The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
At exactly 3.17 in the morning, I died.
I cannot be entirely sure of the time of my death. I had no watch on me, and none of those present troubled themselves to make a note of it. Later, when I woke from the dream and looked at my phone, it was 3.17. So, to avoid any dispute among the living, I declare that to be the official time of my death.
My death was a very quiet affair. No angel appeared. Nobody arrived in a strange black costume. No trumpet sounded, and the sky did not split open. A man in a grey jacket simply came into the room with a black briefcase tucked under his arm and asked:
— Naser Kamali?
I said:
— Depends what you want with him.
He glanced at his papers.
— According to the list we’ve received, you’re due to die tonight.
— Who sent you? I asked.
— The Directorate General of Natural Deaths, Unnatural Deaths and Suspicious Cases.
— Have you got a warrant?
The man sighed.
— Khalo, over there nobody comes for anyone without a warrant. It’s on this side of the world that people are taken away without one.
There was some logic in what he said, but I was not going to give in so easily. Years of experience had taught me that before going anywhere with an official, you ask his name, his position, the case number and the reason for your arrest — or your death. Admittedly, I learnt that after flying out of my past, across the border, to this side. On the other side of that border, things did not work that way. If you asked questions, they might even add them to your sentence and call it meddling in the affairs of your betters.
Anyway!
— Very well, I said. — What is the cause of death?
He leafed through the file.
— It hasn’t been established yet. They’ve listed several possibilities: diabetes, nervous strain, very severe pain in the leg, insomnia, weariness with the world and excessive consumption of political news.
— I reject the last one. I don’t consume the news. The news consumes me.
The death officer did not smile. Evidently, laughter was forbidden on their training courses.
He put a form in front of me.
— Sign here to confirm that you have died of your own free will.
— I don’t even sign an internet contract without reading it. Why would I sign for my own death? And heaven help me if I were on the other side of the border. I’d get a few clouts round the head for objecting to the signature.
Right. Let us get to the point.
I picked up the form. At the top it said:
“Voluntary Surrender of Life — Deceased’s Copy.”
Clause one read:
“I hereby confirm that I have no complaint regarding the manner, time or place of my death, or the conduct of the staff of the Department of Death.”
— I haven’t died yet. How am I supposed to know whether I’ll have a complaint?
The officer said:
— If you die, you will no longer be in a position to complain. If you do not die, your complaint will be irrelevant.
I realised I was dealing with a department far more advanced than any I had encountered in my lifetime.
So that was it: a clout round the head on the other side of the border, gentle and friendly treatment on this one?
At that moment I noticed that my funeral had begun in another corner of the dream. The plan was to cremate my body and scatter the ashes at sea. People had come, but instead of talking about me, they were discussing parking spaces, late buses and the quality of the coffee. One of them asked:
— Is he really dead, or has he made up another rumour for a new story? Like that pain in his leg — we didn’t believe him. I didn’t even believe the hospital photographs. You know what they say: a Bushehri aubergine never catches blight.
And they all burst out laughing.
Someone else replied:
— I won’t believe it until Khalo himself announces his death on his website.
A third person said:
— If he really is dead, who has the website password?
I tried to get up and explain that I was still alive, but the death officer put a hand on my shoulder.
— Please don’t disrupt the ceremony. People have more respect for a dead man who doesn’t talk.
Then I heard a voice in the crowd:
— He was a good man, but his pieces were rather long. Sometimes they wore you out.
That hurt more than dying.
I sprang to my feet and shouted:
— First, I’m not dead yet. Second, my writing is only as long as the truth requires!
Suddenly everything went dark.
I opened my eyes. I was in my own bed, drenched in sweat, shaking and terrified. For a few moments I did not know where I was. I put a hand on my chest. My heart was pounding as though it had staged a demonstration against the Department of Death to prove I was alive.
I looked around and said quietly:
— So I’m still alive?
From the darkness a voice answered:
— For now, yes. But your file is still under review.
I switched on the light. There was nobody in the room.
Only the Department of Death’s form lay on the table. Or perhaps it was the electricity bill, made to look like a death warrant by fear.
Naser Kamali
London, in my modest, quiet room
Undated
Translator's notes
- Khalo is an affectionate Persian form of address meaning “maternal uncle”. The narrator uses it as a name throughout the story.
- A Bushehri aubergine never catches blight is the teasing expression used here to suggest that Khalo is remarkably hard to kill.
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید