Antoine Volodine - Bardo or Not Bardo

“I don’t know how to talk to a dead person,” says the clown. “I’ve never had the chance to. . And anyway, have you really thought about what it means to talk to a dead man? Thinking he can hear you? That he’s listening to you, from his dark world, from. . It’s frightening. . And if he misinterprets what you’re trying to. . Did you think about that? If, instead of reassuring him, you end up terrorizing him? No, I really don’t see what I could. .”

“You only have to do what you were doing onstage,” Freek suggests. “When he was struggling, when you yelled advice in his ear to help him get back up and he pretended not to hear you.”

“Or else, you only have to murmur phrases from the Book of the Dead ,” says Yasar. “Reassuring formulas.”

“For what I know of the Book of the Dead ’s formulas. .” Blumschi protests. “Big Grümscher could have. . he could recite entire pages by heart. He loved Buddhist magic, he was a member of a mutual aid group that read the Book of the Dead to those suffering in the streets, to vagrants, to the tatterdemalion. . He took courses at the lamaist school. We were inseparable, but that put a chasm between us. I’ve never. . I’m completely incapable of. .”

“They’re reading it next door,” says Freek. “You only have to listen to a passage and repeat it.”

Blumschi drinks. He doesn’t retort. He puts his glass back down. Under the ice cubes, the liquid is transparent. If my count is correct, he’s just finished his fourth whiskey.

There is still the background noise of the radio in the bar, along with the diverse ringings and murmurs coming from the Buddhist ceremony on the other side of the wall. The officiant’s voice is distorted by the path it had to travel before arriving behind the counter. It is however a minimal distance, with negligible obstacles, a few bricks, a square of fine wire mesh. It’s a mystery what the dead man can perceive of this voice, being an incalculable distance away.

“You can’t distinguish anything, anyway,” Blumschi complains. “Not a syllable.”

“I’m going to turn off the radio,” Yasar proposes. “I can also undo the grill on the vent duct. They put the temple in the old service station next door. The vents to the bar and the garage are connected. We’ll hear everything.”

“Great,” says Blumschi.

He pushes his chair back. He rises. He is drunk.

“Well,” he says. “One last drop to your health, my old Grümscher. And then, you’re going to see how I communicate with the garage and you.”

He grabs his glass, he examines the ice cubes which offer him nothing more than poorly flavored water. He staggers. He collides with a table.

The bartender turns off the radio. Then he climbs on a stool, loosens something behind the bottle shelves, above the bar’s partition. Suddenly, the sounds coming from the neighboring building transform. It feels like they are right in the heart of the temple. The lama’s profound bass resonates inside the bar as if the lama was standing behind the counter, between the percolator and Yasar.

“Oh noble son,” says the lama, “I am once again going to repeat this first page of the Bardo Thödol , so important it is for you to hear and to understand, without which you will be lost for the forty-nine days of your journey through the Bardo.”

“Well?” says the bartender. “Don’t tell me you still can’t distinguish the syllables. It’s quite stunning, isn’t it? Go on, Blumschi, you don’t have any more excuses. Have faith! Repeat everything to your friend.”

“Pour me another whiskey,” Blumschi says, panicking. “I. . This feels obscene. I’m not drunk enough for public speaking.”

Yasar hesitates for a second, then he stretches his hand toward the bottle. He prepares the drink Blumschi requires.

“He needs guidance,” says Freek. “Don’t make anything up, give him the same advice the monks do. Let yourself guide him through what the monks say. The most important thing is for him to recognize your voice. Your voice and your way of speaking. He has to know that his friend is still nearby to help him. It will do him immense good. It will help him not drown completely in terror.”

“Oh noble son, Grümscher,” the lama says, “I am addressing you as I will every day for forty-nine days. It is absolutely necessary that you lend me your ear and do your best to understand the meaning of my words. What I am telling you now is meant to ease your crossing of the Bardo. If you listen to me without distraction, you will be less afraid when you are walking the Bardo’s dreadful, narrow passages. You will even be able to escape the disastrous prospect of endless rebirth and death, and rebirth again, and death again. You will be able to liberate yourself from this long chain of suffering.”

The small clown takes hold of the glass Yasar filled. He swallows several mouthfuls with glum anxiety.

“Put your glass down, Blumschi,” says Yasar.

“Yes,” says Blumschi as he wobbles, not putting his glass down.

“Talk to your friend,” says Yasar. “Everything is strange and unpleasant to him right now. If that’s the case, he won’t even realize he’s not alive anymore. He doesn’t know how to react at all. Talk to him so he knows that a friend is trying to help him.”

“It’s obscene,” says Blumschi.

“Go on,” Yasar encourages him. “It’s not obscene. It’s a moment of very strong friendship. Pretend like you’re together again on the circus floor, before the public. Like obscenity doesn’t exist.”

“Before the public. .” Blumschi grumbles as he staggers. “Like. .”

Then he overcomes his reluctance and launches into it. He moves his arms and pretends to flap between the first tables and the counter. In his pauper’s clothes, held together with four safety pins, he is grotesque, but that’s precisely what he’s going for. In an instant he has become a clownish character who makes no one laugh. He widens his despair-laden eyes and grimaces dazedly, and now he is raising his pitch, whining in an acute voice.

“Can Big Grümscher hear me?” he bawls. “Does he hear Little Blumschi? Yes? No? Where is Big Grümscher? Has anyone seen him, perchance? Where is Big Grümscher hiding? Oh oh oh! He wouldn’t happen to be hiding in a big, big vulture’s big, big gizzard, would he? Or on the crematorium’s big, hot grill? Where could Big Grümscher be hiding? In the Bardo? Could Big Grümscher have gone and hid in the Bardo?”

A car passes by. The windows clink. Blumschi takes a drink. He puts his glass down on the counter with an imprecise gesture.

“It’s useless,” he says. “I’m sure he can’t hear me. Even if he could, it’d just be a bigger nightmare.”

“What would?” asks Freek.

“If my voice reached him,” says Blumschi.

There are two seconds of silence.

“Oh noble son, Grümscher,” says the lama, “you have remained unconscious for several days. When you left this void, you asked yourself: ‘What happened? What has come about?’. . You try to consult your memories, but everything is hazy in your mind. You have trouble recognizing the world around you.”

“Go on,” says Yasar. “Continue, Blumschi. Too bad if it’s a nightmare. It’s for his own good.”

The clown opens his eyes wide. They are damp with tears. He makes a ridiculous, exaggerated grimace, but his expression betrays an immense sorrow.

“Does Big Grümscher hear me?” he bawls. “Does the big buffoon hear me or not? Well? Has he had enough of being unconscious? He opens his eyes, and what does he see? The acrobats’ crossbar, where the big straw mats sway when they’re hung up, that’s what he sees! And he consults his memories, and what does Big Grümscher say? ‘What’s come about?’ he says! ‘What happened? And why is Little Blumschi all shook up, why is he crying and blowing his nose so loudly?’”