I walked down the stairs decorated with fleurs-de-lys and made it out into the street without any further adventures. A crowd, including several militiamen, had already gathered to the left of the exit - that was clearly where the unfortunate Sikh was lying. I walked in the opposite direction and a few steps later I was already round the corner. Now all I had to do was stop a taxi. One pulled over almost immediately.
‘Bitsevsky Park,’ I said. ‘The equestrian complex.’
‘Three hundred and fifty,’ the driver answered.
Today was his lucky day. I jumped into the back, sat down and slammed the door, and the taxi carried me away from the disaster that had seemed inevitable only five minutes earlier.
I had nothing to reproach myself for, but my mood had been spoilt. Apart from the fact that an entirely innocent man had died, I’d lost my job at the National - it wouldn’t be wise to show my face in there for the foreseeable future. That meant I’d have to look for other ways to earn a living. And starting from the very next day - my funds were running low, and the hundred dollars I’d given the security guard had thrown my budget into deficit.
An acquaintance of mine used to say that the evil in our lives can only be overcome by money. It’s an interesting observation, although not entirely flawless from a metaphysical point of view: what we should really talk about is not victory over evil, but the opportunity to buy it off temporarily. But without money evil is triumphant in just a couple of days, that’s proven fact.
I could have got rich, if I earned my living dishonestly. But a virtuous fox must support herself only by prostitution and never, under any circumstances, exploit her hypnotic gift for other purposes - such is the law of heaven, which it is not permitted to transgress. Of course, sometimes you have to. I myself had only just fuddled the brains of two security guards. But you can only do that kind of thing when your life and freedom are in danger. A fox should not even think about gullible money couriers. And if the temptation becomes too great, you have to inspire yourself with examples from history. Jean-Jacques Rousseau could have been swimming in money, but how did he earn a living? By copying out music.
Getting a spot in another hotel wasn’t easy, and for the foreseeable future I could only see two alternatives: streetwalking and the Internet. The Internet seemed more attractive, after all, it was at the cutting edge of modern progress, and selling myself on its fibre-optic sidewalks would be stylishly futuristic. How interesting, I thought, everybody’s always going on about progress. And what does it all mean? Just that the oldest professions acquire an electronic interface, that’s all. Progress doesn’t alter the nature of the fundamental processes.
The driver spotted my gloomy mood.
‘What’s up,’ he asked, ‘someone upset you, love?’
‘Aha,’ I said.
He’d been the last person to upset me, when he named a price of three hundred and fifty roubles for the journey.
‘Don’t you pay ’em any heed,’ said the driver. ‘You know how many times a day people upset me? If I thought about it every time, my head would be like a great big balloon full of shit. Pay ’em no heed, I tell you. By tomorrow you’ll have forgotten all about it. And life’s a long business, you know.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But how do you do that - pay no heed?’
‘Just don’t, that’s all. Think about something you enjoy instead.’
‘And where do I get that from?’
The taxi-driver squinted at me in the mirror.
‘Isn’t there anything you enjoy in your life?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes I do.’
‘All nothing but suffering, is it?’
‘Yes, and so’s yours.’
‘Well, now,’ the taxi-driver laughed, ‘you can’t know about that.’
‘Yes, I can,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.’
‘Why?’
‘I could explain. Only I don’t know if you’d understand.’
‘Well, get you!’ the driver snorted. ‘Do you think I’m more stupid than you are? I reckon I ought to be able to understand, if you can.’
‘All right. Do you understand that suffering is the material out of which the world was created?’
‘Why?’
‘That can only be explained with an example.’
‘Well, give me an example then.’
‘Do you know the story of Baron Münchhausen, who pulled himself out of a bog by his own hair?’
‘I do,’ said the driver, ‘I’ve even seen the film.’
‘The foundations underlying the reality of this world are very similar. Only you have to imagine Münchhausen suspended in a total void, squeezing his own balls as hard as he can and screaming in unbearable pain. Look at it one way and you feel kind of sorry for him. But look at it a different way, and he only has to let go of his own balls and he’ll immediately disappear, because by his very nature he is simply a vessel of pain with a grey ponytail, and if the pain disappears, then he’ll disappear as well.’
‘Did you learn that at school?’ the driver asked. ‘Or at home?’
‘Neither,’ I said. ‘It was on the way home from school. It’s a long journey, I get to see and hear all sorts of things. Did you understand the example?’
‘Sure I did,’ he replied. ‘I’m not stupid. So why’s your Münchhausen afraid to let go of his balls?’
‘I told you, then he’ll disappear.’
‘Maybe it would be better if he did? Who the hell needs a life like that?’
‘A good point. And that’s precisely why the social contract exists.’
‘Social contract? What social contract?’
‘Every individual Münchhausen can decide to let go of his own balls, but . . .’
I remembered the Sikh’s crayfish eyes and stopped. One of my sisters used to say that when a client slips off the tail during an unsuccessful session, for a few seconds he sees the truth. And for a man this truth is so unbearable that the first thing he wants to do is kill the fox responsible for revealing it to him, and then he wants to kill himself . . . But other foxes say that in that brief second the man realizes that physical life is a stupid and shameful mistake. And the first thing he tries to do is to thank the fox who has opened his eyes. And after that he corrects the error of his own existence. It’s all nonsense, of course. But it’s clear enough how these rumours get started.
‘But what?’ the driver asked.
I remembered where I was.
‘But when there are six billion Münchhausens holding each others’ balls arm over arm, the world is in no danger.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s very simple. Münchhausen can let go of himself, as you so correctly observed. But the more someone else hurts him, the more he hurts the two that he’s holding on to. And so on for six billion times. Do you understand?’
‘Shee-it,’ he said and spat, ‘only a woman could come up something like that.’