The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
I ran towards him.
From behind the glass, the woman shouted:
— Sir! The deceased are not allowed into the archives!
I was no longer listening.
I followed the man with the trolley and threw myself into the lift just before the doors shut. There were no buttons. Only two directions:
“Up: Forgotten Files”
“Down: Closed Files”
The man asked:
— Which floor?
— Wherever you’re taking my file.
He looked at me in surprise.
— Are you Naser Kamali?
— Yes.
The colour drained from his face.
— Then who was the person who collected your file ten minutes ago?
The lift doors opened.
At the end of the dark corridor stood my shadow. It had the same black briefcase under its arm and held the signed death form in its hand.
When it saw me, it smiled.
— You’re too late, Khalo. From today, I’ll live in your place.
I stared at it in disbelief. I hurried out of the lift to catch up with the man and his trolley, but he was in no rush. He just stood there. Evidently his job description said nothing about a person coming face to face with a runaway shadow.
I turned to mine.
— Living isn’t as easy as tucking a briefcase under your arm, stealing my death form and passing yourself off as me.
— I know. I’ve followed you for years. I’ve seen everything.
— Such as?
— Prison. Loneliness. The pain you went through. The departures and returns. The comrades you could never replace. The times you stopped writing, and the person who made you begin again. The nights you didn’t sleep and the mornings when you pretended you were all right. Even the pieces you wrote in the middle of the night and called “not bad, actually” the next day.
It paused, then added:
— I know better than anyone how heavy your life has been.
— Then why do you want to steal it?
The shadow set the briefcase on the floor.
— Because you don’t value it.
The words struck me like a slap.
I wanted to answer, but could find nothing to say. I reached into my pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it. I had seen no No Smoking signs in the Department of Death. Perhaps, among the dead, smoke was considered the least dangerous thing there was.
The shadow said:
— Didn’t you give up smoking before your arrest in 1363? You’re smoking again?
— You haven’t even begun living yet, and already you’re lecturing me?
— I’m not going to live as you do.
— How, then?
It answered confidently:
— I’ll get up early, exercise, eat healthily, avoid political news, argue with no one and go to bed on time. I’ll love and enjoy life.
I looked at it.
— That’s not my life. That’s a maintenance schedule for a household appliance.
It frowned.
I went on:
— If you want to live in my place, you’ll have to lose your temper, shout, get angry, fall in love, make mistakes, travel, talk to strangers on buses, miss your mother, lie awake over an injustice and sometimes write something that half your readers love and the other half are furious about.
— Those are the things that brought you here.
— Where exactly is “here”?
It did not answer.
— Perhaps you’re right. But those are also the things that kept me from dying before my death.
It was silent for a few moments.
The trolley wheels echoed down the corridor. Files rose to the ceiling on either side. Some were labelled “Forgotten”; others, “Never Heard”. A few especially thick ones bore the words “Inconvenient Truth: Archive Until Further Notice”.
The shadow raised my death form. At the bottom was a signature that looked exactly like mine.
— I didn’t sign that.
— I did.
— You had no right.
— What’s the difference between your signature and mine? I was under your hand for years. Everywhere you went, I was there. Whatever you wrote, I fell across the paper. Even when everyone else left you, I stayed by your side.
I bent down and studied the signature.
— It isn’t mine.
— Why not?
— You haven’t drawn the donkey.
The shadow looked down at the page.
I was right. Beneath the name Naser Kamali, the familiar little donkey was missing.
I smiled.
— Anyone who wants to live Khalo’s life ought to know that Khalo’s signature isn’t just his name. The donkey has to be there too.
The shadow grew angry and hid the form behind its back.
At that moment a bray came from the far end of the corridor.
We both turned.
My donkey emerged slowly from between the archive shelves. A small lamp hung from its neck, casting yellow light over the files. It came forward, stood beside me and stared straight at the shadow.
— Now the third witness has arrived.
The shadow took a step back.
— An animal can’t be a witness.
— In a department where the dead have to register their own deaths in person, a donkey can certainly testify that someone is alive.
The donkey brayed again, louder this time.
Several files fell from the shelves. One opened right at my feet. On its first page was a red star, and beneath it the words:
“The Real File of Naser Kamali — Confidential Until After the Second Death.”
I bent to pick it up, but the shadow got its hand on the file first.
— If you open this, you can never go back to your old life.
I took the cigarette from the corner of my mouth.
— What’s in it?
For the first time, the shadow did not smile.
— All the lives you could have lived, but didn’t.
I looked at the file.
The donkey stood beside me, its lamp still burning. The man with the trolley watched us from a distance.
I reached towards the file.
At that moment the lights went out.
And from the darkness I heard my mother’s voice:
— Khalo, don’t touch every file that has your name on it…
To be continued.
Naser Kamali
London, in my small, modest and pleasant room
Undated; around an hour after midnight
Translator's notes
- 1363 is a year in the Iranian solar calendar, spanning 1984–85 in the Gregorian calendar.
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید