Victor Pelevin Chapaev and the Void

Victor Pelevin
Chapaev and the Void

Looking at horse faces and people's faces,

on the boundless live stream, raised
by my will and rushing to nowhere on the crimson
Sunset steppe, I often think:
where am I in this stream?
Genghis Khan

The name of the actual author of this manuscript, created in the first half of the twenties in one of the monasteries of Inner Mongolia, cannot be named for many reasons, and it is printed under the name of the editor who prepared it for publication. Descriptions of a number of magical procedures, as well as significant memories of the narrator about his life in pre-revolutionary St. Petersburg (the so-called "Petersburg Period") are excluded from the original. The genre definition given by the author – "a special rise of free thought" – is omitted; it should, apparently, be regarded as a joke.

The story told by the author is interesting as a psychological diary, which has a number of undoubted artistic merits, and in no way claims to be anything more, although sometimes the author undertakes to discuss subjects that, in our opinion, do not need any discussion. Some convulsiveness of the narrative is explained by the fact that the purpose of writing this text was not to create a "literary work", but to fix the mechanical cycles of consciousness in order to finally cure the so-called inner life. In addition, in two or three places, the author tries to point directly to the reader's mind rather than make him see another phantom made of words; unfortunately, this task is too simple for such attempts to succeed. Literary experts will probably see in our narrative just another product of the critical solipsism that has been fashionable in recent years, but the true value of this document lies in the fact that it is the first attempt in world culture to reflect the ancient Mongolian myth of Eternal Non-Return by artistic means.
Now let's say a few words about the main character of the book. The editor of this text once read to me the tank of the poet Pushkin:

And a dark year in which so many have fallen

Brave, kind and beautiful victims,
Barely left a memory of himself
In some simple shepherd's song,
Dull and pleasant.

Translated into Mongolian, the phrase "brave sacrifice" sounds strange. But this is not the place to delve into this topic – we just wanted to say that the last three lines of this poem can be fully attributed to the story of Vasily Chapaev.

What do they know about this man now? As far as we can judge, in the people's memory his image has acquired purely mythological features, and in Russian folklore Chapaev is something like the famous Khoja Nasreddin. He is the hero of an endless number of jokes based on the famous film of the thirties. In this film, Chapaev is represented by a red cavalry commander who fights with the whites, has long intimate conversations with his adjutant Petka and machine gunner Anka and finally drowns trying to swim across the Ural River during the white attack. But this has nothing to do with the life of the real Chapaev, and if it does, then the true facts are unrecognizably distorted by speculation and innuendo.
All this confusion is connected with the book "Chapaev", which was first printed by one of the Parisian publishers in French in 1923 and with strange haste reprinted in Russia. We will not waste time on proving her inauthenticity. Anyone can easily find a lot of inconsistencies and contradictions in it, and its very spirit is the best evidence that the author (or authors) had nothing to do with the events they are trying to describe. Note by the way that although Mr. Furmanov met with the historical Chapaev at least twice, he could not have been the creator of this book for reasons that will be seen from our narrative. Incredibly, many people still perceive the text attributed to him almost as a documentary.
Behind this forgery that has existed for more than half a century, it is not difficult to see the activities of generously funded and extremely active forces that are interested in keeping the truth about Chapaev hidden from the peoples of Eurasia for as long as possible. But the very fact of the discovery of this manuscript, it seems to us, speaks quite clearly about the new balance of power on the continent.
And the last. We have changed the name of the original text (it is entitled "Vasily Chapaev") precisely to avoid confusion with the widespread forgery. The title "Chapaev and the Void" was chosen as the simplest and most unsuggestive, although the editor suggested two other options – "The Garden of Divergent Petek" and "Black Bagel".
We dedicate the merit created by this text to the welfare of all living beings.
Om mani padme hum.

Urgan Jambon Tulku VII,

Chairman of the Buddhist Front
Complete and Final Liberation
(PO (b))

1

Tverskaya Boulevard was almost the same as it was two years ago when I last saw it – it was February again, snowdrifts and haze, strangely penetrating even into daylight. The same motionless old women were sitting on the benches; above, above the black mesh of branches, the same sky was gray, like an old mattress sagging to the ground under the weight of a sleeping God.

There was, however, a difference. This winter, a completely steppe blizzard was sweeping through the alleys, and if I met a couple of wolves, I wouldn't be surprised at all. The bronze Pushkin seemed a little sadder than usual – probably because a red apron with the inscription hung on his chest: "Long live the first anniversary of the Revolution." But I had no desire to be ironic about the fact that the anniversary was proposed to be healthy, and the revolution was written through "yat" – lately I had many opportunities to see the demonic face that was hiding behind all these short absurdities on red.
It was already getting dark. The Holy Monastery was barely visible behind the snowy haze. On the square in front of him were two trucks with high bodies covered with bright scarlet cloth; the crowd was swaying around, and the voice of the speaker could be heard - I could hardly make out anything, but the meaning was clear from the intonation and the machine–gun "r-r" in the words "proletariat" and "terror". Two drunken soldiers walked past me, rifles with fixed bayonets swinging behind their shoulders. The soldiers were hurrying to the square, but one of them, stopping at me with an insolent look, slowed down and opened his mouth, as if about to say something; fortunately–both his and mine–the second pulled his sleeve, and they left.
I turned and walked briskly down the boulevard, wondering why my appearance aroused the constant suspicions of all these bastards. Of course, I was dressed ugly and tasteless – I was wearing a dirty English coat with a wide flap, a military – of course, without a cockade – a hat like the one worn by Alexander II, and officer boots. But it wasn't just the clothes, apparently. There were a lot of people around who looked much more ridiculous. For example, on Tverskaya Street I saw a completely insane gentleman in gold glasses, who, holding an icon in his hands, was walking towards the black deserted Kremlin – but no one paid attention to him. I was constantly catching sidelong glances at myself and every time I remembered that I had neither money nor documents. Yesterday, in the station toilet, I put a red bow on my chest, but took it off immediately after I saw my reflection in the cracked mirror; with a bow, I looked not only stupid, but doubly suspicious.
However, it is possible that no one really kept their eyes on me longer than on others, and the blame for everything was high-strung nerves and the expectation of arrest. I had no fear of death. Perhaps, I thought, it has already happened, and this icy boulevard along which I am walking is nothing but the threshold of the world of shadows. By the way, it has long occurred to me that Russian souls are destined to cross the Styx when it freezes, and the coin is not received by the ferryman, but by someone in gray who rents a pair of skates (of course, the same spiritual essence).
Oh, in what detail I suddenly saw this scene! Count Tolstoy in a black leotard, waving his arms wide, rolled across the ice towards the distant horizon; his movements were slow and solemn, but he moved quickly, so that the three-headed dog, rushing after him with soundless barking, could not catch up with him in any way. A dull red-yellow ray of an unearthly sunset completed the picture. I laughed softly, and at that very moment someone's hand slapped me on the shoulder.
I stepped aside, turned around sharply, catching the butt of the revolver in my pocket, and was amazed to see Grigory von Ernen in front of me – a man I had known since childhood. But my God, in what form! He was dressed from head to toe in black leather, a box with a mauser dangled from his side, and in his hand was some kind of awkward obstetric bag.
"I'm glad you're still able to laugh," he said.
–Hello, Grisha," I replied. – It's strange to see you.
"Why not?"
– So. Strange.
– From where and where? – he asked cheerfully.
"From St. Petersburg,– I replied. – But where – I would like to find out for myself.
"Then come to me," said von Ernen, "I'm right here, alone in the whole apartment.
Looking at each other, smiling and exchanging meaningless words, we walked down the boulevard. During the time we did not see each other, von Ernen grew a beard that made his face look like a sprouted onion; his cheeks were weathered and flushed, as if he had been skating with great health benefits for several winters in a row.
We studied at the same gymnasium, but after that we rarely saw each other. I met him a couple of times in St. Petersburg literary salons – he wrote poems that resembled either Nekrasov, who indulged in sodomy, or Nadson, who believed Marx. I was a little annoyed by his manner of snorting cocaine in public and constantly hinting at his connections in social democratic circles. However, the latter, judging by his current appearance, was true. It was instructive to see on a man who was eager to talk about the mystical meaning of the Holy Trinity at one time, obvious signs of belonging to the army of darkness – but, of course, there was nothing unexpected in such a change. Many decadents like Mayakovsky, sensing the clearly infernal nature of the new government, hastened to offer her their services. By the way, I think that they were driven not by conscious Satanism – they were too infantile for that – but by an aesthetic instinct: the red pentagram perfectly complements the yellow jacket.
– How are things in St. Petersburg? von Ernen asked.
–You don't know," I said.
–That's right," von Ernen agreed, bored. – I know.
We turned off the boulevard, crossed the pavement and found ourselves at a seven–storey apartment building directly opposite the Palace Hotel - two machine guns were standing at the door of the hotel, sailors were smoking and a red muleta on a long stick was fluttering in the wind. Von Ernen tugged at my sleeve.
–Look at this,– he said.
I turned my head. On the pavement opposite the entrance stood a long black car with an open front seat and a curvy cabin for passengers. There was a lot of snow on the front seat.
- what? I asked.
–Mine,– said von Ernen. – Official.
–Ah,– I said. – Congratulations.
We entered the entrance. The elevator did not work, and we had to climb the dark stairs, from which the carpet had not yet been stripped.
– What are you doing? I asked.
"Oh," said von Ernen, "you can't explain it right away. There is a lot of work, even too much. One thing, another, the third – and all the time you try to keep up. First there, then here. Someone has to do it all.
– On the cultural side, or what?
He tilted his head vaguely to the side. I didn't ask any further.
Going up to the fifth floor, we came to a high door, on which a light rectangle from a torn plate stood out clearly. The door opened, we entered the dark hallway, and the phone immediately rattled on the wall. Von Ernen picked up the phone.
–Yes, Comrade Babayasin," he shouted into the ebony cup. – Yes, I remember... no, don't send… Comrade Babayasin, I can't, because it will be funny… Just imagine – with the sailors, it's a shame… What? I obey the order, but I declare a strong protest... what?
He squinted at me, and not wanting to embarrass him, I went into the living room.
The floor was covered with newspapers, and most of them had been banned for a long time – apparently, there were files in this apartment. There were also other traces of the former life – there was a lovely Turkish carpet hanging on the wall, and under it there was a secretary in multicolored enamel diamonds – when I looked at it, I immediately realized that a prosperous cadet family lived here. A large mirror was placed against the wall opposite. There was an Art Nouveau crucifix hanging nearby, and for a second I wondered about the nature of the religious feeling that could match it. A large part of the space was occupied by a huge bed under a yellow canopy. What was standing on a round table in the center of the room seemed to me – perhaps because of the proximity to the crucifix - a still life with motifs of esoteric Christianity: a liter of vodka, a heart–shaped tin can of halva, a ladder leading into the void from three pieces of black bread lying on top of each other, three faceted glasses and a cross-shaped tin can a knife.
There were bales lying on the floor near the mirror, the sight of which made me think of smuggling; the room smelled sour, of footcloths and fumes, and there were also many empty bottles. I sat down at the table.
Soon the door creaked and von Ernen entered. He took off his leather jacket, remaining in an emphatically soldier's tunic.
–The devil knows what they're charging," he said, sitting down, "here's a call from the Cheka.
– Do you work for them too?
– I avoid them as much as I can.