In the thick penumbra of the cellar, it was difficult to determine whether the photographs had caricatured or fairly represented their model. At that moment, Puffky was brushing his clothes, rags through which snippets of his thin flesh were visible. He was avoiding raising his eyes to meet Schlumm’s, and, suddenly, he lunged at Schlumm with a wooden plank.
“I don’t belong to the Organization anymore,” he shouted. “Beat it, Schlumm! Get out of my way!”
Schlumm hadn’t seen Puffky pick up the length of wood, but he worked out the weapon’s trajectory. The plank was going to strike him like a saber.
“Oh,” he said.
Then, because he had practiced martial arts since he was a child, he sidestepped the attack, neutralized the plank, and, without hesitating, retaliated. He struck Puffky in the solar plexus, but this time with much more force than during their first tussle, when Puffky had tried to escape.
Puffky bounced backward and collapsed, battering the ground with his whole body. He was surrounded by waves of dirt. A cloud of soot rose slowly, reminiscent of a drop of ink spreading in a glass of water. Behind these plumes lay Puffky, in a pitiful state, concealed. It sounded like he was in pain. He hoarsely swallowed air and spit it back out. The soot floated majestically, then fell. It was a silent, black deluge.
Schlumm observed Puffky’s incomplete burial. He commiserated with his wheezing. He himself was sunk to his calves in the stuff.
“Listen, Puffky,” he said. “It’d be better if we talked things out. I wasn’t sent here to beat you up, you know. The Organization only asked me for a report on the results of your research.”
“A report,” Puffky coughed.
“Yes,” said Schlumm.
“My research on what,” said Puffky.
For about ten seconds, Schlumm said nothing. He analyzed the shadowy perspectives of the scene that served as a backdrop to this exchange. Near him, the ground was scratched by traces of the brawl that had just taken place and, further away, beyond the asthmatic mass that was Puffky, everything was more or less invisible. Nothing caught the eye’s attention. It was too dark. The vertical surfaces had become ungraspable. All that was left was a fuliginous expanse where Puffky had left footprints when, at the very beginning, he had run toward Schlumm. And still, to decipher these marks you had to strain your pupils until they hurt. The marks were soon lost.
“Your research on the black space,” said Schlumm. “On the length of the journey preceding rebirth.”
“Oh, that’s what they’re interested in,” said Puffky.
“Yes,” said Schlumm.
He was encouraged by what he felt was the beginning of a peaceable interaction between him and his interlocutor.
“There you have it,” he continued. “The Organization would like to know where you are with regard to your exploration of the world before birth. The world that comes after death.”
Puffky sat up on his posterior. Several clods of soot fell off his back and fragmented. Schlumm scrunched his eyelids. Puffky’s silhouette wasn’t clearly defined. Fat clumps hung down from the edges. Bumps and a few diagonal streaks twisted and turned. A new fit of joviality shook Puffky, or seizures. Or perhaps a series of sour burps. It was impossible to know whether or not Puffky was feeding himself, let alone if he had any digestive problems.
“Nothing new in that area,” Puffky claimed once the tremors had stopped. “How long it takes to pass from one world to the next? Nothing new. At any rate, the official sages have already stated the answers.”
“Oh, the sages,” said Schlumm.
“Them, or their bootlickers,” said Puffky. “Their mercenary penpushers who are always drooling over me in their columns. All those ideologues who think themselves researchers. All those opéra bouffe lamas.”
“There, there,” said Schlumm.
“If you want answers, check the Bardo Thödol,” said Puffky. “It’s all in the Bardo Thödol. Don’t count on me for.”
He was interrupted by a coughing fit. He rasped his larynx and expelled a bit of drool into the adjoining shadows. Now he was getting back up. Without shaking off all the lumps sticking to his armholes, he moved his legs and took a step.
He took another step, then several.
Now he was sinking into the dark. He was already shrinking away.
“Hey!” said Schlumm. “Don’t leave like that!”
“Leave me alone,” Puffky shot back. “Go back to the superficial world, if you think you can.”
“Oh, me, superficial,” Schlumm protested.
Puffky shrugged. He continued onward.
Seized by apprehension, fearing he’d disappear forever, Schlumm followed him.
The light had faded even more. The ground beneath their feet skidded and packed with a snow-like sound. They were leaning forward and no longer speaking. Thus unfurled ten or fifteen minutes, then a week. From time to time, Schlumm caught up with Puffky and beat him to force him to say where he was going, or to ask whether the cellar had an end or not, or if one of them was dead and which, or if they had both died and how long ago: those kinds of questions. Puffky never unclenched his teeth. He revealed nothing. He kept moving, giving the impression that he knew the way, sometimes going in large loops around a hypothetical obstacle and sometimes taking shortcuts through the dust and pellets, sometimes squatting to rest. He’d taken charge of setting the pace.
The indivisible darkness reigned. In a description of the nothingness that Puffky had once, before his disgrace, been authorized to publish, he’d spoken of a series of moonrises over the black plains, over the colorless powdery dunes, and moonsets over tarry horizons far removed from compass points. But here, no star. There had to be a vault around somewhere, doubtlessly a heavenly one and thus far above them, but no matter what time it was, no star appeared.
When they reached week two, Schlumm started to go mad. The walk had worn him out. He split into several Schlumms, several personalities, none of which were familiar to him. He closed his eyes and tried to look for memories that would have belonged to him alone, so he could give some meaning to his presence by Puffky’s side or on his heels. The only thing he could rekindle inside himself was his duty to torment Puffky until the other man expressed himself, and he was fighting with Puffky, but without formulating precise demands anymore. His interest had waned, the reason for the interrogation had been cast out of his consciousness. When he got to conduct yet another round of questioning, he preferred to remain silent, and, from then out, he started holding onto Puffky, keeping his mouth closed. Puffky imitated him. They bashed into each other wordlessly, they continued forward, they squatted to catch their breath, they fought.