“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. .”