Bardo or Not Bardo

I. LAST STAND BEFORE THE BARDO

The hens were chattering peacefully behind the wire fence, as usual, when the first gunshot rang out. Some of them shook their crests, others paused their graceless march, freezing a grayish leg off the ground, unable to make up their mind about stepping in grain and excrement, others still continued clucking blithely. Pistols were of no concern to them. Knives, yes, maybe, but Makarovs and Brownings, no. Then a second detonation rattled the quiet of the afternoon. Someone came running and collapsed against the henhouse’s fence, whose structure was poorly suited to such a trial and so quickly deformed. The posts bent, a row of perches fell apart, and, this time, the whole brood of poultry was overcome with hysteria. The disorderly hens — mostly reds and whites, but two or three black ones as well — dispersed loudly. The injured man was clinging to the wire web. He wanted both to move forward and remain vertical, but that wasn’t quite happening. He hobbled slantwise, indifferent to the cackling, primarily preoccupied with what sounded like approaching steps. His pursuer was catching up to him, a fast-walking man, preceded en route by a zigzagging hen, all helter-skelter, wing stumps akimbo. The killer reached the wounded man and wordlessly stared at him for an instant, as if he was wondering what he was doing there with a target that was already hit — quite hit, even — then he shot him a third time, barely even aiming, before setting off again and disappearing.

The target’s name was Kominform.

Now, among the decreasingly agitated birds, there Kominform was, triply pierced and about to die. He was bleeding. He had been a revolutionary communist, he had demolished the henhouse when he fell, and, next to its bent-over door, he was bleeding.

No one had witnessed the execution, though it had taken place in an ordinarily rather lively locale, behind the library of a vast Lamaist monastery, where a century before, monks still practiced martial arts, and which today was dedicated to vegetable growing and farming. But, that afternoon, everyone was gathered elsewhere. Novices, lamas, and guests were currently sitting on the poorly-cleaned and not-very-comfortable cushions in the large prayer room situated in the north-western wing, opposite the vegetable garden, to participate in one of the year’s most important ceremonies: the blessing of the Five Precious Perfumed Oils. A small summer breeze conveyed the calls of conches and the rings of gongs. There were also the echoes of collective prayers. At that distance, it was impossible to tell the sincere professions of faith from the routine.

The day was splendid.

For several seconds, the situation remained unchanged, then an old monk closed a door behind him somewhere in a corridor, came out through the back of the library, crossed through a patch of beans, and hurried toward the scene of the crime.

He was a hoary religious man, in a faded indigo robe. His body was wizened in its twilight years. He jogged toward the henhouse, as quick as his breath and his skinny nonagenarian legs would let him. Confined to the lavatory due to intestinal troubles, he wasn’t able to make it to the ceremony. He had heard the detonations, and foreseeing some mishap hastily wiped and dressed himself, and now he was running.

As he often did, he was talking aloud, to both himself and hypothetical coreligionists.

“Hey!” he shouted. “There’s bandits behind the library! Armed thugs! Come quick! They’re shooting everywhere! They’ve hit someone!”

He went past the rows of beans, peas. Beyond that, the henhouse showed all the signs of irreversible disarray. The perches were knocked down. The sagging fence had given up the ghost. There were rents pointing toward the sky, half-pieces of slats, the top of the door. Everything swayed and creaked at the slightest movement. He had to get past a square meter of metal lace to see who was lying on the ground.

“Holy doggone!” the old man swore. “I know him! Kominform! They shot Kominform!”

He knelt down. Kominform’s body was moaning in the scrapheap’s grating noises. He let himself be manipulated, scrutinized. While he examined the wounds, the old monk gritted his remaining teeth. He kept his prognosis to himself.

His name was Drumbog.

Around Drumbog and Kominform, the hens were clucking, without a care in the world.

“Hey!” Drumbog shouted. “Get over here! The killers butchered Kominform!”

Nobody came.

“Everyone’s over that way, for the Five Perfumes,” said Drumbog. “The monastery’s deserted. Nobody’s in the library right now either. . If I hadn’t. . If I hadn’t had to hole up in the bathroom. . It’s always that fermented milk. . I can’t digest it anymore, and I drink too much of it. . How are you with fermented milk? Homemade Mongolian yogurt? Goddamn it causes some bad diarrhea!”

Kominform shifted.

“That you, Drumbog?” he asked without opening his eyes.

His dislocated voice didn’t vibrate beyond his mouth. He couldn’t be understood. He had a hiccup.

“He shot me in the stomach, the swine,” he said.

“He’s spitting up hemoglobin,” said Drumbog, having neither noticed nor deciphered Kominform’s mumbling. “It’d take a miracle for him to pull through.”

“In the lungs,” Kominform continued. “I’m going to die. .”

“Kominform, can you hear me?” said Drumbog. “Can you hear me, little brother? Are you conscious?”

“I’m hurt,” said Kominform. “They got me. . Old colleagues of mine. . Converts. . They work for the mafia now, for the billionaires in power. . Social democrats and the nouveau riche and the like. . There’s nothing worse than converts. .”

The end of an iron wire had snagged the right sleeve of his coat and, whenever he tensed up a little to stammer, the fence started to creak. It was like someone writhing on a bad box-spring.

“Don’t wear yourself out, little brother,” suggested Drumbog. “Open your mouth. You have to let air find a passage through the blood.”

“That you, Drumbog?” asked Kominform.

“Yes, little brother, it’s me. I was on my way to the ceremony, the Five Precious Perfumed Oils, right? And all of a sudden I heard machine guns. .”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Kominform. “Go. Don’t miss the benediction. Go on. Leave me here.”

His chest rose weakly.

He vomited blood.

The fence creaked.

“Anyway, I don’t have long,” he continued. “I’m done for.”

He clenched his jaw and went quiet. He hadn’t been an adherent to communism to show off, he hadn’t defended its principles to one-up prisoners. This was not the kind of man to weep in the face of death.

At that moment, the shells of dry vegetables cracked on the trail, the grass hissed. A hen fled, shouting in its avian dialect, put out from just almost being kicked. Someone was approaching.

“Holy cow!” Drumbog swore. “The killers are coming back! They’re going to liquidate any troublesome witnesses. Anyone would do the same in their place. . It’s my turn next, you’ll see, I’m not going to cut it!”

His breath was short. A hint of sudden dread clutched his throat. The shrubs and folds in the fence hid the indignant hen from him, as well as the foot that had provoked its vehemence.

“In the past,” he continued, “if an astrologer had told me that my fate was to end up full of bullet holes while up against a henhouse, with a revolutionary communist by my side, I would’ve laughed right in his face. . But everything’s connected. . Cold yogurt, intestines. . The blessing of the Five Oils. . It was written. .”

Whoever was walking down the path and stepping on beanstalks was now visible.

The surrounding atmosphere wasn’t dramatic at all: the exhalations of summer, vegetables yellowing in the sun, gallinaceans enjoying themselves, pecking at the dust, grasshoppers, gong echoes.

“They’re coming,” the old man mumbled. “They’re going to do me in. . There’s two of them, a man and a woman. .”

There were two of them, indeed.

The man was holding a pistol and had the shifty look of a soldier who now works in real estate, complete with the ridiculous blue three-piece suit. Perfect for real estate or insider trading. Heavy and respectable.

It was obvious at a glance that the woman had no relation to him whatsoever. She was more of a bird than a human woman anyway, strictly speaking. Her skin was covered in a very fine layer of silvery feathers, her clothing a gray researcher’s outfit. She moved with a dancer’s suppleness, and, when she spoke, it was to herself, addressing a voice recorder. Her name, like mine, was Maria Henkel. She was there to describe reality, not to take part in it. She was pretty, with a scar on her left breast, a heart-shaped mark that was easily noticeable since her outfit was more than form fitting.

“We are behind the monastery,” she said. “On the other side of the buildings, in the Temple of the Flaming Lotus, there is a ceremony underway in tribute to the Twelve Tutelary Divinities. . Twelve or eleven. . Perfumes are burned in their honor. . Oils. . A certain number are burned. . Four or five, I think. . They’re either burned or blessed. . No matter, that’s not what we’re interested in today. . I am right now beneath the windows of the library, in immediate proximity to the henhouse against which Kominform has collapsed. That’s what interests us.”

Kominform was no longer vomiting. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. He wasn’t troubled by the vision of the angel-bodied woman or the killer dressed in commercial blue. He wheezed.

“He has been hit by three bullets,” said Maria Henkel. “He is still lucid, but, in my opinion, he no longer knows it.”

“Those two aren’t with each other,” Drumbog assessed loudly. “The woman’s naked, she’s pretty, she belongs to a different civilization than our own. She must be a researcher from another dream. Just the guy with the pistol is dangerous. . What’s the imbecile waiting for to shoot me? I’m ready. . I don’t believe in his existence or the woman’s. Or mine. . I’m ready to rejoin the luminous void which is the only indisputable reality. . I shall remain tranquil, at the edge of things. . indifferent to things, to their edge, to these people’s absurd lives. . I fear nothing, I fear absolutely nothing, I. .”

His voice rasped. Even if you feel ready to take a bullet to the head, your voice might still fail you.

“Here we are with the three characters in this tragedy,” Maria Henkel said.

First off, Kominform, alias Abram Schlumm or Tarchal Schlumm, a radical egalitarian, pursued by police worldwide ever since the world became exclusively capitalist, seeking asylum in the monastery of the Flaming Lotus. He is dressed in a soldier’s coat from civil war years, his preferred outfit since forever. He’s spitting up blood. He’s going to die. His death rattle is audible, the chaos of his heartbeats is audible. An old, almost centenarian, monk is propping him up tenderly.

This old monk is Drumbog, a Buddhist who believes in nothing, save for the absolute equality of suffering between men. . Equality in suffering, which is precisely the minimum program defended by Kominform. . Without reserve, Drumbog appreciates Kominform, his discourse, his praxis. He is the one who pleaded the community of monks to welcome and hide the fugitive, when the question came up, eight years ago. Eight or nine. Or maybe ten. This detail doesn’t interest us. Drumbog felt responsible for Kominform. He has also considered Kominform to be a bodhisattva, an enlightened man who has dedicated his existence to saving miserable humans, going into suffering to help the unenlightened free themselves from suffering.

Facing these two heroes, the wounded revolutionary and the Buddhist touched more by Alzheimer’s than grace, stands a man, the one responsible for a special political cleansing team, set up after the regime change. His name was once Strohbusch. He had put an operation together with an eye to negotiate with Kominform, he desired to convince him to disclose sensitive information, he didn’t want to liquidate Kominform, he had recommended to his agents to approach Kominform without violence. But his agents had disobeyed. One of them, a man named Batyrzian, had misinterpreted the orders. He was so excited at the idea of facing off against an incorruptible revolutionary, disconcerted by this contact with an underground hero, that he sent three bullets into Kominform’s ribcage. And now, Kominform is soaked with blood, from head to foot, and is in no mood to divulge his secrets. The operation has been compromised. Strohbusch notes this waste, due to the barbaric inexperience of his men. He is sorry.

“I am sorry,” said Strohbusch. “My agent must have thought Kominform was armed, that he was going to cause a ruckus, take hostages. .”

“Are you the killers’ boss?” Drumbog asked.

“Hey now,” said Strohbusch. “Watch your language There was a mix-up. We never intended to gun him down like that. That’s not how I roll. Or in any case I make sure it happens as little as possible. We’re not killers.”

Strohbusch paused. Drumbog was muttering disappointedly. He’d made an effort to receive death without panicking, but, ultimately, nothing happened.

“We could maybe try to save him?” Strohbusch proposed. “Your monastery must have a doctor, right? An infirmary?”

“I thought you’d come to finish him off,” said Drumbog. “And then eliminate me.”

“No,” Strohbusch assured. “I came here to talk with Kominform. We knew each other, in the past. We used to work together, in the same organization. We have some things to discuss.”

“His hands are starting to cool,” said Drumbog. “His breath smells like a dying man’s. It’s over, he has nothing more to relay to the living. The butchers who killed him should just keep their mouths shut.”

“What if you called a doctor?” asked Strohbusch, ignoring the old man’s reproaches. “I’ll stay by his side. You can go find an assistant, right? Or, I don’t know, a doctor, an herbalist. . Some kind of sorcerer. . There must be sorcerers in your monastery, yeah? No? Or at least people who know how to apply bandages. . Hmm?”

“The only useful thing we can do right now is to prepare him for his encounter with the Clear Light”

“Pardon?”

“Prepare him for his encounter with the Clear Light,” Drumbog repeated. “Someone has to read the Bardo Thödol to him, near his ear.”

Strohbusch made a funny face. It expressed incomprehension.

“Have you killers never heard of the Bardo Thödol before?” Drumbog asked. “It’s a guide. You read it near one of the deceased to help them pass through the world of death, if they decide to wander foolishly through the Bardo until they reincarnate, or to help them liberate themselves and become Buddha, when their heart’s pure enough.”

“Wait,” said Strohbusch.

He had just slid his pistol into its holster. His eyes were open wide, his small renegade eyes, which harbored an unconscious and trembling drop of nostalgia.

“You’re wanting to read to him from that religious thingamajig while he’s in pain? You want to read the Bardo Thödol to a non-Buddhist? A revolutionary proletarian?”

“Listen here, murderer!” Drumbog scolded. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what to do. What do you know about this man? He gave everything, he kept nothing for himself. . He spent his existence fighting for absolute equality, for the destitution of all, for brotherhood. . He was vibrant with compassion. . You know, religion aside, he was much closer to the Clear Light than our own monks who. .”

Kominform gasped. His difficult breathing took effort. His heart’s knocking sounded like an ill omen.

“Drumbog, brother,” said Kominform. “Who are you talking to? Who’s that beanpole above us?”

Strohbusch came to life. He was delighted to see Kominform able to talk, and thus hear.

“You can talk, Kominform?” he said. “It’s me, Strohbusch, can you hear me? We were part of the same cell, twenty-five years ago. . We worked with Services. . In the Organization. . Do you remember? With Grandmother. . Remember Grandmother? Back in the Soviet Union. . Remember the Soviet Union?”

“Leave him alone,” Drumbog interrupted. “Keep out of this with your union and your cells! The time has come for him to detach himself from the world of illusions, he must now leave this theater of dishonesty to be dissolved. . to rejoin the real world. . where there is neither death nor the absence of death. . I have to remind him of the Bardo Thödol’s instructions, while you’re going on about some Grandmother. .”

“One minute,” insisted Strohbusch.

“Strohbusch is pushing the monk aside with his right hand,” Maria Henkel began to describe. “He’s pushing him without any particular brutality, but he has the physical power of a fifty-odd-year-old scoundrel, with which an old, nearly centenarian, man can’t begin to compete. Drumbog’s legs are caught in a patch of wire. He’s lost his balance. He struggles pitifully.”

Strohbusch leaned over Kominform, over his mouth dripping with blood, over his ears.

“Do you hear me, Kominform?” said Strohbusch. “It’s me, Strohbusch, your commander. . I was the one who had to activate you, when we had to. . Back in the day. . But then the walls came down, and we did too. . Grandmother is dead. . The world revolution has been postponed for two or three centuries. . Or even four. . We’ve dropped the glorious future like an old sock. .”

The wounded man was regurgitating blood. Strohbusch bit his lips. Time was of the essence for his mission, too.

“Listen to me, Kominform,” he said. “I am your hierarchical superior. You have to obey me. You need to give me the list of moles working for you. Names, aliases, addresses. We’re deactivating the ring, do you understand? Well? Do you understand, Kominform? Your ring needs to be deactivated. .”

“Leave him in peace, Strohbusch!” said the old monk, coming back to Kominform’s side. “He doesn’t belong to you anymore! He’s already on his way to the Clear Light, far away from your moles and old socks! Go on, buzz off Strohbusch! I have urgent tasks to take care of.”

The iron wires had started squealing mournfully again, since everyone was more or less moving around. Maria Henkel was dictating descriptions of reality in an undertone. She tilted her head toward her left shoulder, where her recording device must have been transplanted. The whiteness of her feathers was overwhelming, her seemingly-bare body could make anyone want to live, or, at least, dream that they would one day join her in her universe of uncertain, admirable birds. Her voice was lightly somber, sensual, incredibly hoarse. Kominform sat moaning nearby. Grasshoppers crackled or suddenly went catatonic in the grass, having been pecked to death by a voracious, red, and clucking hen. The sun was beating down. One part of Kominform’s body was in the shade. In the distance, on the mountain route, a truck changed speed, roared. In order to approach the diverse actors in the tragedy without risking touching them, Maria Henkel went into what remained of the henhouse and stood behind an intact rectangle of fencing.

“The dying one is sitting in the grass,” she said, “leaning on and seemingly entangled in the metallic material.”

Strohbusch is squatting less than a meter away. Strohbusch looks like an accountant right before his arrest for embezzlement, he is pensive, breathless, he hesitates to act, he looks like a social democrat on the night of a rigged election, he is uncomfortable, he has stowed his pistol in his ridiculous jacket, he would like to be less despised, he would like to be thought of as a good servant of the State rather than a turncoat spy who’s knocking off his old comrades, a trickle of sweat shines on his left temple, he looks like an prematurely retired executioner, he looks like a police officer right after a critical blunder.

Drumbog, unafraid of being stained with blood, is busy with the wounded one. He has just applied pressure to the arteries in his neck. It’s a technique many of the monks use to keep the dying from losing consciousness. It is essential that those on the threshold of death witness with full knowledge all the steps of their departure. If he remains conscious, Kominform will seize the opportunity before him, he will dedicate the last of his strength to self-enlightenment and become Buddha, instead of mechanically struggling to live and die again.

“Oh noble son, Kominform,” Drumbog said, “you who in your youth, before going underground, answered sometimes to the name Abram Schlumm, and sometimes to Tarchal Schlumm, you are enveloped in coldness, you feel oppressed, you see and hear me less and less. The time of your death has come. Do not be frightened, you are not the first to meet death. Follow the example of those who knew how to cope. Chase all fear from your thoughts. Do not miss this exceptional opportunity to obtain the perfect state of being, and become Buddha, like all who. .”

“The old man Drumbog is once again compressing Kominform’s arteries,” said Maria Henkel. “By his side, Strohbusch is tugging on the wounded man’s sleeve. He wants to get his attention, he has some things to tell him.”

“Listen to me, Kominform,” he said. “It’s me, Strohbusch: your commander. Grandmother is dead. All the underground networks have been deactivated, except for yours. . They all have to be shut down, now. . I’m going to take care of it, don’t worry. . Give me your list of contacts, I’ll do the rest. I’ll deal with them personally. .”

“Drumbog,” Kominform asked after wheezing, “who’s that guy circling around us? I could’ve sworn he mentioned Strohbusch’s name. .”

He paused to vomit more blood. His pulse was in the sonic foreground. It remained there for several seconds, disordered and ominous. No one dared to speak. Strohbusch continued tugging on the wounded man’s sleeve, but without using much strength.

“Strohbusch, yes. .” Kominform continued after hiccupping. “I remember a Strohbusch. A ladder climber. . With a weak spine. . He must’ve repented like the others. . switched sides. . I wouldn’t be shocked if he were a model social democrat now. . Servicing any and every government around. . He probably licks mafia men’s boots. . Grandmother should’ve eliminated him like she’d planned when. .”

“Grandmother doesn’t exist anymore!” Strohbusch pleaded. “No one’s talking about the world revolution anymore, everyone’s been retrained. . in oil smuggling, in human rights, in the private sector, in war. . Don’t think about Grandmother anymore, Kominform. Forget Grandmother! Live in your own time!”

“That’s enough, Strohbusch!” interfered Drumbog.

“Open your eyes, Kominform!” Strohbusch continued. “Earthly justice is dead! Give it up!”

“Enough, Strohbusch!” Drumbog thundered.

“The old man is using a tone so authoritarian that Strohbusch submits immediately,” Maria Henkel remarked. “The special governmental cleansing-team leader lets go of Kominform’s sleeve. He shakes his head. He is temporarily giving up on making Kominform speak. This is a man who concedes to authority, a man used to suffering humiliations in order to live in his time and stay in the race.”

“He’s going to die,” said Drumbog. “This is an exemplary individual, unwavering in his sacrifice. A moral rock. Don’t try to shake him, Strohbusch! People like him are one in a million. .”

“Whatever,” Strohbusch grumbled. “If you say so. . But you know, back in the day, I myself. .”

“Make yourself useful,” said Drumbog, “instead of asinine. Help me. He can’t lose consciousness. He needs to stay lucid for his confrontation with the Clear Light.”

“I really don’t see what I could do,” Strohbusch objected.

“Someone has to keep him awake,” said Drumbog. “By any means necessary. And, at the same time, someone has to recite the book to him, so he doesn’t spend his last moments thinking about twaddle.”

“I could work on the arteries, I could, I could keep pressure on them,” Strohbusch proposed. “I saw how you were doing it earlier. If you want, I. .”

“I used to know the book by heart,” Drumbog cut him off. “I could recite the whole thing. Page by page, my entire Bardo Thödol. From the first line to the last. But my memory’s not what it used to be. I need something in front of my eyes to remember. .”

“Oh,” said Strohbusch.

“Go on, Strohbusch! Make yourself useful! See the stairs over there? The first door on the left. . It’ll take you right to the reading room. No one will bother you. They’re all somewhere else, praying.”

“And what will I be doing in the reading room?” asked Strohbusch.

“You’re going to find a copy of the Bardo Thödol and bring it back to me! Posthaste!”

Strohbusch got up. He danced from one foot to the other. He hadn’t escaped the spatters when Kominform was coughing up blood, and now his suit was festooned with stains.

“It’s just that I don’t know how to read Tibetan,” he said, confused. “How am I going to. . In a strange new library, how am I supposed to find. .”

“You’ll find it,” Drumbog assured him. “There’s practically no chance at all you’ll get it wrong. Let your intuition guide you. . You’ll know instantly when you see a book so profoundly connected with death. . The title on the cover is in Tibetan, but the text itself is in a universal shamanic language. . the language of the dead. .”

“My intuition,” Strohbusch repeated skeptically. “But I don’t. .”

“Don’t what?” the old man asked, getting angry. “Why haven’t you left yet? Hurry, yakdarnit! Run, Strohbusch!”

Maria Henkel took advantage of the situation to get out of the henhouse and go back to the tufts of dry grass that crackled in the sun. She felt more at ease on the small trail, it would seem, and, two steps away from Kominform, she had as complete a view of events as she did examining reality from behind the fence. Here she filled her lungs with more pleasant, less guano-laden, air. Her magnificent body was visibly pulsating. Her white suit censored no anatomical detail. The feathers on her face quivered as if there were a very light breeze blowing and carrying the echoes of bells and gongs. I had to fight the temptation to approach her, embrace her, or smile at her. Drumbog wasn’t looking at her. He was watching Kominform’s reactions, since he desired above all else to help Kominform become Buddha. That’s why he wasn’t looking at Maria Henkel, despite the moving spectacle she offered. Maria Henkel didn’t take offense. She wasn’t there to seduce anyone, only to photograph the present reality in words.

“The sound of Strohbusch’s quick steps,” she said. “Kominform’s death rattles. Echoes from drums, trumpets. Sometimes collective prayers seemingly murmured by old men, though the young also participate. Hens are scratching at the ground in the vegetable garden. They have shining but inexpressive eyes. They’re killing grasshoppers, ladybugs, spiders. They’re mutilating and eating them. The monk is preoccupied exclusively with Kominform. He’s bent over the hole-torn body, he’s propping him up, he’s speaking to him. He feels he urgently needs to recite the first part of the Book of the Dead, which contains directions for the dying. But he can only remember choice fragments from the Book of the Dead, disjointed phrases. The precise text has escaped his memory. He’s improvising while waiting for Strohbusch’s return.”

“Oh noble son,” said Drumbog, “your vital force will very soon pass through the nerve cluster in your bellybutton. . You’re losing blood, soon you’ll lose your breath, too. . A yellowish liquid will start leaking out of various orifices in your corpse. . I know it’s not going to be fun for you. . Life is nothing but a series of sorrows, death, too. . It’s no fun for anyone. . You aren’t the first to go on this adventure. . Don’t fall asleep. You must stay awake. . You must remain conscious for everything happening to you, from start to finish. .”

“He’s muddling through,” said Maria Henkel.

“Think on the Clear Light,” Drumbog said. “Don’t let your thoughts wander onto anything else. Focus on the idea of that glow that will form before you, quick as a snap of the fingers. .”

“Here’s Strohbusch, back from the library,” Maria Henkel announced.

Strohbusch had been quick. He had hurried, partly because he was used to carrying out orders as efficiently as possible, no matter what authority was giving them, but also because he was afraid Kominform had begun listing, in front of the wrong person, which is to say the nonagenarian monk, the names and addresses of the Bolshevik moles in his ring.

“Strohbusch is moving fast,” said Maria Henkel. “He’s stomping on vegetables like they’re common couch grass. He’s going out of his way to avoid tripping over a group of hens. One of them is swarthy. The hens are fleeing and cackling in irritation, in a cloud of dust. Hang on, Strohbusch has two books instead of just one.”

“Give me that, Strohbusch,” Drumbog said, grabbing the two volumes. “So you see, you found them.”

“I hope my intuition didn’t fail me. I hesitated a little. I took a second of the same type, in case the first wasn’t. .”

“For a moment, Strohbusch looks proud of himself,” Maria Henkel commented. “He feigns anxiety, but he is full of himself. He’s waiting for a compliment. And then, he notices that Drumbog is frozen in a sort of stupor.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly.

“What did you. .” Drumbog stuttered. “What is this, Strohbusch? The Art of Preparing Dead Animals, a cookbook. . And this one, Exquisite Corpses. . An anthology of surrealist aphorisms!”

“I warned you,” said Strohbusch. “My intuition, I mean, I didn’t. . It didn’t work. . Sorry, it was a mistake. .”

Drumbog’s mouth was hanging open. He had let go of the books. He had let go of Kominform.

“Mistakes, along with disloyalty to communism, seem to be your specialty,” he said.

Then he closed his mouth and twitched. He was now crossing his arms over his stomach. An intestinal cramp was making him twist oddly.

“Watch your mouth,” Strohbusch threatened.

“Fine,” Drumbog sighed. “Here’s what we’ll do. First of all, I need to excuse myself for a few minutes. I’m having digestive problems. Since I’m going back over there, I’ll look for the Thödol myself. You, during this time, need to keep him awake.”

“Okay,” said Strohbusch. “Should I press on his jugular or his carotid?”

“Don’t touch him,” Drumbog said. “I hereby forbid it. No, lean over him and read the books you’ve brought. The corpses or the recipes, it doesn’t matter. It’ll hold his attention, that’s better than nothing. Talk to him, Strohbusch, make some noise in his ear. His intellect must remain alert.”

“Drumbog is getting up now,” said Maria Henkel. “He’s trotting off, bent over from stomach pain. Sounds of feet on the dry ground. The fence is creaking beneath Kominform’s jolts as he vomits more blood.”

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.”

“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 27^th Avenue, toward the wood stove. . I repeat: Junks in pocket, you went back up June 27^th 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. .”

They are speaking into Kominform’s ears.

Even once his heart has stopped, they continue.

They continue speaking into Kominform’s ears.