The Sacred Book of the Werewolf

Chapter Seventeen

That's a fine little phrase - 'he growled quietly, but didn't say anything'. But that's the way it was. Trying not to startle him, I lowered my jeans, freed my tail and . . .
Ah, what an evening that was! Never before had we plunged so deep into the abyss. During our previous erotic hallucinations I had always remained conscious of what was happening and where. But this time the feelings were so intense that there were moments when I completely lost all idea of who I really was - a Hong Kong woman with the Russian name Su, or a Russian fox with the Chinese name A Hu-Li. There were several occasions when I felt genuinely afraid, as if I'd bought a ticket for a roller-coaster that was too fast and too steep.
The reason for this lay in Alexander - the hypnotic fluence that emanated from him now was so powerful that I was unable to resist it. If only for a short while, I myself fell victim to suggestion and became completely immersed in the illusion. Once he bit me gently on the lobe of my ear and said:
'Don't scream.'
I hadn't even realized I was screaming . . . In short, it was a total blast. I realized now what our clients went through every time we put our tails to work. People had good reason to be wary of us. On the other hand, if I'd known what far-out feelings we gave them, I would have charged at least twice as much.
When it was all over, I was left lying beside him on the bamboo mat, gradually coming round. It felt like I had pins and needles all over my body - I had to wait for the circulation to restore itself. Eventually I felt strong enough to speak. By that time he had already become human.
'Did you like it?' I asked.
'Not bad. Good surveillance work. I mean, camera work. And the director's no slouch either.'
'No, I didn't mean the film.'
'What did you mean then?' he asked, raising one eyebrow.
I realized he was feeling more cheerful.
'You know what, Sasha, you know what.'
'If you mean you know what, then I liked the song a lot. Let's put it on again, shall we?'
'Which song exactly?'
'About the bandit Los Dios.'
I wrinkled up my forehead.
'What?'
'It's got this name in it,' he said in a slightly embarrassed voice. 'Maybe this Los Dios is not a bandit, I just thought so for some reason.'
'Bandit Los Dios? Where's that? Ah, I understand: "Y asi pasan los dias y yo desperando . . ." That's Spanish. "And so the days pass by, and I am in despair . . ."'
'Yes?'
'Yes. I can see now how people get prison terms in this country.'
'Just can't help teasing, can you,' he said amiably. 'So are we going to put it on? Or maybe we should watch the whole film again?'
The next day we watched the film again, then again and again. And every time that maelstrom reduced my soul to the same sweet desolation as the very first time. We lay side by side for a long time, resting. We didn't talk, there was nothing to talk about, and we had no strength left.
I liked to put my feet on him when he curled up into a big, black doughnut - sometimes he growled for effect, but I knew that he liked it just as much as I did. How fondly I recall those days now! It is wonderful when two beings find a way to bring each other happiness and joy. And what a prude you have to be to condemn them for not being like everybody else!
How many of those blissful moments were there, when we lay on the bamboo mat, relaxing, unable even to move? I think they add up to infinity. On every occasion, time simply disappeared, and we had to wait for it to work back up to its usual speed. How wisely life is arranged, I used to think in lazy contentment, as I listened to Nat King Cole singing our favourite song. He used to be so big, grey and rough. He was going to devour the sun. And he probably would have. But now there was a placid black dog lying at my feet, calm and quiet, and asking me not to tease him. Behold the ennobling influence of the female guardian of hearth and home. Such was the beginning of civilization and culture. And I had never even suspected that I could find myself playing this role.
Ah, dear Sasha, I used to think, you've never mentioned it. And I can't bring myself to ask about it . . . But you don't miss your old life as a wolf - so lonely and rootless, do you? You're happier with me than on your own - aren't you, darling?
Eh?
... Y tu, tu contestando:
Quizas, quizas, quizas . . .
I often wondered what sort of dog this was, as far removed from a wolf as a wolf from a fox. There were numerous mythological parallels, but I myself had never come across such a strange variety of were-creature. This blue-black canine seemed to be an inoffensive creature, but I had a gut feeling that there was some terrible secret concealed within him. The truth eventually emerged by accident.
The day had begun with a slight quarrel. We went out into the forest for a walk and sat down on a fallen tree, and I decided to amuse him by singing Li Bo's old Chinese song 'The Moon Above the Mountain Frontier Post'. I actually sang it quite well only, perhaps, in too high a voice - in ancient China that was prized especially highly. But my skill took a tumble at the cross-cultural barrier - when I'd finished singing, he shook his head and muttered:
'How did a Russian officer ever end up living like this?'
I was so offended I could feel myself flush.
'Don't give me that, what kind of Russian officer are you? You're the captain of the hitmen's brigade.'
'We don't kill anybody who's innocent,' he said icily.
'And who was it that sent the Shakespeare specialist Shitman to his death? Do you think no one knows?'
'What Shakespeare specialist Shitman?'
'And you don't even remember? The one who used to do blowjobs for a cigarette . . .'
'Listen, I reckon you've got psychological problems. First you have a fish head working as a bear, and then some Shitman dies, and I'm to blame for everything.'
'I just wanted to say that I know what you were doing at work. Yet I still love you.'
'That's the root of all my problems,' he said in a low voice. 'That you love me.'
I couldn't believe my ears.
'What? Just you say that again!'
'I'm joking, I'm joking,' he said hastily. 'You're always joking, so I thought I'd try it.'
The terrible thing was that what he'd said was absolutely true. And we both realized it. There was a heavy silence.
'And we didn't send Shitman to his death, we sent him to glory,' he said after a minute. 'And don't you go besmirching his memory.'
He was right, we had to change the subject.
'You mean to say he knew?' I asked.
'He must have, with some part of his mind.'
'So you have nothing to reproach yourself with?'
Alexander shrugged.
'In the first place,' he said, 'we have his application, the one he wrote in the insane asylum: "I want to see London and die", dated and signed. And in the second place, we had an expert consultation on the humanitarian aspect. The consultant said everything was okay.'
'Was that Pavel Ivanovich?' I guessed.
Alexander nodded.
'How did he ever come to work for you? Pavel Ivanovich, I mean.'
'He felt it was important for him to let us know about his repentance. A strange business, of course, but why turn a man away? Especially if his repentance is sincere. We always need information, you know - about cultural stuff, so we can tell who's with us and who isn't. And humanitarian consultations as well. So he became part of the team . . . Okay, let's drop it. Shitman's in God's hands now. That's if the Imams are telling the truth, of course.'
After that we didn't say a single word to each other all day until the evening - I was sulking with him and he was sulking with me: both of us had said enough. In the evening, when he was fed up with the silence, he started asking me the clues for a crossword.
That evening he was in his human body, and that made the room feel especially cozy. I was lying on a bamboo mat under a lamp and reading another of Stephen Hawking's books - The Theory of Everything (no more and no less). Alexander's questions distracted me from my reading, but I answered them patiently. I found some of them even more amusing than the book.
'What's the right spelling - hynaecological or gynaecological?'
'Gynaecological.'
'Gynaecological. Then it all fits. And I thought there was an "h" at the beginning.'
'That's because subconsciously you think of women as hyenas. '
'That's not true,' he said, and suddenly started laughing. 'Well, look at that . . .'
'Now what have you got there?'
'Gynaecological stomatology.'
'What - "gynaecological stomatology"?'
'There are two words in a line in the crossword. "Gynaecological" and "stomatology". If you read them together, it's funny.'
'You only think it's funny because you're ignorant,' I said. 'But that particular culturological concept actually exists. There's an American writer called Camille Paglia. She had this . . . No, it's not that she had one herself. Let's put it this way, she operates with the concept of the "vagina dentata". The vagina with teeth is a symbol of the formless, all-consuming chaos that opposes the Apollonian male principle, which is typified by the urge towards formal precision.'
'I know,' he said.
'Where from?'
'I've read about that. Lots of times.'
'In Camille Paglia?' I asked, incredulous.
'Nah.'
'Where then?'
'At the FSB Academy.'
'Counter-brainwashing?'
'Nope.'
'Then where exactly?' I persisted.
'In the wall newspaper,' he said reluctantly. 'It had a humour section called "smiles of all latitudes", and there was this joke in it: "What's scarier than an atom bomb? A cunt with teeth."'
I'd been expecting something of the sort.
'But why lots of times?'
'The wall newspaper was never changed in three years.'
'Okay,' I said. 'I get the picture.'
Evidently my tone of voice must have stung him.
'Why do you always have to reproach me for my ignorance,' he said irritably. 'Of course, you know more about all these "discourses" than I do. But I'm no knucklehead either, you know. It's just that my knowledge is in a different area, it's practical. Which happens to make it a lot more valuable than yours.'
'It depends how you look at it.'
'Whichever way you look at it. Supposing I learned this Camille Paglia off by heart. Then what would I do with her?'
'That depends on your inclinations, your imagination.'
'Can you give me even one example of how reading Camille Paglia has helped someone in real life?'
I thought about it.
'Yes, I can.'
'Well?'
'I had a client who was a spiritualist. He used to read Camille Paglia to the spirit of the poet Igor Severyanin during his spiritualist seances. And Igor Severyanin used to tell him, through the saucer, that he liked it very much and he'd always suspected something of the kind, only he'd never been able to formulate it. He even dictated a poem:
Ah, vagina dentata, this fleeting
assignation is strife.
Unforgettable is our meeting.
Clean and chaste is my life.
'There you see,' he said, 'I managed to lead this clean and chaste life perfectly well without any of your gynaecological stomatology, just as a soldier. And I helped my motherland.'
'And she paid you back, the way she usually does.'
'That's not something I need to be ashamed about.'
'Nobody's going to feel ashamed about it. Haven't you realized yet what kind of country you are living in?'
'No,' he said. 'And I never will. The world I live in is one I create for myself. By what I do in it.'
'Get you,' I said. 'If your FSB pals could have heard you now, they'd probably give you another medal. So you created this place for us, did you?'
'More like you did.'
I came to my senses.
'Yes, I'm sorry. You're right. Forgive me, please.'
'It's all right,' he said, and went back to his crossword.
I felt ashamed. I went over, sat down beside him and put my arms round him.
'What are we arguing about, Sasha. Let's have a howl, shall we?'
'Not right now,' he said, 'tonight, when the moon rises.'
I was left sitting there beside him, with my arm round his shoulders. He didn't say anything. After a minute or two I felt his body trembling slightly.
He was crying. I'd never seen him do that before.
'What's happened?' I asked affectionately. 'Who's upset my little boy?'
'No one,' he said. 'It's just me. Your Camille Paglia's to blame, with the teeth you know where.'
'But why should she make you cry?'
'Because,' he said, 'she's got teeth there, and now I've got claws there.'
'Where?'
'You know where,' he said. 'When I transform. Like a fifth leg. I couldn't bring myself to tell you.'
That was when everything became clear - that new secretiveness of his, and that aura of irrational dread that surrounded him when he became a dog. Yes, everything fell into place. The poor thing, how he must have suffered, I thought. Above all, I had to make him feel that he was dear to me even like that - if he couldn't see it for himself.
'You silly thing,' I said. 'So what? Grow a cactus there if you like. As long as your tail's safe and sound.'
'You really don't mind?' he asked.
'Of course not, darling.'
'And it's enough for you . . . You know, what we do?'
'More than enough.'
'Honestly?'
'Well since you've brought it up, I'd like to swap places. So that sometimes you can be Su and I can be Chow. I'm always Su.'
'No, I'm sorry, don't you go trying to turn me into a queer, on top of this business with the claws . . .'
'If you say so,' I said, 'I don't insist. You asked, and I told you.'
'Are we talking frankly now?'
I nodded.
'Then tell me, why haven't you given me a single blowjob all the times we've been in Hong Kong? Because I'm really a black dog?'
I counted up to ten to myself. After all, the fact that I couldn't stand the word 'blow-job' was my problem, not his - there was no point in taking offence.
'So you think you really are a black dog?' I asked.
'No,' he said, 'this black dog thinks that I really am him.'
'And that's why you're so rarely human nowadays?'
He nodded.
'I don't even want to be. After all, I've got nothing left here, apart from you. Everything's on that side now . . . And it's not mine, it's his. You were right when you said that words just mess with your head. So what about that blowjob?'
I counted to ten again, but I still couldn't help myself.
'Can I ask you please not to use that word in my presence?'
He shrugged and gave a crooked smile.
'Now I'm not even allowed to use words. Only you can do that, is that it? You're always putting me down, Ginger.'
I sighed. When it comes down to it, all men are the same, and they only want one thing from us. And it's a good thing if they still want that, said one of my inner voices.
'Okay, put the movie on. But not from the beginning, from track three . . .'
As always, following our insane and shameless Hong Kong rendezvous we took a long rest. I looked up at the ceiling, at the rough concrete lit by the electric bulb, resembling the surface of some ancient heavenly body. He lay beside me. What a sweetie, I thought, how touching his love is. After all, this is all so new to him. Compared to me, that is. It's a tough break for the poor boy, with those claws. But I once heard something about a dog with a fifth leg . . . Only what was it exactly? I can't remember.
'Hey!' he said to me. 'How are you doing?'
'Fine,' I replied. 'Did you enjoy that?'
He looked at me.
'Honestly?'
'Honestly.'