Bardo or Not Bardo. Antoine Volodine
the name Abram Schlumm, and sometimes to Tarchal Schlumm, you are enveloped in coldness, you feel oppressed, you see and hear me less and less. The time of your death has come. Do not be frightened, you are not the first to meet death. Follow the example of those who knew how to cope. Chase all fear from your thoughts. Do not miss this exceptional opportunity to obtain the perfect state of being, and become Buddha, like all who . . .”
“The old man Drumbog is once again compressing Kominform’s arteries,” said Maria Henkel. “By his side, Strohbusch is tugging on the wounded man’s sleeve. He wants to get his attention, he has some things to tell him.”
“Listen to me, Kominform,” he said. “It’s me, Strohbusch: your commander. Grandmother is dead. All the underground networks have been deactivated, except for yours . . . They all have to be shut down, now . . . I’m going to take care of it, don’t worry . . . Give me your list of contacts, I’ll do the rest. I’ll deal with them personally . . .”
“Drumbog,” Kominform asked after wheezing, “who’s that guy circling around us? I could’ve sworn he mentioned Strohbusch’s name . . .”
He paused to vomit more blood. His pulse was in the sonic foreground. It remained there for several seconds, disordered and ominous. No one dared to speak. Strohbusch continued tugging on the wounded man’s sleeve, but without using much strength.
“Strohbusch, yes . . .” Kominform continued after hiccupping. “I remember a Strohbusch. A ladder climber . . . With a weak spine . . . He must’ve repented like the others . . . switched sides . . . I wouldn’t be shocked if he were a model social democrat now . . . Servicing any and every government around . . . He probably licks mafia men’s boots . . . Grandmother should’ve eliminated him like she’d planned when . . .”
“Grandmother doesn’t exist anymore!” Strohbusch pleaded. “No one’s talking about the world revolution anymore, everyone’s been retrained . . . in oil smuggling, in human rights, in the private sector, in war . . . Don’t think about Grandmother anymore, Kominform. Forget Grandmother! Live in your own time!”
“That’s enough, Strohbusch!” interfered Drumbog.
“Open your eyes, Kominform!” Strohbusch continued. “Earthly justice is dead! Give it up!”
“Enough, Strohbusch!” Drumbog thundered.
“The old man is using a tone so authoritarian that Strohbusch submits immediately,” Maria Henkel remarked. “The special governmental cleansing-team leader lets go of Kominform’s sleeve. He shakes his head. He is temporarily giving up on making Kominform speak. This is a man who concedes to authority, a man used to suffering humiliations in order to live in his time and stay in the race.”
“He’s going to die,” said Drumbog. “This is an exemplary individual, unwavering in his sacrifice. A moral rock. Don’t try to shake him, Strohbusch! People like him are one in a million . . .”
“Whatever,” Strohbusch grumbled. “If you say so . . . But you know, back in the day, I myself . . .”
“Make yourself useful,” said Drumbog, “instead of asinine. Help me. He can’t lose consciousness. He needs to stay lucid for his confrontation with the Clear Light.”
“I really don’t see what I could do,” Strohbusch objected.
“Someone has to keep him awake,” said Drumbog. “By any means necessary. And, at the same time, someone has to recite the book to him, so he doesn’t spend his last moments thinking about twaddle.”
“I could work on the arteries, I could, I could keep pressure on them,” Strohbusch proposed. “I saw how you were doing it earlier. If you want, I . . .”
“I used to know the book by heart,” Drumbog cut him off. “I could recite the whole thing. Page by page, my entire Bardo Thödol. From the first line to the last. But my memory’s not what it used to be. I need something in front of my eyes to remember . . .”
“Oh,” said Strohbusch.
“Go on, Strohbusch! Make yourself useful! See the stairs over there? The first door on the left . . . It’ll take you right to the reading room. No one will bother you. They’re all somewhere else, praying.”
“And what will I be doing in the reading room?” asked Strohbusch.
“You’re going to find a copy of the Bardo Thödol and bring it back to me! Posthaste!”
Strohbusch got up. He danced from one foot to the other. He hadn’t escaped the spatters when Kominform was coughing up blood, and now his suit was festooned with stains.
“It’s just that I don’t know how to read Tibetan,” he said, confused. “How am I going to . . . In a strange new library, how am I supposed to find . . .”
“You’ll find it,” Drumbog assured him. “There’s practically no chance at all you’ll get it wrong. Let your intuition guide you . . . You’ll know instantly when you see a book so profoundly connected with death . . . The title on the cover is in Tibetan, but the text itself is in a universal shamanic language . . . the language of the dead . . .”
“My intuition,” Strohbusch repeated skeptically. “But I don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?” the old man asked, getting angry. “Why haven’t you left yet? Hurry, yakdarnit! Run, Strohbusch!”
Maria Henkel took advantage of the situation to get out of the henhouse and go back to the tufts of dry grass that crackled in the sun. She felt more at ease on the small trail, it would seem, and, two steps away from Kominform, she had as complete a view of events as she did examining reality from behind the fence. Here she filled her lungs with more pleasant, less guano-laden, air. Her magnificent body was visibly pulsating. Her white suit censored no anatomical detail. The feathers on her face quivered as if there were a very light breeze blowing and carrying the echoes of bells and gongs. I had to fight the temptation to approach her, embrace her, or smile at her. Drumbog wasn’t looking at her. He was watching Kominform’s reactions, since he desired above all else to help Kominform become Buddha. That’s why he wasn’t looking at Maria Henkel, despite the moving spectacle she offered. Maria Henkel didn’t take offense. She wasn’t there to seduce anyone, only to photograph the present reality in words.
“The sound of Strohbusch’s quick steps,” she said. “Kominform’s death rattles. Echoes from drums, trumpets. Sometimes collective prayers seemingly murmured by old men, though the young also participate. Hens are scratching at the ground in the vegetable garden. They have shining but inexpressive eyes. They’re killing grasshoppers, ladybugs, spiders. They’re mutilating and eating them. The monk is preoccupied exclusively with Kominform. He’s bent over the hole-torn body, he’s propping him up, he’s speaking to him. He feels he urgently needs to recite the first part of the Book of the Dead, which contains directions for the dying. But he can only remember choice fragments from the Book of the Dead, disjointed phrases. The precise text has escaped his memory. He’s improvising while waiting for Strohbusch’s return.”
“Oh noble son,” said Drumbog, “your vital force will very soon pass through the nerve cluster in your bellybutton . . . You’re losing blood, soon you’ll lose your breath, too . . . A yellowish liquid will start leaking out of various orifices in your corpse . . . I know it’s not going to be fun for you . . . Life is nothing but a series of sorrows, death, too . . . It’s no fun for anyone . . . You aren’t the first to go on this adventure . . . Don’t fall asleep. You must stay awake . . . You must remain conscious for everything happening to you, from start to finish . . .”
“He’s muddling through,” said Maria Henkel.
“Think on the Clear Light,” Drumbog said. “Don’t let your thoughts wander onto anything else. Focus on the idea of that glow that will form before you, quick as a snap of the fingers . . .”
“Here’s Strohbusch, back from the library,” Maria Henkel announced.
Strohbusch