“So, you should put Schlumm did me in instead,” said Schlumm.
We stayed there contemplating this for some time.
“As long as the murder hasn’t taken place, it’d be better not to write anything at all,” Schlumm finally said. “You never know in advance who’s going to kill you. You can anticipate it, but you can never be one-hundred percent sure.”
“That’s true, there is a margin of error,” I said.
I cast a sidelong glance at Schlumm. Evening was falling, and in the already-triumphant darkness, his features pleased me less and less. It looked to me like the corner of his mouth was wrinkled in a way that could only be explained as malicious irony. This man talked about murder indifferently, he talked about it like only a murderer can. Something bored into my marrow cavities and shot fear into my blood and, five minutes later, I moved away from the window and Schlumm’s withdrawn form, motionless and calm-looking, but now very disturbing as well. He looked like he was asleep. I couldn’t rule out that he might be actually sleeping, or that he was feigning drowsiness, or, and this is the worst hypothesis, that he was doing both at the same time.
I moved while taking a thousand precautions so I wouldn’t get entangled in the trails of fabric extending from Schlumm’s body. I wanted to avoid bothering Schlumm or waking him. I got back to my original place, where I had sat at the start of the journey, then, since the distance between us still looked ridiculous to me, since Schlumm had just to lean over and hold out his arm to grab me and send me back into nothingness, I continued moving toward the car’s entrance, and crossed through it.
I crawled down the corridor. The single nightlight still working was emitting slender rays to guide me. I had decided to go into the neighboring compartment, where just this light was burning, so as to assure myself of more decent survival conditions. It wasn’t a question of escaping the agents the Organization had ordered against me, I didn’t have that hope, but only to gain some time and space. In the unsupple night, its temperature the only warmth, I fixed my eyes on that faded lilac, wilted fuchsia lamp, which had become my pathetic star of continuation. I use continuation here to mean everything that allowed me to avoid immediate aggression, and thus still keep myself, for the moment, away from the terminal void. From time to time, I made myself go completely rigid, so as to hear whether or not the killer was on my heels.
In reality, I didn’t perceive anything truly nerve-racking.
In reality, I didn’t perceive anything truly nerve-racking. The train continued on its route toward the sea, the wheels swallowed the ruptures between the rails without complaint, the shock absorbers grated regularly. The whistlings of air and iron striated the shadows in a clearly not-infrequent way. My body escaped me a little, I felt like it was prowling and crawling around beyond me, already unable to fight against stiffness and fear, but the notion of not having fully perished yet had drilled into and stimulated me. Rather than gruesomely collapsing, I lifted my head. I braced my limbs toward the lamp and continued my progression.
Hours passed. I didn’t stop for one second, even when I felt faint. I had finally reached the haven I had dreamed of, and which had been designed to seat about eight living people. The benches were softly brushed by the nightlight’s rays. Tonight seemed denser here than elsewhere, most likely because my eyesight had diminished. Staying on my guard, I settled in as well as I could, at the base of one of the seats, facing frontward.
I spread pieces of my robe in tentacles around me, so the pain would warn me if someone were creeping up on me in the dark. It’s a technique the Organization teaches to monks in the Action branch. It reassured me to know that no one could covertly slip into my life and remove me from it, however deep the shadows surrounding me. The Action branch’s instructions also specified, for better security, that one had to abstain from making any kind of noise, such as breathing or other things. I kept myself from breathing, concentrating on thinking about the journey rather than oxygen.
The train was no longer moving. In the distance a loudspeaker was making an announcement. I tried to listen. The acoustics outside were bad. I thought I caught, however, that the next stop would be the Haufook Street station. So we were still far from the sea. Doors slammed in another car. Everything around me was now silent. There was no one behind the partition.
An hour flaked away, then the train started up again. The darkness, the soothing movements, the state of profound extenuation I found myself in were all right for me. Though I can’t affirm it with certainty, I think I lost consciousness for a night or two, since, soon after, the compartment was filled with morning’s glow. It sneaked in gently through the droplets covering the opaque window. I attentively examined the surrounding visible world. My memory was scrambled, my mind impotent. I saw things without coming to conclusions about them. For example, there were, beneath the bench facing me, a piece of hardened gum and several hairs, but I couldn’t say if they were familiar to me or not. In the mist, someone had written in a clumsy and soiled hand: Puffky did me in. I remained there, before these humble pieces of information, trying to connect them to build a coherent intellectual edifice, but my thoughts didn’t click. I wasn’t building anything. I had a single constructive obsession, I continuously made sure I was still sitting facing forward.
From the other side of the partition, I thought I heard snoring, then everything that could have had a connection to life or sleep went quiet.
“Are you there Puffky?” I shouted.
There was no response. I waited a moment, then repeated my question.
“Come on, I know you’re there,” I said.
I started tapping on the partition to make contact between us.
“There was a murder,” I said. “Are you alive?” I asked.
I continued knocking on the bench’s supports, on the air conditioner’s grill, with my right fist, my feet.
“Listen, Puffky, don’t stay over there in your corner, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said.
Puffky didn’t respond, and, for several days, while we made our way to the sea, I had no idea if a murder had taken place or not.
IV. THE BARDO OF THE MEDUSA
During the summer of 1342, over the span of three days, the writer and actor Bogdan Schlumm approached the Bardo three times, under difficult conditions, without assistance. He could be heard reciting the Bardo Thödol in a powerful voice, then mumbling and, at the same time, pretending not to understand what his lips were proclaiming, and even feigning deafness. Three times thus he balanced himself across the Bardo’s narrow passageways, a very short distance away from the black space, staggering between death and reality. It was a grueling experience. At different moments during the trance, he spoke like one of the living, or listened and expressed himself like one of the dead. He didn’t move much, limiting his surface area to a few square meters of fallen leaves, already yellow, mainly birch. Atmospheric conditions were mediocre, which didn’t simplify his task. The ground was soggy and it was raining. When it wasn’t raining, an abnormal quantity of starlings descended onto the branches above Schlumm and chattered noisily, all while defecating on him, though sometimes they were magpies with their unbearable yapping. Nature had never been kind to Schlumm. Despite it all, he tried to make the best of a bad situation. He pretended to despise the adversity and guano, like the specialists recommended he do in this kind of scenario. He tried to concentrate firstly on his text and the gestures he had to make to better inhabit his characters. From time to time, he opened his eyes, his author’s eyes, then he closed them again. He was very lonely and it was wearing him out. Around him, under the trees, there was no one to applaud him.