“Nothing at all,” says Dadokian.
“Oh,” says Schmollowski.
Gong.
“I am addressing you for the fortieth time, Schmollowski! Very soon you will no longer hear my voice!”
Gong.
“You are now in the final week of your ordeal in the Bardo, noble son. The wombs are extremely close!”
Gong.
“And in the evening, if there is an evening,” Dadokian speculates, “we’ll freely return to the asylum, or prison, yeah? We’ll still need a roof, in case of scattered showers. .”
Schmollowski has stood back up.
“The seventh week,” he rasps. “Time’s been passing by at top speed while we’ve been chatting! Did you know that, Dadokian?”
“What?” Dadokian says, finally alarmed.
“It is high time that I explain to you how to choose the right door and not be reborn into a form even more miserable than that of a human being,” says the lama.
“What’s happening?” asks Dadokian.
“It’s all over,” says Schmollowski. “The sea resort, the beach, the laughing beauties. . It’s all over, Dadokian! We’ve already reached day forty! We’re not prepared! The wombs are close!”
“But. .” Dadokian stutters.
“We’re going to be reborn!” Schmollowski exclaims.
They are there, standing, despondent, for a long moment. Let’s say an hour or a little more. Let’s say a day. They appear petrified. Even Dadokian hardly fidgets. Two miserable men, fixed on the summit of a sandheap, numbed by bad news, unable to react.
Then Schmollowski comes to life.
Wordlessly he steps onto the slope. His ankles disappear noisily into the dust. He isn’t concerned about balance. Sprains don’t worry him. He wants to go fast. He trots toward the bottom. Several seconds later, he is at the foot of the mound. Straight away he can be heard kneading the gravel with his fists.
“Hey,” Dadokian asks, “what are you doing?”
“Quick,” says Schmollowski. “We still have a small chance to stay here!”
“What,” Dadokian stammers.
He is still slumped at the top of the mound.
“We have to dig,” says Schmollowski. “That’s the only thing I can think of. We have to bury ourselves before the wombs grab us!”
He attacks the hill of black sand. He foresees a cavity just at the base, a hole he can bury himself in. He foresees packing himself inside in a folded position, like a bat in hibernation or a Nazca mummy, and triggering an avalanche at the last moment that will bury him, on the last hour of the forty-ninth day. Now, to stay here beyond the fateful day, he sees no other option.
He digs. Matter slides over his arms, flows. Without any shovel to get rid of the gravel, without any plank to fortify the walls, it is very difficult to construct a suitably-sized cavity.
Dadokian has left the viewpoint, in his turn. He stalks around Schmollowski with despairing gestures and jolts. He leans on the edge of the funnel Schmollowski is trying to enlarge, and where enormous quantities of black matter ceaselessly flow back into.
“Move, Dadokian!” Schmollowski snaps at him. “The forces of reincarnation are going to be unleashed, this isn’t the time to slouch!”
“I’m receiving a radio message,” announces Dadokian. “There’re only three days left.”
“It’s approaching,” Schmollowski pants, “it’s coming fast! Go on, dig yourself a shelter, Dadokian! Or you’re going to be sucked up by a womb! By a spider womb, or something even worse!”
“Where am I digging?” Dadokian asks, distraught.
“Anywhere,” says Schmollowski. “There, yes. A little farther even. So your gravel doesn’t fall into my hole.”
Dadokian rushes on all fours. Feverishly and without any competence in earth working he thrashes about. He has adopted the technique of a dog burying a bone. With his hands he scratches and expels the black granules behind him, between his legs. Following Schmollowski’s example, he works at the bottom of the hill. The matter doesn’t resist under his fingers, but it is completely uncontrollable. As soon as he makes a small trench, it collapses into itself and fills back in. With anguish he starts his dig over.
“I’m not getting anywhere,” he whines.
“Continue, noble son!” Schmollowski shouts. “Your fate is in your hands! Don’t lose courage!”
The two men hurry, never stopping. From time to time they speak to each other. They hail each other with anguish and friendship. Depending on the sentence they speak formally or informally. The imminence of the end weighs them down, but each one clings to the other’s presence so as not to lose reason, and dialogue between them still exists. They continue exchanging information about what is happening. They break off their amateur grave digging work for four seconds to talk.
“According to the radio, everything will be over in two days!” Dadokian gesticulates.
“Don’t stop digging, Dadokian!” Schmollowski yells. “Make your hole bigger! The sucking starts soon!”
They no longer see each other, but they can still communicate vocally. I think there is no more light. In any case, they don’t open their eyes, because of the dust. Something has begun blowing dreadfully, an inhaling wind.
“It’s blowing dreadfully!” Dadokian says, terrified.
“Bury yourself, Dadokian!” Schmollowski screams. “Bury yourself, noble son! Enter no womb! Do as I do, sink into the gravel! Refuse rebirth!”
“They’re still sending me messages!” Dadokian moans. “They’re teaching me how to close the wombs’ doors! I don’t understand anything they’re saying! Just one day! It’s the last day! I don’t have time to learn!”
“Sink into the ground, Dadokian!” yells Schmollowski. “Don’t listen to their advice! Hide, open nothing, close nothing!”
Schmollowski’s voice is suddenly cut off, as if it had never existed.
The wind continues to blow in the reverse direction of wind, then it calms.
No one knows what’s become of Schmollowski.
The space is black.
Dadokian is speaking again. He had perhaps an additional delay, compared to Schmollowski. Let’s say maybe a quarter hour more.
There, now his voice can be heard. He is monologuing.
“There’s no more gravel around us,” he says. “Only a spidery smell. . Schmollowski! Do you smell that? Where did you go?”
Schmollowski doesn’t answer. Dadokian is alone. He is alone, he salivates from fear onto his dirty shirt-front, and suddenly reality appears to him. Whether he wants it or not, life is once again going to take hold of him. Incapable of staying on his legs, he curls up. He has no more strength.
“Schmollowski!” he stammers. “I see spiders mating. . webs moving. . They’re going to make me be reborn in here. . Schmollowski! Help me! I’ve gotten tiny, they’ve folded me up in here, I can’t move anymore. . Schmollowski!”
Gong.
“Schmollowski!” Dadokian yells. “Squish me!”
The gong vibrates. It’s a moon in reduced dimensions, made of a dented and dark metal. The moon vibrates.
“Now my reading comes to an end,” says the lama.
And he strikes the center of the moon with an ebony mallet.
“Seven whole weeks have gone by since your death,” says the lama. “Today I think of you with nostalgia, Schmollowski, for we will no longer have the chance to be in contact. I will no longer address you, I will no longer speak to this photograph and these policemen.”
Gong.
“I will miss it. You were likeable, noble son.”
From the other side of the walls, the market’s rumble rolls incessantly, with ebbs and flows and moments of sudden swelling. Voices mix with the thousand rustlings of vegetables, fruits, dollar bills. It’s going to rain, the afternoon is so gloomy that the lama has lit the room’s lamp.