Bardo or Not Bardo. Antoine Volodine
they actually want you to eat the chicken?” he protested. “They make it sound disgusting . . .”
“Keep reading!” Drumbog shouted from the lavatory. “His insight has to be keener than ever!”
“Strohbusch is continuing with his interrupted reading,” Maria Henkel narrated. “He is talking to Kominform about bodily fragments that must be burnt, seared and caramelized dermis, dissolving fat, juices. The nearby hens are cackling, deaf to this depiction of their future. Kominform is mumbling a few unclear half-sentences. The sun is shining. The ceremony over yonder is in a phase of calm with little gong. Drumbog is flushing the toilet once more. A door closes, the lavatory door, another opens, the library’s, then slams. Drumbog reappears, he is now moving like a hurried nonagenarian, an enrobed nonagenarian. He is holding a grime-caked volume in his right hand.”
“Here, see?” he said to Strohbusch, showing him the book. “It’s not witchcraft, it’s the Bardo Thödol.”
Maria Henkel took a step to the side. She didn’t want to be in the action’s or actors’ way.
“He’s leaning over Kominform,” she continued. “He’s opening the book and, moving on, he’s reading it.”
“Oh noble son, Kominform, do not let yourself become distracted, stay awake, listen to what I am going to tell you. You are going to die, but you are neither the first to leave this world, nor the only one. Do not be weak, regret nothing. Your heart has always done the right thing. You have spread the idea of a strict equality between all men. You have striven to liberate everyone from the ridiculous ties that bind them to material goods, to material wealth, to the power it brings . . . Now, you yourself are going to carry out your program to its most luminous conclusion . . . You have the chance to liberate yourself completely, little brother, sever all ties, renounce individuality . . . I’m going to read you the instructions . . .”
“Grandmother’s coming back,” said Kominform.
He began to gasp and cough.
“It’s a deplorable sight,” Maria Henkel commented. “Kominform is having difficulty spitting out his words, they’re stuck on his lips as a bubbly paste. The words are running down his chin, unintelligible, crimson . . . The dying man’s cardiac rhythm has no more logic to it. His disorderly heart is fighting against death’s invasion.”
“Yes,” said Kominform, in between death rattles. “Grandmother’s going to come out of her sleep . . . She’s going to rise up like a typhoon from nowhere . . . Strengthened by her experience in death she’s going to rise up, it’s certain now . . . The tattered ones will stand behind her . . . The poor have quadrupled in number since Grandmother . . . They’re going to rise up and march . . . The rioters are going to swarm . . .”
“Do not fear what is approaching, Kominform,” said Drumbog. “Look inside yourself for reasons to stay lucid.”
“They’ll be invincible,” continued Kominform. “Everywhere they’ll put inequality to the flame . . . They’re going to build the kingdom of the poor . . . Finally everything on this planet will be shared, down to the last crumb . . .”
“Do not fear what is approaching, Kominform,” said Drumbog. “Do not let yourself be overwhelmed by drowsiness or fear.”
“I don’t think he’s listening to you,” Strohbusch remarked. “His consciousness is giving out. In my opinion, he’s just about to tumble into the void.”
“He shouldn’t be tumbling regardless!” Drumbog shouted, losing his cool. “He can’t leave like an idiot, as if . . . as if he were sleeping! That’d be a disaster! He’d risk missing his meeting with the light!”
Strohbusch made an imprecise gesture.
“Strohbusch is making an imprecise gesture,” said Maria Henkel. “He would like to push the moment of Kominform’s death back, but he feels it’s inevitable and very close. In his eyes, Drumbog has gone off on a meaningless flight of fancy. Kominform’s beating heart is still audible, but it is weakening.”
“He’s dying,” said Strohbusch. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“Help me, Strohbusch,” said Drumbog. “We’re going to find a way to sharpen his attention, we can’t let him go out like this! Talk to him! Talk to him on your side, while I read the book into his left ear! We can’t let his consciousness vanish!”
“What am I saying to him?” Strohbusch asked.
Both of them were panicking. They were shaking like there was nothing more they could do. They stepped on the fence partially wrapped around Kominform’s body. The fence squealed.
“From the text! Speak from the text,” Drumbog shouted. “Didn’t you bring some books? Open one and read!”
“Which one?” Strohbusch anguished. “The exquisite corpses or the chicken recipes?”
“Doesn’t matter!” said Drumbog. “Read them at random! Speak solemnly so he thinks about death! But above all stop dilly-dallying! Act, Strohbusch, speak!”
The wire fence was creaking less now. Everyone had found his right place. Kominform’s head was held up by the monk’s arm, as if the monk perched over him wanted to kiss him on the left cheek. Very close to his right cheek, Strohbusch was speaking. Kominform’s face no longer seemed to be suffering, he even looked to be in a certain peace. He looked like he was sleeping.
Maria Henkel was slowly circling around the group to catch the best parts, or at least a few details. She had an unreal presence as a swan-colored researcher. She was superb under the sun, in the summer light. No one paid her any heed.
“Now,” Maria Henkel said, “Kominform’s muscles have relaxed. Kominform is beginning to wallow in his death. His breath can no longer be heard, the sounds his heart is still producing are barely distinguishable. In turns or together, Drumbog and Strohbusch are addressing him. They would like him to contemplate the surrounding depths as he crosses over to the other side, tranquilly, without vertigo.”
Drumbog and Strohbusch are speaking into Kominform’s ears, each on one side, each in turn or together.
“Do not let yourself be overwhelmed by fear,” the old monk said. “Your journey is beginning, Kominform, but I shall guide you through its first moments, and I shall guide you afterward, day after day. Fear nothing. Do not regret leaving your loved and hurt ones behind, unable to bring them to the light. Others will come to carry out your task. Go in peace. Detach yourself now. The moment has come. Break from your memories. Prepare yourself to enter into a state in which you will be neither dead nor living. Rest assured, noble son, there is nothing terrible there. During your stay in the Bardo, you will have manifold opportunities to confront the Clear Light. Go toward the light, noble son, prepare yourself, starting now, to be confronted by it. Remember that only your fusion with the Clear Light will keep you from being reborn once again and from suffering.”
“The yellow bride makes bubbles,” said Strohbusch. “I repeat: The yellow bride makes bubbles . . . As you munch your salads the wild bird finds bloodpaths . . . The defaced suns buy the music box . . . The viola de gamba muddles the viola de gamba . . . Back from the harvest, the youngster’s oldest girl chases our crawfish . . . Junks in pocket, you went back up June 27th Avenue, toward the wood stove . . . I repeat: Junks in pocket, you went back up June 27th Avenue, toward the wood stove . . . The three drowned men have enriched the silence of the vaults . . .”
“Once you are in the presence of the Clear Light,” said Drumbog, “do not draw back, do not take a millimeter of a step backward, think only of dissolving into it, go toward it and be dissolved in it without regret.”
“On Karelian dragonflies an artilleryman chooses the silt,” said Strohbusch. “If the love is gone the beautiful pianist will make her magical farmstead . . . I repeat: If the love is gone the beautiful pianist will make her magical farmstead . . .”
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