The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
When I woke the next morning, the first thing I did was check my pulse.
It was there, though it beat with such reluctance that my heart might have been on the night shift and waiting to clock off.
I got out of bed and stood before the mirror. I looked at my face. It was the same face as ever, only a little more tired, a little paler, with hair that appeared to have spent the night fighting Death on its own, without its owner.
To be sure, I said:
— Khalo, are you alive?
My reflection did not answer.
I grew worried and asked again:
— I’m talking to you. Are you alive or not?
Still silence.
Then I remembered that mirrors do not usually answer, unless a person has gone completely mad or wandered into a Latin American story.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I had decided to forget last night’s dream, but the Department of Death’s form, the officer in the grey jacket and that painful remark about my writing being rather long and wearing people out would not leave me alone for a moment.
The water had not even boiled when my phone rang.
An unknown number.
I answered.
— Hello?
A woman’s voice said:
— Good morning. I’m calling from the Directorate General of Natural Deaths, Unnatural Deaths and Suspicious Cases. Am I speaking to the late Naser Kamali?
— If I’m the late Naser Kamali, how are you speaking to me?
The woman was silent for a moment. I heard papers being turned.
— According to our records, you have been classified as deceased since 3.17 this morning.
Well, they knew the time of death too. That made my job easier.
— But I’m standing in my kitchen making coffee.
— Standing in a kitchen is no proof that you are alive. Many people spend years moving about in kitchens, offices, Parliament and even on television without displaying a reliable sign of life.
— Then what would prove that I’m alive?
— You must complete the form entitled “Objection to Registration of Death”.
— Where do I get it?
— From the department’s website.
— What’s the website address?
— I’m afraid the website has passed away.
— So how do I get the form?
— You may attend in person.
— Where is the department?
— At the end of Life Street, just before Oblivion Square, opposite the public cemetery.
— The public cemetery? So the Khavarans aren’t public?
I could hear the woman breathing quite clearly, but she said nothing.
— I’ll come today.
With a catch in her voice, she said:
— You cannot be seen without an appointment.
— Then give me one.
— First you must prove that you are alive before we can make you an appointment.
— How do I prove it?
— By attending in person.
I felt I had died all over again, this time not in my sleep but from speaking to a departmental employee.
— Madam, you want me to come in person to prove I’m alive. But to come in person I need an appointment, and to get an appointment I have to prove I’m alive beforehand. Have I understood you correctly?
In a voice both pleased and on the verge of tears, she said:
— Exactly. I’m glad you’ve finally understood.
— What happens if I do nothing?
— Administratively, you will remain dead.
— And in reality?
— Reality is outside our remit.
At that moment the kettle switched itself off with a loud click. The woman gave a shriek.
— What was that noise?
— The kettle.
— Is anyone else there who can confirm that you’re alive?
I looked around. There was no one. I said:
— No, I’m alone.
Her voice became more serious. The catch disappeared.
— In that case, your claim amounts solely to the deceased’s own testimony and has no legal standing.
— My neighbours can testify.
— Can they be certain whether they saw you before or after 3.17?
— I don’t know.
— Then they may have seen your ghost.
— I don’t believe in ghosts! And if I had become one, I certainly wouldn’t have got up this early. A ghost doesn’t pay rent or electricity bills, and it doesn’t wait for the kettle to boil for a cup of black coffee — not a particularly tasty one, as usual.
— That is your personal interpretation of life after death. The department does not interfere in matters of belief.
Then she lowered her voice and added:
— Between ourselves, if you really are still alive, you’d best come in person as soon as possible. At noon today your file will be sent to the Eternal Archives. After that it will be very difficult to get it back.
— Why?
— Because the archivist only works on Thursdays, and on Thursdays they’re usually on leave.
The call ended.
I poured my unwanted black coffee, but my hand was still trembling slightly. I sat down and stared at the steam rising from it. Until last night, death had been a philosophical matter to me: the end of life, the meaning of existence, the fate of humanity. This morning it had become an administrative matter, and I had until noon to prove that I still existed.
I got dressed, put my documents in my rucksack and prepared to go out. I took my passport, bank card, hospital letters and electricity bill. Then I thought perhaps none of them would be enough. My passport proved only that I had once been born, not that I had yet to die. The electricity bill proved only that even after death the electricity company would not leave a person in peace.
Before leaving, I stood in front of the mirror once more.
This time my reflection spoke.
— Where are you going?
I froze.
— To the Department of Death.
My reflection smiled.
— Too late, Khalo. I signed the form for you last night.
I turned round suddenly. There was nobody behind me.
I looked at the mirror again. My reflection stood calmly, doing exactly what I was doing, except that it had a black briefcase tucked under its arm.
I opened the front door and hurried out.
On the stairs I saw my neighbour. I said hello, but got no reply. He went past as though he had not seen me.
I called after him.
— Excuse me, can you see me?
He stopped, turned and looked at me in surprise.
— Of course I can see you. Why wouldn’t I? Has that leg pain of yours caused some other problem as well?
I breathed a sigh of relief.
But he went on:
— I just don’t know why your shadow is still standing inside the house.
I looked behind me.
The door had shut, but my shadow had not come out from underneath it.
That was when I realised the Department of Death was not my only problem in proving I was alive. Apparently part of me had decided to stay at home without me.
Naser Kamali
London, in my quiet, pleasant room
3.17 a.m.
I don’t know; to be continued…
Translator's notes
- Khavaran is a burial site near Tehran associated with the graves of political prisoners executed in 1988. The narrator’s plural form also points beyond that one site.
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید