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 27th Avenue, toward the wood stove . . . I repeat: Junks in pocket, you went back up June 27th 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.
Brass horns. They can send a very deep note over an enormous distance, across the valley when there are mountains and a valley, when there is a rocky landscape, full of abrupt fractures and sparse grasses. That’s what we hear first. Lamaist, Tibetan horns. That’s how the book begins. It’s an unusual sound, but one heeded without reserve. Straightaway we know that this vibration is a part of ordinary life and death. We like it immediately. It invades the world, the body’s bones, flesh and images and even the dead mired in the body’s folds, and it is soothing. That is what the first, the very first, sound is like. Soon after, a collective murmur arises. It spreads nearby, as if it were taking place within an assembly more interested in long prayers than anecdotes or pointless narrations. The voices are indecipherable. A ceremony is underway, in a language that does not seem to be our own. In any case, we understand it a bit less than our own.
Then comes a silence.
This happens several times: horns thunder, voices blend into an incomprehensible address, then comes a silence.
It’s beautiful.
I then hear the voice of the soldier Glouchenko, and this music, these noises, diminish. Soon they stop entirely.
“Is someone there?” Glouchenko asks. “Did someone say something?” (Silence.) “What are those . . .”
He gropes around, an iron cup scrapes on a shelf and topples over into the void. It clatters violently against the ground.
“They’ve cut off the power, the bastards.” (Silence.) “Hey! Is anyone there?”
No answer. Absolute darkness surrounds Glouchenko. So thick, so black, it feels like ink running through your fingers. Glouchenko doesn’t dare move. He’s never felt at ease in the dark, he’s a little potbellied, not very skilled with his body, he’s afraid of causing a disaster. He wipes his moist hands on his pants.
The chorus of murmurs picks back up. It’d be difficult to determine its point of origin, where in space. It is simply there, in the background to the dark. One voice is now detaching itself from the rest, becoming more distinct. The language hasn’t changed: still more foreign than our own.
I don’t think I can say I recognize this voice, since it has been depersonalized by the demands of the ritual, and flattened by its journey through the dark space. Despite all that, some of its inflections might remind me of something. A long time ago, I met a man who wished to dedicate himself to the exploration of magical universes. That man’s name was Schmunck, like mine, with a different first name than my own, Baabar. My first name is Mario, but that’s not important. Let’s say that the voice I’m identifying here is Schmunck’s. So as not to complicate the story, we’ll say that I recognize it. It’s a solemn, controlled voice, like those that frequently resonate in monastery meditation rooms.
“Oh
