The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
I left the house and walked to the bus stop. I had taken only a few steps when I discovered that walking without a shadow was not as easy as it sounds.
You never appreciate your shadow while you have it. It asks for no rent, eats no food and keeps out of your business. For years it moves beneath your feet, behind you or beside you without a word of complaint. But let it stay at home for a single day and suddenly you feel that some part of you is missing.
Several times I glanced down without thinking. The place where my shadow ought to have been was empty. Strange, how sometimes you only realise after losing something that it has been quietly beside you all these years.
At the stop, a man standing next to me looked at the ground, then at me, several times. At last he asked:
— Excuse me, do you always go out without your shadow?
— No. We’ve had a disagreement today.
He nodded.
— Fair enough. These days even shadows won’t take responsibility for their owners’ actions.
The bus arrived. I held my bank card against the reader, but the machine said in a flat voice:
“This card belongs to a deceased person.”
The driver looked at me.
— There’s been a mistake. I’m still alive.
— Makes no difference to me. You still have to pay the fare.
— Even if I’m officially dead?
— Dying doesn’t exempt you from paying. You can travel free only if you’re under sixteen.
I had no choice but to pay with another card and get on. At least my second bank had not heard about my death yet.
I sat by the window. People walked along the pavement, cars went past, shops were open, and life carried on, indifferent to whether the system had me down as dead or alive. Perhaps that was what life was: something that continued without asking a department’s permission.
I searched for the department’s address on my phone. The map led me to the end of Life Street, where a tall grey building stood between a hospital and a cemetery.
Above the entrance it said:
“Directorate General of Natural Deaths, Unnatural Deaths and Suspicious Cases”
Below it, in smaller letters:
“Visitors are kindly requested to ascertain whether they are alive or dead before entering.”
And farther down, on a handwritten notice:
“Visitors bear responsibility for any death occurring while they wait in the queue.”
I went in.
It was a large hall with hundreds of plastic chairs. Some people were sitting, some standing, and a few lay so still across their seats that it was impossible to tell whether they were waiting for their turn or their turn had already come.
I took a ticket from the machine.
It said:
1,335,000,000
The board above the hall showed number 21.
I asked the information officer:
— When will my turn come?
Without looking up, he said:
— It depends.
— On what?
— How long the people ahead of you live.
I sat next to an elderly woman. She held a large folder and kept muttering to herself.
— What have you come about?
— I need a certificate proving my husband is alive.
— Where is he?
— He died three years ago.
I looked at her.
— Then why do you need to prove he’s alive?
— The tax office sent a letter saying that because his death hasn’t been entered in the system, he owes tax for the past three years. The Department of Death says that since he’s dead, he must come in person to register his death.
— So what will you do?
— I’m waiting. Perhaps he’ll come.
She fell silent for a moment, then looked at me hopefully.
— You didn’t see him over there, did you?
I couldn’t bring myself to crush her hope.
— I haven’t officially been over there yet. Last night I only got as far as the door.
The old woman nodded and hugged her folder again. I could not tell whether she was waiting for her dead husband or for a department that might finally accept that the dead cannot always present themselves in person to prove they have died.
On the other side of the hall, a man in an expensive suit arrived with three bodyguards. He went straight to the counter without taking a number.
People protested.
— There’s a queue!
One of the bodyguards said:
— This is an important man.
Someone at the far end of the hall shouted:
— If he’s so important, why has Death come for him?
His face was terribly familiar. Over the past few weeks, television channels aligned with him had falsely presented him as the people’s leader, while his thugs had tried to force him upon the public with insults and violence. They had not succeeded, and now his political death had arrived.
The clerk at the counter addressed the suited man respectfully.
— How may we help you?
— There’s a rumour that I’m politically dead. I’ve come to deny it.
The clerk looked him over.
— Physically, you are alive. On the second question, our assessment department will have to decide.
Two hours later, 1,335,000,000 appeared on the board. They had not even called number 22, but evidently death, like many things in this world, followed no clear order.
I went to counter seven. Behind the glass sat the same woman who had spoken to me on the telephone that morning.
— Name?
— Naser Kamali.
She kept her eyes on the computer screen. She was looking through my file when suddenly she pushed back her chair.
— You shouldn’t be here!
— That’s why I’ve come. I want to prove that I should be here.
— I mean that, according to the system, you’re dead.
— If I’m dead, how am I standing in front of you?
She looked at me.
— It could be a technical fault.
— In the system or in me?
She paused.
— I can’t say until we’ve investigated.
I slid my passport under the glass. She glanced at it.
— This proves your identity, not that you’re alive.
I showed her the electricity bill.
— This proves where you live.
I showed her my hospital card.
— This proves you were once ill.
— Take my pulse.
— I’m not authorised to touch the deceased.
— Ask one of your colleagues.
— The staff union has forbidden it.
I lost my temper and slammed my hand down hard on the counter.
The sound echoed through the hall. For a moment a few people turned to look at me. My hand hurt. To me, that pain was the best proof that I was alive. Apparently pain did not count as evidence here either.
The woman said calmly:
— An emotional reaction is not conclusive proof of life. Many deceased people react when their inheritance is divided.
I stared at her for a few moments. I no longer knew whether to laugh, get angry or seriously begin to doubt that I was alive.
At last I asked:
— Then what evidence do you need?
She put a form in front of me.
— Two living witnesses must confirm that they saw you after 3.17 this morning. One witness must not be a relative, friend, neighbour, colleague or acquaintance.
— Who is that supposed to leave?
— Someone who doesn’t know you.
— How can someone who doesn’t know me confirm that I’m Naser Kamali?
The woman smiled.
— That’s your problem, not the department’s.
— I’d like to speak to the manager.
— The manager is dead.
— His deputy?
— Off sick.
— The complaints officer?
— Not yet born.
I took a deep breath.
For a moment I put a hand to my chest. My heart was still beating. Not for the department, not for a file, not to prove anything to anyone. It was simply beating, as it had all these years. Perhaps, I thought, to be alive a person needs this more than any document: a heart that has not yet agreed to surrender to the archives.
— Where is my file?
The woman looked at the clock.
It was 11.58.
— Probably on its way to the Eternal Archives.
I looked at the clock. Two minutes to noon.
I did not know whether to prove I was alive before my file reached the Eternal Archives or let the file go and carry on living.
Perhaps sometimes that is all life is:
you are alive, but somewhere in a department a file insists that you are dead.
And perhaps what matters most is that you do not start believing the file yourself.
Naser Kamali
London, in my small, modest and pleasant room
Undated; around an hour after midnight
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید