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
