in the distance, the cawing of the crows - but the origin of most of the sounds remained unclear. It is astonishing how many new things are immediately revealed to a man who can empty out the fossilized clutter of his conscious mind for a moment! It is not even clear where most of the sounds that we hear actually «ome from. What then can be said about everything else, what point is there in attempting to discover an explanation tor our lives and our actions on the basis of the little that we believe we know! One might just as well attempt to explain the inner life-processes of another individual’s personality through the kinds of phantasmagorica I social constructs employed by Timur Timurovich, I thought, and suddenly remembered the thick file on my case that I had seen on his desk. Then I remembered that when he left, Barbolin had forgotten to lock the door. And instantly, in a mere split second, an insane plan had taken shape in my mind.

  I examined my surroundings. No more than twenty minutes had passed since the beginning of the rest hour, and my three companions were asleep. It seemed as though the entire building had fallen asleep together with them - in all that lime not a single person had passed the door of our ward. Carefully pulling off my blanket, I thrust my feet into my slippers, stood up and stealthily made my way over to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ came a whisper from behind my back.

  I turned round. Maria’s eyes were focused keenly on me from the corner of the room. I could just see him through the narrow gap in the blanket in which he had wrapped himself from head to toe.

  To the toilet.’ I said in a similar whisper.

  ‘Don’t play the brave soldier,’ whispered Maria, ‘the pot’s over there. If they catch you it’s a day in the isolation ward.’

  ‘They won’t catch me.’ I whispered in reply and slipped out into the corridor.

  It was empty.

  I vaguely remembered that Timur Timurovich’s office was located beside a tall semi-circular window, which looked straight out on to the crown of a huge tree. Far ahead of me, at the point where the corridor in which I was standing turned to the right, I could see bright patches of daylight on the linoleum. Crouching down, I crept as far as the corner and saw the window. I immediately recognized the door of the office by its magnificent gilt handle.

  For several seconds I stood there with my ear pressed to the keyhole. I could not hear a sound from inside the office, and finally I ventured to open the door slightly - the room was empty. Several files were lying on the desk, but mine, which was the thickest (I remembered its appearance very clearly) was no longer in its former place.

  I glanced around in despair. The dismembered gentleman on the poster returned my gaze with inhuman optimism; I felt sick and terrified. For some reason I felt that the orderlies were sure to enter the office at any moment. I was on the point of turning and running out into the corridor when I suddenly noticed a file lying open beneath other papers which were set out on the table.

  ‘A course of taurepam injections prescribed to precede the hydraulic procedures. Purpose - to block speech and motor functions with simultaneous activation of the psycho-motor complex

  There were a few more words in Latin. Pushing these papers to one side, I turned over the cardboard sheet of the file beneath and read the words on it:

  ‘Case: Pyotr Voyd.’

  I sat in Timur Timurovich’s chair.

  The very first entry, on a few bound sheets of paper placed in the file, was so very old that the purple ink in which it had been written had faded, acquiring the kind of historical colour I hat one finds in d o c u m e n ‘I s which speak of people long since dead and buried. I was soon absorbed in what I read.’

  In early childhood no signs of psychological deviance were de lected. He was a cheerful, affectionate, sociable child. Studied well nt school, enjoyed writing verse which did not demonstrate any particular aesthetic merit. First pathological deviations recorded at about fourteen years of age. Tendency to withdrawal and irritabil-it у observed, unrelated to any external causes. According to parents he ‘abandoned the family’; moved into a state of emotional alienation. Stopped associating with his friends - which he explains by the fact that they teased him about his Estonian surname Voyd «. Says that his teacher of geography used to do the same, repeatedly calling him an «empty shell». Began to make much slower progress at school At the same time began intensively reading philosophical literature - the works of Hume, Berkeley, Heidegger - everything which in one way or another deals with the philosophical aspects of emptiness and non-existence. As a result began to analyse the simplest events from a «metaphysical» point of view and declared that he is superior to his peers in «the heroic valour of life». Began frequently skipping classes, following which his family were obliged to contact a doctor.

  ‘Willingly enters into contact with the psychologist. Trusting. Concerning his inner world declares as follows: he has «a special conception of the world». The patient reflects «long and vividly» on all objects around him. In describing his psychological activity he declares that his thought «gnaws its way deeper and deeper into the essence of a particular phenomenon». Due to this feature of his thinking he is able to «analyse any question asked, each word and each letter, laying them out like an anatomical specimen», while in his mind he has a «ceremonial choir of numerous selves arguing with each other». Has become extremely indecisive, which he explains, in the first instance, by the experience of «the ancient Chinese» and secondly by the fact that «it is difficult to make sense of the whirlwind of scales and colours of the contradictory inner life». On the other hand, according to his own words, he is gifted with a «peculiar flight of free thought» which «elevates him above all other laymen». In this connection complains of loneliness and lack of understanding from those around him. The patient says there is no one capable of thinking «on his wavelength».

  ‘Believes he can see and feel things unattainable to «laymen». For instance, in the folds of a curtain or tablecloth, the patterns of wallpaper etc. he distinguishes lines, shapes and forms which express «the beauty of life». According to his words, this is his «golden joy», that is, the reason for which he daily repeats the «involuntary heroism of existence».

  ‘Regards himself as the only successor to the great philosophers of the past. Spends much time rehearsing «speeches to the people». Does not find placement in a psychiatric hospital oppressive, since he is confident that his «self-development» will proceed by «the right path» no matter where he lives.’

  Someone had crossed out several purple phrases with a thick blue pencil. I turned the page. The next text was titled ‘organoleptic indications’, and was obviously burdened with a superfluity of Latin terms. I began rapidly leafing through the pages. Those written in purple were not even bound into the file - they had most probably slipped in there by accident from some other file. A page had been inserted in front of the following set of papers, which was the thickest, and on it I read the words: THE PETERSBURG PERIOD

  (Provisional title taken from the most persistent featu
re of delusions. Repeated hospitalization.)

  But I had no chance to read a single word from the second part. I heard Timur Timurovich’s voice in the corridor, exas-peratedly explaining something to someone else. Rapidly returning the papers on the desk to approximately the same position in which they had been lying before my arrival, I dashed over to the window - the idea occurred to me of hiding behind the curtains, but they hung almost flush against the glass.

  Timur Timurovich’s rumbling voice sounded very close to the door by this time. He seemed to be giving one of the orderlies a dressing-down. Stealing over to the door, I glanced through the keyhole. I could see no one - the owner of the office and his companion were apparently standing several yards away round the corner.

  The action I took then was in large measure instinctive. I quickly left the office, tip-toed across to the door opposite and dived into the dark and dusty broom-cupboard behind it. I was only just in time. The conversation round the corner stopped abruptly and a second later Timur Timurovich appeared in the narrow space which I could observe through the crack of the door. Cursing quietly to himself, he disappeared into his office. I counted to thirty-five (I do not know why it was thirty-five - nothing in my life has ever been associated with that number), then darted out into the corridor and ran noiselessly back to my ward.

  Nobody noticed my return - the corridor was empty, and my companions were asleep. A few minutes after I lay down on my bed the melodic chimes of reveille came drifting along the corridor; almost simultaneously Barbolin came in and said they were going to defumigate the ward, and so today we would be having a second session of practical aesthetics therapy.