Antoine Volodine - Bardo or Not Bardo

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 in an oiled container and wait for the ruined muscles and epidermis to change color in the fire. . ”

Strohbusch stopped reading. He didn’t feel nauseated, but he inflated his cheeks and exhaled. He needed to make a comment.

“Do 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.”