Bardo or Not Bardo. Antoine Volodine

“Listen to my counsel, Glouchenko. Do not let your confused mind influence your decisions.”

      The voice fades. Schmunck continues speaking, but the stream of sound dies out.

      “Do not turn away from the Path,” the voice picks up again.

      “Hey!” Glouchenko calls out. “Hey, you, talking guy! Where are you hiding?”

      Glouchenko freezes. He cups an ear.

      “Weird,” he mutters. “Sometimes it’s like he’s yelling right next to me, and sometimes it’s like he’s whispering a hundred meters away . . . In either case, I can’t figure out a single damn word he’s . . .” (Pause.) “It’s like I’m in a dream. That has to be it; I’m having a nightmare . . .” (Pause.) “Wait, what am I saying. If I were dreaming, I’d be seeing things . . . And there’s nothing here. Only darkness . . . It’s obvious that . . .”

      He starts moving again. He extends his arms. With his hand or his foot, it’s unknown, but he touches a telephone. One of those old models from the interwar years, with a round dial and fork, and a mechanical bell that jingles when you shake it.

      “What’s this? A phone!” Glouchenko is astonished. “I wonder if it still works?”

      He shakes it.

      “Sounds like it,” he says.

      He picks up the receiver. He gets a dial tone. He tries to use the device by feeling around. He mumbles. The bell jingles no matter what he does.

      “Well, it’s plugged in,” Glouchenko notes. “If I could just dial a number . . . There must be a switchboard . . . It’s usually zero-zero . . . Oh goddammit! How can you do anything when it’s so . . . Is this hole a zero or a nine? I’ll just try it, maybe . . .”

      The dial turns, returns with a scrape to its original position, turns, returns with a scrape. From the device, after the tone, come the echoes of a tantric ceremony, skewed by minute electroacoustic disturbances. There are horns, conches, collective prayers, chimes, whispers. No distinct voice stands out.

      “Hello, can you hear me?” Glouchenko shouts. “Glouchenko here. Is there anyone at the switchboard?” (Faint murmurs, less and less perceptible chimes. Everything fades away.) “No, they don’t hear me. I got a wrong number, of course . . .”

      He hangs up. Silence surrounds him. He doesn’t know what to do.

      “You bastards!” he suddenly screams. “Turn the lights back on right now! That’s enough, it’s over! This isn’t funny anymore!” (A pause.) “Come on, boys! The joke’s gone on long enough! Turn the power back on!”

      A beat.

      He picks the telephone back up. He listens to the dial tone. He slams the receiver down violently.

      “Bastards!” he mutters.

      Then we hear him take a seat next to the phone. He’s made his decision. He sits, he gropes around, he pulls on the wire, he moves the jingling device. He places it against his leg.

      He feels tired.

      “Fine, might as well stay here and wait for someone to call me,” he says. “I don’t feel too good, I should rest for a bit. Later on, I’ll untangle this wire, if I have time. The thing’s all twisted . . .”

      In the distance, an extreme distance, the gongs and horns cease. For several moments, there is absolutely no sound.

      Then we are startled. With how intense the silence and darkness are, the officiant’s voice takes us by surprise.

      “Oh noble son, Glouchenko,” the officiant articulates, “give yourself over to reason, do not believe what you see, the colors and forms around you are but pure illusion . . .”

      Glouchenko doesn’t react. He’s heard nothing. He wasn’t startled.

      “Well,” he mutters, “someone’ll call me eventually.” (A pause.) “Whoa, what’s happening? I feel all washed out. I’m just completely tired, all of a sudden.” (A pause.) “I’m going to wait for them to turn the lights back on. Until then, I’ll just take a short nap.”

      “Oh Glouchenko,” says Baabar Schmunck, “the skies now appear to you as a dark, navy blue, a divine blue light, marvelous and brilliant, springs forth in your direction. Do not be surprised by it, noble son.” (Gong.) “Do not fear it, even if you are barely able to take in the view.” (Gong.) “Place your faith in it.” (Gong.) “This light is meant to welcome you. Just beside it throbs a drab white glow. Do not be drawn to it, for that is not the light of grace.” (Gong.)