Antoine Volodine - Bardo or Not Bardo

He’s having trouble catching his breath.

Schmollowski doesn’t respond.

Everything around them is black, there is no change in the sky no matter the hour. The trail at the bottom of the dune can be seen, but, after several meters, the footprints dissolve into the shadows.

After Dadokian’s crisis, Schmollowski sits back down on the ground. For a moment, he thought about leaving the dune’s summit and disappearing, but he reconsidered. He could have said farewell to Dadokian and left his side, to follow his destiny, but ultimately, he stayed. He knew Dadokian needed him, which figures into his consideration. Let’s not forget that Schmollowski’s actions are guided by a solid egalitarian morality, to which is added some elementary Buddhism. He’s folded his long skinny legs back underneath him and is meditating. Dadokian imitates him. Now and then Dadokian gives in to a few sobs, a few grouchy sniffles, but, for the most part, he is plunged into a sort of meditation as well.

The silence goes on, then Schmollowski breaks it.

“Here’s what I think,” he says. “We could try to sabotage this womb business.”

“Mmm,” says Dadokian.

“Since I arrived here I’ve been pondering that,” Schmollowski says. “It’s unbearable, really, to have to be reborn. To have to reintroduce yourself to the world of prisons, asylums, rich people, and spiders.”

“Oh, you see?” Dadokian warms up immediately. “You think like I do too, eh, Schmollowski?”

“But how to avoid reincarnation?” Schmollowski continues.

“Yes, hmm. How?” Dadokian ponders.

“The Book offers one single method. It suggests annihilating yourself in the Clear Light. And I don’t like that.”

“Me neither,” Dadokian declares indignantly. “Annihilate yourself! They’ve thought of everything to destroy us completely!”

“I’ve been thinking of something else myself,” says Schmollowski. “We’d need to try to build an inhabitable world here. Understand, Dadokian? We’d need to succeed at sustaining ourselves indefinitely in the Bardo.”

“Here? On this sandheap?”

“Here, or elsewhere, a little farther away. We could build a nice refuge, a landscape. . I’ve studied the Book well. We’re in neither space, nor time. Most of the images come from our imagination. If we found a way to stabilize them, materialize them around us, we could reorganize the Bardo to our liking. .”

Dadokian directs his crazed physiognomy toward Schmollowski. His gaze is no more demented than that of an ordinary madman. He aims it at Schmollowski with hope.

“We’ll have to hold on tight when they try to force us into a womb,” Schmollowski continues. “On the forty-ninth day, we won’t be able to rest at all. We’ll have to train ourselves to resist. But after that, Dadokian, after, we’ll be able to relax. My loudspeakers will shut off. Your radio will go quiet.”

Dadokian fidgets.

“Well now, Schmollowski,” he says, “I like that idea! I really like it! You mean we’d stay here outside of time. . Without any prospect of reincarnation, or death, or. .”

“We have to give it a shot,” says Schmollowski.

“Oh, I like it!” Dadokian exults. “And we’d create the world around us ourselves?”

“That’s the principal,” Schmollowski confirms. “But wait, there’s a condition: we’ll first have to succeed at overstaying our welcome in the Bardo past day forty-nine. Fight against getting sucked up.”

“We could invent a landscape. .” Dadokian daydreams. “A pretty little historyless corner. . No sulfazine injections, no head nurses. .”

“No nightly beatings,” Schmollowski finishes off.

Both of them are absorbed in their delightful reveries. Tics electrify Dadokian’s pale cheeks.

“For example,” Dadokian says suddenly, “I’ve always loved the ocean, the waves breaking on the shore, the fizzing foam that appears when the water draws back. . Say, Schmollowski, couldn’t we invent ourselves a little seaside resort? With palm trees, some sky. . Laughing bathing beauties. . And we’d be sitting on the sandheap, yeah? Without the torture of waiting. . Time wouldn’t pass, we wouldn’t have anything to wait for, never, not even mealtime, yeah?”

“Actually, I don’t know if we’ll be able to make a paradise,” Schmollowski abruptly begins to doubt. “It depends on. . I don’t know what or who it depends on. . On you, maybe, Dadokian, or me, or even our common capacity for. .”

Gong.

“Did you hear that?”

“No,” says Dadokian.

The gong rings once again. The note is beautiful. An E-flat fourth.

“It’s the loudspeaker,” Schmollowski says. “The Red Bonnet comrade’s about to speak. He hasn’t expressed his opinions for quite a while.”

“I am addressing you as I have every morning since your death, Schmollowski,” says the lama. “Listen to me, Schmollowski!”

“Do you hear it, now?” asks Schmollowski.

“Nothing at all,” says Dadokian.

“Oh,” says Schmollowski.

Gong.

“I am addressing you for the fortieth time, Schmollowski! Very soon you will no longer hear my voice!”

Gong.

“You are now in the final week of your ordeal in the Bardo, noble son. The wombs are extremely close!”

Gong.

“And in the evening, if there is an evening,” Dadokian speculates, “we’ll freely return to the asylum, or prison, yeah? We’ll still need a roof, in case of scattered showers. .”

Schmollowski has stood back up.

“The seventh week,” he rasps. “Time’s been passing by at top speed while we’ve been chatting! Did you know that, Dadokian?”

“What?” Dadokian says, finally alarmed.

“It is high time that I explain to you how to choose the right door and not be reborn into a form even more miserable than that of a human being,” says the lama.

“What’s happening?” asks Dadokian.

“It’s all over,” says Schmollowski. “The sea resort, the beach, the laughing beauties. . It’s all over, Dadokian! We’ve already reached day forty! We’re not prepared! The wombs are close!”

“But. .” Dadokian stutters.

“We’re going to be reborn!” Schmollowski exclaims.

They are there, standing, despondent, for a long moment. Let’s say an hour or a little more. Let’s say a day. They appear petrified. Even Dadokian hardly fidgets. Two miserable men, fixed on the summit of a sandheap, numbed by bad news, unable to react.

Then Schmollowski comes to life.

Wordlessly he steps onto the slope. His ankles disappear noisily into the dust. He isn’t concerned about balance. Sprains don’t worry him. He wants to go fast. He trots toward the bottom. Several seconds later, he is at the foot of the mound. Straight away he can be heard kneading the gravel with his fists.

“Hey,” Dadokian asks, “what are you doing?”

“Quick,” says Schmollowski. “We still have a small chance to stay here!”

“What,” Dadokian stammers.

He is still slumped at the top of the mound.

“We have to dig,” says Schmollowski. “That’s the only thing I can think of. We have to bury ourselves before the wombs grab us!”

He attacks the hill of black sand. He foresees a cavity just at the base, a hole he can bury himself in. He foresees packing himself inside in a folded position, like a bat in hibernation or a Nazca mummy, and triggering an avalanche at the last moment that will bury him, on the last hour of the forty-ninth day. Now, to stay here beyond the fateful day, he sees no other option.

He digs. Matter slides over his arms, flows. Without any shovel to get rid of the gravel, without any plank to fortify the walls, it is very difficult to construct a suitably-sized cavity.