Bardo or Not Bardo. Antoine Volodine
moles in his ring.
“Strohbusch is moving fast,” said Maria Henkel. “He’s stomping on vegetables like they’re common couch grass. He’s going out of his way to avoid tripping over a group of hens. One of them is swarthy. The hens are fleeing and cackling in irritation, in a cloud of dust. Hang on, Strohbusch has two books instead of just one.”
“Give me that, Strohbusch,” Drumbog said, grabbing the two volumes. “So you see, you found them.”
“I hope my intuition didn’t fail me. I hesitated a little. I took a second of the same type, in case the first wasn’t . . .”
“For a moment, Strohbusch looks proud of himself,” Maria Henkel commented. “He feigns anxiety, but he is full of himself. He’s waiting for a compliment. And then, he notices that Drumbog is frozen in a sort of stupor.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly.
“What did you . . .” Drumbog stuttered. “What is this, Strohbusch? The Art of Preparing Dead Animals, a cookbook . . . And this one, Exquisite Corpses . . . An anthology of surrealist aphorisms!”
“I warned you,” said Strohbusch. “My intuition, I mean, I didn’t . . . It didn’t work . . . Sorry, it was a mistake . . .”
Drumbog’s mouth was hanging open. He had let go of the books. He had let go of Kominform.
“Mistakes, along with disloyalty to communism, seem to be your specialty,” he said.
Then he closed his mouth and twitched. He was now crossing his arms over his stomach. An intestinal cramp was making him twist oddly.
“Watch your mouth,” Strohbusch threatened.
“Fine,” Drumbog sighed. “Here’s what we’ll do. First of all, I need to excuse myself for a few minutes. I’m having digestive problems. Since I’m going back over there, I’ll look for the Thödol myself. You, during this time, need to keep him awake.”
“Okay,” said Strohbusch. “Should I press on his jugular or his carotid?”
“Don’t touch him,” Drumbog said. “I hereby forbid it. No, lean over him and read the books you’ve brought. The corpses or the recipes, it doesn’t matter. It’ll hold his attention, that’s better than nothing. Talk to him, Strohbusch, make some noise in his ear. His intellect must remain alert.”
“Drumbog is getting up now,” said Maria Henkel. “He’s trotting off, bent over from stomach pain. Sounds of feet on the dry ground. The fence is creaking beneath Kominform’s jolts as he vomits more blood.”
Cluckings of hens.
Kominform’s cardiac drum.
“Kominform, can you hear me?” asks Strohbusch. “Please don’t pass out . . . The old man’s gone to do his business, so you can speak in confidence . . . Say something, Kominform! Your commander commands it! Tell me the names of the moles who are still alive, who obey only you . . . Give me the passwords . . . Grandmother is dead, the revolution is dead . . .”
Kominform opened his eyes. It was the first time in a long time. He looked at Strohbusch, he closed his eyelids once more.
“Go fuck yourself, Strohbusch,” he said, slurring his words. “Grandmother isn’t dead, she’s crossing the Bardo, at this very moment . . . She’s going to be reborn . . . She doesn’t believe in your existence . . . You’re the demonic creatures in her hell . . . Grandmother’s going to be reborn . . . She’s going to reappear and sweep away your mafias, your millionaires, your know-it-alls . . .”
Kominform’s voice broke. His breathing and speech turned into gurgles. Maria Henkel was squatting at his side to capture the sounds. Strohbusch caught sight of the woman now less than a meter away from him. He hadn’t noticed her until then. He noted her beauty, the silvery, pure color of her feathers. Despite her questionable position and her suit’s transparency, his gaze wasn’t lecherous. One doesn’t gaze upon birds with sexual desire, after all. Almost at the same second, she left his mind, as if she didn’t exist, or like an object of the least importance.
“In the neighboring building, one can hear the sound of a toilet flushing,” Maria Henkel whispered, leaning her head on her shoulder. “A copper cord swinging, immediate torrent, water hammer in a pipe. At the same moment, Kominform is pronouncing several indistinct words. Kominform is struggling to make himself intelligible.”
“She’s going to be reborn,” Kominform said.
“Don’t pass out,” Strohbusch said, panicking. “You’re forbidden from passing out, Kominform!”
“You’re all fucked, you won’t have a chance against Grandmother,” Kominform babbled.
“Wait,” said Strohbusch. “Don’t be crazy. Focus. I’m going to read you some text like the old man said. Don’t lose consciousness, okay?”
He picked up one of the two volumes abandoned in the grass. He would have liked to have the time to find an appropriate passage, but, since this was an emergency, he realized he had to read whatever came up without being picky. He opened the work and broke the spine, as people who are used to disposable books are wont to do.
“Listen to me carefully, Kominform. Concentrate on what you hear. Don’t fall asleep. The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine. Whatever the old man said, I’m not sure about these kinds of sayings . . . Well anyway, think hard about what I’m going to read to you, Kominform . . . Waking up harms one’s core. Weasels eat cabbage and rations and cloves . . . To the last man, the committed musk ox through mistaken molasses . . . Hey, Kominform, up here, don’t pass out! Sand smothers the world with gongs, rubbish, and hooks . . . Don’t leave us, Kominform! Can you hear me?”
“Is that you, Strohbusch?” Kominform asked.
“Oh, you’re awake! I thought you’d blacked out . . .”
“I’m awake,” said Kominform. “I can even repeat what you were saying near me, just now . . . Prophetic phrases, Strohbusch. Taking up arms once more, we shall reestablish red passions in droves . . . To the last man, the communist must act to awaken the masses . . . Grandmother’s world is going to punish your crooks . . . The rest, I don’t know . . . I . . .”
“I should never have read you these insanities,” Strohbusch deplored.
“Strohbusch is throwing the exquisite corpses into a plantain bush,” said Maria Henkel. “He’s picking up the second volume. Inside the library, the flushing mechanism is worked impatiently. Then, through the little lavatory window, there’s Drumbog’s voice, severe, quavering, anxious.”
“Continue, Strohbusch! I’m coming!” Drumbog shouted. “Keep him in a state of lucidity! Read him the books! Doesn’t matter what! Maintain his perspicacity!”
“I’m doing my best!” Strohbusch shouted back at the lavatory window.
“Do better!” Drumbog ordered.
Drumbog’s impotent anxiety was infectious. Strohbusch shrugged. He found Kominform’s closeness to death extremely distressing. He was crushed by the weight of responsibility given to him. He cleared his throat.
“Strohbusch is once again approaching Kominform’s ears, heedless of the bloodstains,” Maria Henkel described. “He finds Kominform’s closeness to death extremely distressing, he’s almost forgotten what he wanted to get out of Kominform before the end, he suddenly feels invested with a sacred duty . . .”
“Listen to me, Kominform,” he said. “Receive my words in the precious heart of your precious conscience. I’m going to read you the recipe on . . . Page 23. Recipe for old-style chicken. Listen to me, noble son. Take some murdered chicken, preferably already plucked and eviscerated. Attack its cadaver, cut off the joints, slit the body with scissors, cut it up until you have ten or so unrecognizable pieces. You’ll have to put these fleshbits