Read The Sacred Book of the Werewolf Online
Authors: Victor Pelevin
Tags: #Romance, #Prostitutes, #Contemporary, #Werewolves, #Fiction, #Literary, #Fantasy, #Russia (Federation), #General, #Paranormal
The Sacred Book of the Werewolf (37 page)
I was expecting him to ask about this true meaning, but instead he asked about something else.
‘What does that mean - you’ll “be able to comprehend this mystery five times”. Once you’ve understood something, why do you need to understand it another four times? You’re already in the know, aren’t you?’
‘On the contrary. In most cases, if you’ve already comprehended something, you’ll never be able to comprehend it again,
precisely
because you think that you know everything already. But in the truth there isn’t anything that can be understood once and for all. Since we don’t see it with our eyes but with our minds, we say “I understand”. But when we think we’ve understood it, we’ve already lost it. In order to possess the truth, you have to see it constantly - or, in other words, comprehend it over and over again, second after second, continuously. And that’s a very rare ability.’
precisely
because you think that you know everything already. But in the truth there isn’t anything that can be understood once and for all. Since we don’t see it with our eyes but with our minds, we say “I understand”. But when we think we’ve understood it, we’ve already lost it. In order to possess the truth, you have to see it constantly - or, in other words, comprehend it over and over again, second after second, continuously. And that’s a very rare ability.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I understand.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you’ll understand it in two days’ time. You’ll be left with the dead husks of words, and you’ll think there’s still something wrapped up in them. That’s what all the humans think. They seriously believe that they possess spiritual treasures and sacred texts.’
‘So what you’re saying is that words can’t reflect the truth?’
I shook my head in confirmation.
‘Two times two is four,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, for instance, you’ve got two bollocks and two nostrils. Two times two. But I don’t see any four in that.’
‘What if we add them up?’
‘How are you going to add nostrils to bollocks? Leave that sort of thing to humans.’
He thought about it. Then he asked: ‘And when’s the superwerewolf supposed to come?’
‘The super-werewolf comes every time you see the truth.’
‘And what is the truth?’
I didn’t answer.
‘What is it?’ he repeated.
I didn’t say anything.
‘Eh?’
I rolled my eyes up. That’s a facial gesture that really suits me.
‘I asked you a question, Ginger.’
‘Surely it’s clear enough? My silence is the answer.’
‘But can you answer in words? So that I could understand?’
‘There’s nothing there to understand,’ I replied. ‘When you’re asked the question “what is truth?” there’s only one way you can answer it without lying. You must see the truth within yourself, on the inside. But on the outside you must keep silent.’
‘And do you see this truth within yourself?’ he asked.
I said nothing.
‘All right, I’ll put it a different way. When you see this truth within yourself, what exactly do you see?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing? And that’s the truth?’
I said nothing.
‘If there’s nothing there, then why do we talk about truth at all?’
‘You’re confusing the cause and the effect. We don’t talk about truth because there’s something there. On the contrary, we think there must be something there because the word “truth” exists.’
‘Exactly. The word exists, doesn’t it? Why?’
‘Just because. Forever wouldn’t be long enough to untangle all the cunning tricks words play. You can think up an infinite number of questions and answers - you can put the words together this way and that way, and every time some kind of meaning will stick to them. It’s pointless. That sparrow over there doesn’t have any questions for anybody. But I don’t think he’s any further away from the truth than Lacan or Foucault.’
I thought he might not know who Lacan and Foucault were. Although they supposedly had that counter-brainwashing course . . . But in any case I knew I ought to express myself more simply.
‘In short, it’s all because of words that the humans are stuck up shit creek. And the were-creatures with them. Because even though we are were-creatures, we speak their language.’
‘But words exist for a reason, don’t they?’ he said. ‘If people really are stuck up shit creek, we need to understand why, don’t we?’
‘When you’re up shit creek, there are two things you can do. First - you can try to understand why you’re up there. Or second - you can get out of there. The mistake that individuals and entire nations make is to think these two actions are somehow interconnected. But they aren’t. And getting out of shit creek is a lot easier than understanding why you’re stuck up it.’
‘Why?’
‘You only have to get out of shit creek once, and after that you can forget about it. But to understand why you’re stuck up it takes a lifetime. Which you’ll spend stuck up there.’
We sat in silence for a while, gazing into the darkness.
Then he asked: ‘But even so. What do people have language for, if it gives them nothing but grief?’
‘In the first place, so they can lie. In the second place, so they can wound each other with the barbs of venomous words. In the third place, so they can discuss what doesn’t exist.’
‘And what does exist as well?’
I raised one finger.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘Why are you giving me the finger?’
‘I’m not giving you the finger, I’m pointing. There’s no need to discuss what does exist. It’s right there in front of you anyway. It’s enough just to point to it.’
We didn’t talk any more that evening, but I knew the first seeds had fallen on fertile ground. All I could do now was wait for the next opportunity.
In case anyone thinks our way of making love is a perversion (
tailechery
, he’d called it eh? You couldn’t forget that in a hurry) I advise them to take a closer look at what people do to each other. First they wash their bodies and remove the hairs from them, then they spray liquids on themselves to kill their natural smell (I remember Count Tolstoy was particularly outraged by that) - and all in order to make themselves fuckable for a short while. And after the act of love they immerse themselves once again in the humiliating details of personal hygiene.
tailechery
, he’d called it eh? You couldn’t forget that in a hurry) I advise them to take a closer look at what people do to each other. First they wash their bodies and remove the hairs from them, then they spray liquids on themselves to kill their natural smell (I remember Count Tolstoy was particularly outraged by that) - and all in order to make themselves fuckable for a short while. And after the act of love they immerse themselves once again in the humiliating details of personal hygiene.
Even worse than that, people are ashamed of their own bodies or dissatisfied with them: men pump up their biceps, women go to any lengths to lose weight and they have silicone breast implants put in. The plastic surgeons have even invented an illness, ‘micromastia’ - that’s when the breasts are smaller than a pair of watermelons. And they’ve started elongating men’s penises and selling special tablets so that they’ll still work afterwards. If there were no market in illnesses, there wouldn’t be any market in medicines - that’s the Hippocratic secret that doctors swear a solemn oath never to reveal.
Human amorous is an extremely unstable feeling. It can be killed by a few stupid words, a bad smell, sloppily applied make-up, a chance intestinal spasm, or absolutely anything at all. Moreover, this can happen instantaneously, and no human being has any control over it. And this impulse typically contains - to an even greater degree than everything else that is human - a bottomless absurdity, a tragicomic abyss, which the mind only finds so easy to bridge because it doesn’t even see it.
The best description I ever heard of this abyss was given by a certain red commander in autumn 1919 - after I fed him the magic mushrooms that I had collected right beside the wheels of his armoured train. He put it this way: ‘Somehow I can’t understand any more why it is that just because I like a girl’s beautiful and soulful face I have to fuck her wet, hairy cunt!’ It’s put in a coarse, peasant fashion, but the essential point has been grasped precisely. And by the way, before he ran off forever into the rain-soaked expanse of autumn fields, he expressed another interesting thought: ‘If you think about it, a woman’s attractiveness has less to do with her hairstyle or the lighting than with my balls.’
But people still indulge in sex - although, of course, in recent years mostly through a little rubber sack, to prevent anything encroaching upon their solitude. This sport, which was dubious enough to begin with, has now become like a downhill slalom: the risk to your life is about the same, except that it’s not the twists and turns in the piste that you have to watch, you have to make sure your ski-suit doesn’t come off. I find anyone who indulges in this activity absurd in the role of a moralist, and it’s not for him to judge what’s perverted and what isn’t.
Were-creatures’ attraction to each other is less dependent on impermanent external allure. But of course, it does play a part. I guessed that what had happened to Alexander would affect our intimate relations. But I didn’t think the trauma would go so deep. Alexander was as caring with me as ever, but only within strict limits: it was as if a barbed-wire fence had been erected at the point where formerly his affection had spilled over into intimacy. He evidently thought that in his new form I didn’t find him attractive. He was partly right - I couldn’t say that this black dog aroused the same feelings in me as the mighty northern wolf, one glimpse of which was enough to take my breath away. The dog was very cute, it’s true. But no more than that. It could count on my affection. But not my passion.
Only that was simply not important. We had abandoned vulgar human-style sex when we realized how far we could be transported into a fairy-tale fantasy by our intertwined tails. And so his metamorphosis was no more serious an obstacle to our passion than, say, the black underwear that he started wearing instead of grey. But he didn’t seem to understand this, imagining that I identified him with his physical receptacle. Or perhaps the sense of shock at what had happened and his irrational feeling of guilt were so intense that he had simply forbidden himself to think about pleasure - after all, men, with or without tails, are far more psychologically vulnerable than we are, for all their show of toughness.
I didn’t take the initiative. But not because I didn’t find him attractive any more. It’s always nice when the man takes the first step, and I instinctively followed that rule. Perhaps, I thought, he’s feeling miserable, and he needs time to come round. But one day he asked a question that allowed me to guess where his problems lay.
‘You were talking about that philosopher Berkeley,’ he said. ‘The guy who thought that everything only exists when it’s perceived. ’
‘Yes, I was,’ I agreed.
I really had tried to explain it to him, and I thought I’d achieved a certain degree of success.
‘So then sex and masturbation are the same thing?’
I was dumbfounded.
‘Why?’
‘If everything only exists by virtue of perception, then making love to a real girl is the same as imagining that girl.’
‘Not entirely. Berkeley said that objects exist in the perception of God. The idea of a beautiful girl is simply your idea. But a beautiful girl is God’s idea.’
‘Both of them are ideas. Why is it good to make love to God’s idea, and bad to make love to your own idea?’
‘And that’s Kant’s categorical imperative.’
‘I see you’ve got all the bases covered,’ he muttered, disgruntled, and walked off into the forest.
After that conversation I realized he was in urgent need of my help. But I had to help him without wounding his pride.
When he came back from his walk in the forest and lay down on a bamboo mat in the corner of my room, I said:
‘Listen, I was going through the DVDs we managed to bring with us. It turns out we have a film that you haven’t seen.’
‘And what are we going to watch it on?’ he asked.
‘On my notebook. It’s a small screen, but the quality’s good. We can sit close.’
‘What’s the film?’
‘
In the Mood for Love
, Wong Kar Wai. A pastiche of nineteen-sixties Hong Kong.’
In the Mood for Love
, Wong Kar Wai. A pastiche of nineteen-sixties Hong Kong.’
‘And what’s it about?’
‘It’s all about us,’ I said. ‘Two people living in rooms next door to each other. And gradually they start feeling fond of each other.’
‘Are you kidding?’
I picked up the box of the DVD and read the brief blurb out loud:
‘“Su and Chow lived in neighbouring rooms. Su’s husband and Chou’s wife are away all the time. Chow recognizes Su’s handbag, a gift from her husband. His wife has one just like it. And Su recognizes Chow’s tie, a gift from his wife. Her husband has one just like it. Though they say nothing, they realize that their marriage partners are being unfaithful with each other. What should they do? Perhaps they should simply surrender to the sweet music of the mood for love?”’
‘I didn’t understand a thing,’ he said. ‘All right then, let’s surrender ...’
I put the laptop on the floor and put the DVD in the disc drive.
For the first twenty minutes or so he watched the film without saying anything or reacting in any way. I knew the film off by heart, and so I didn’t really watch it, I watched him instead - out of the corner of my eye. He looked relaxed and calm. When I got the chance, I moved closer to him, sank my hand into his fur and turned him over on to his side, so that he was lying with his tail towards me. He growled quietly, still watching the screen, but didn’t say anything.
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