Antoine Volodine - Bardo or Not Bardo

Pressed against Schmollowski, Dadokian lets his heart out in torrents. Sometimes he sobs or moans. His speech is a jumble of confused syllables. They must be translated to get to their heart. Also sometimes Dadokian becomes quiet, petrified by disarray or shaken with tics. Schmollowski remains quiet as well. With his arm around Dadokian’s shoulders, he imagines himself as an Anonymous Red Bonnet receiving the fears and pain of another human, another victim of the terrible human condition. He looks at the black tracks at the bottom of the black dune, he thinks on the horror of life and of death, he listens to Dadokian and consoles him.

“One day,” Dadokian continues, “they started sending me messages. . They tried to control me with short waves sent directly into my skull. . While sleeping or not. . And it got worse and worse. . Even more than death, I began waiting for those messages. . I knew they would speak, but I didn’t know at what moment. . Do you see what I mean, Schmollowski? It’s like we’re stuck, we wait for it, it comes or it doesn’t come. . We’re afraid of waiting, we’re afraid of no longer waiting. . Time shortens or lengthens forever. . It’s like torture. .”

“I know that feeling, Dadokian,” Schmollowski says. “That’s what you feel in prison while serving a life sentence. You can’t stand the idea of life or the idea of death anymore. Time’s flow becomes unbearable. . It’s a torture, yes.”

They ruminate for an hour or two. They are sitting, thinking about the ordeals they suffered while alive. It comes to Schmollowski to turn toward Dadokian. He is still shuddering in his plaid shirt whose color is indefinable, in the shadows. Tics pull at the top of his right cheek. Schmollowski puts a hand on his forearm. Dadokian stifles a whimper.

“What kinds of messages?” Schmollowski asks.

“They sent me absurd messages, to mock me, or messages on the progress or delay of my death. On some days, they informed me that everyone was in the same boat, balanced between the dreadful and the useless, obligated to pretend not to care. The poor and the rich alike. . You know, Schmollowski, at the time, I was one of the rich. . One of those you took down with a rifle. . Eh? You took them down, eh?”

“Yes. In the past.”

“With a rifle, yeah, Schmollowski?”

“Yes, with a rifle, or a pistol, when they were close up.”

“Alright,” Dadokian says.

They sigh a little. They are recalling images from their distant pasts.

“There you go,” Dadokian picks up. “So I decided to reduce that universal suffering. . Since I could, yeah? I thought it’d be good to divide the world’s wealth into equal parts between everyone on the planet. . Starting with the bank I directed. . Was I wrong, Schmollowski? Huh? Tell me, you specialized in bankers. Was I wrong?”

“You were right, Dadokian. I was already behind bars when you. . It made noise. Even in the high-security sector, information circulated. I remember. It was in. . I don’t remember the year. A banker applying our minimum program! It was beautiful, Dadokian! It was beautiful!”

“Afterward, they put me in a madhouse. I was in the incurables wing. Does incurable mean anything to you, Schmollowski?”

“No. I was in with the politicals.”

“Ah, that’s right, yes. So they put me in there. The stockholders settled the problem in no time at all. My children too. The bank wasn’t divided into six-billion parts, in the end. They took everything away from me. My only possessions were my cadaver and my toothbrush.”

Dadokian goes quiet. He is quiet for another hour, then he starts again:

“We are all prisoners within our flesh and within walls. But those on the outside, why are they waiting to go mad? The parading princes, those who can buy everything with their dollars, one can understand how they resist. Strictly speaking. But the others? Huh, Schmollowski? The others?”

For a minute, Dadokian loses himself in insane mutterings. Suddenly, he returns to his normal elocution.

“Oh! Excuse me, Schmollowski,” he says. “I have to cut myself off here. My radio’s started back up again. Do you hear it?”

“No,” says Schmollowski. “For me, it’s a loudspeaker. It doesn’t broadcast anything during the day. Besides at daybreak, I just have silence.”

Dadokian shivers, as if a spider was running across his face and bothering him.

“Got it,” he says. “They’re sending messages right into my head. . Can you hear them now?”

“No,” says Schmollowski. “They don’t go from head to head.”

“Do you want me to repeat what they’re telling me?” Dadokian proposes.

“If you’d like,” says Schmollowski.

“Oh noble son, Dadokian!” Dadokian proclaims in a solemn voice. “Do not fear that which is facing you, dark green in color, and which in its numerous hands shakes sometimes a club, sometimes a bell, sometimes a scalp dripping with large drops! It’s only a bloodthirsty divinity, the divinity of the fourteenth day!”

“The divinity of the fourteenth day. .” Schmollowski whistles.

He whistles through his teeth. He is dumbstruck. Fourteen. That doesn’t match up with the number of days he thought had passed in the Bardo. That’s a lot more.

“That’s what they yell into my ears from inside my skull,” Dadokian says. “Crazy threats. They don’t leave me alone. . They control me. .”

“We’re already on day fourteen,” announces Schmollowski. “You see, Dadokian, it’s going by quickly, and we don’t even notice.”

“Even after my rebirth,” Dadokian laments, “even when they’ve forced me to inhabit a new body, they’ll continue to control me. . to talk to me inside my head. . You can’t escape their short waves. They have imperceptible systems. . They’ll find everyone. . Even if I hide in a new body, they’ll find me. .”

“Calm down, Dadokian,” Schmollowski says. “Don’t be scared.”

“And then, once they’ve reincarnated me, I’ll have to wait for death all over again. . That torture will start anew. .”

“We’re not there yet,” Schmollowski reassures him.

“And then, hang on, right now,” Dadokian whines. “This horrible wait they’re imposing on us. . The walk to the wombs. . Waiting to be reincarnated, waiting for life. . Waiting for them to give us a cadaver, as a parting gift. . What if they make a mistake? What if they put me in a bad fetus, huh? If I end up in the body of a spider, for example? I hate spiders. .”

“Don’t throw yourself into your fears, Dadokian,” says Schmollowski.

“Listen, Schmollowski,” Dadokian panics. “What if they shove me inside a spider?”

Dadokian trembles. He’s risen, he takes three steps one way, three steps another. He passes by the mound’s edge, where the slope starts, and he goes back. Schmollowski doesn’t accompany him in his panic. To the contrary, he finds him, he pulls him by his shirt’s sleeve, he embraces him somewhat, making him stay in place.

“Calm yourself, noble brother,” he says.

He has taken on the intonation of a Red Bonnet. He has chosen to exercise on Dadokian the peaceful authority of a bonze. It is not out of a taste for deception, but because he hopes it will better combat Dadokian’s suffering.

“Find your serenity,” he says. “Nothing around you is frightening. Do not fear what is happening to you.”

Dadokian is shaken with spasms, but he soon stops moving so disorderedly. Schmollowski speaks to him for a minute more as if he were a monk, then he lets an amicable silence settle between them, then he returns to his normal voice.

“We’re going to get out of here,” he promises. “We’re going to get out, both of us.”

“Schmollowski,” says Dadokian, “you won’t let me fall, will you? If I’m reborn as a spider. . or even a banker. . You’ll squish me right away, right?”