The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
For a few moments I stared at the place where the file with the red star had fallen.
It was gone.
I bent down and looked under the table.
Nothing.
I looked behind the shelf.
Still nothing.
My donkey had lowered its head and was sniffing the floor, as though the Department of Death had now hired a four-legged detective as well as its officers, archivists and shadows.
— Found anything?
It lifted its head and looked at me.
— Look properly. A file that big can’t simply vanish.
It gave a short bray.
— Yes, I know. People that big vanish too, never mind a file.
The shadow was still standing beside the shelves.
— Where did the file go?
— What file?
— The one that was on the floor.
— I didn’t see a file.
I looked at it.
— Comrade, if this is how you’re going to talk to me in the world of the dead as well, the world of the living was quite enough.
The shadow did not answer.
I still held the “Life Number Seven” file. I opened it again.
The first page was the same:
“Naser Kamali — Life Number Seven”
And underneath:
“A life left unfinished because of an encounter that never took place.”
But this time there was something at the foot of the page that had not been there a few minutes earlier:
“Date of occurrence: Not yet reached.”
— What do you mean, not yet reached?
— It means it hasn’t happened yet.
— Then why is its file here?
— Because not every life is written down after it happens.
— You write people’s lives in advance?
— No.
— Then who writes them?
The shadow spoke softly.
— Some files people write themselves, without knowing they’re doing it.
It was one of those sentences that strike you as terribly profound at first, until you think about them some more and realise you haven’t understood a thing.
— Say it more simply. I’ve only just died. I’m not in the mood for philosophy.
For the first time, a corner of the shadow’s mouth moved.
Perhaps it smiled. Or perhaps the light from my lighter merely flickered across its face.
I turned the page.
There was a picture on the next one.
The same woman.
She wore red and stood behind a window streaked with rain. I could not see her face clearly, but she looked familiar enough for my heart to give an extra beat without asking permission.
I put a hand to my chest.
— Excuse me, but aren’t I dead?
— Your heart doesn’t seem to have heard the news.
— It’s always been like this. The organs of my body have never had any organisational discipline.
The donkey brayed.
— You stay out of it. The body’s central committee hasn’t decided on your membership yet.
I looked at the picture again.
The woman was behind the glass.
This time I was certain it was not a still image.
Her head moved a little.
I took a step back.
— Did you see that?
— See what?
— The woman moved.
— Photographs don’t move.
— This one did.
I looked again.
She raised her hand and pressed her palm to the glass.
Even the donkey stepped back this time.
— Don’t tell me you didn’t see it now.
The shadow moved slowly towards the image. For the first time, I had the feeling it did not know what was happening either.
The woman’s lips moved.
There was no sound.
I brought my ear close to the file.
Nothing.
Only the sound of rain.
Then, very faintly, a voice came:
— Khalo…
My whole body shook.
It was the woman’s voice.
Not my mother’s.
Not the shadow’s.
A voice that seemed to reach me from years of distance, from a forgotten street, from a station whose train had already left.
— Who are you?
She did not answer.
She only said:
— You’re late.
I had heard those two words many times in my life.
I had been late for school.
Late for meetings.
Late for trains.
Late to understand certain people.
Far too late to leave certain places.
And so late to say certain things that no one remained to hear them.
But nobody had ever spoken to me from inside a Department of Death file and said:
“You’re late.”
— Late for what?
— For Life Number Seven.
I glanced at the shadow.
— What is Life Number Seven?
— Don’t ask me.
— Who should I ask, then? Where’s the head of the department?
— There is no head here.
I laughed.
— A department without a boss?
— Yes.
— So at last I’ve found one place in the world whose problems aren’t the boss’s fault.
The woman behind the glass smiled. For the first time, her face grew a little clearer.
I felt I knew her, but could not say from where.
From the past?
From the future?
From a dream I had not yet had?
I reached towards the picture.
The shadow suddenly grabbed my wrist.
— Don’t touch it.
— Here we go again. Whenever I find something interesting, someone tells me not to touch it.
— If you do, you might enter it.
— Enter what?
— Life Number Seven.
I was silent for a few seconds.
— And what would be wrong with that?
— You might not be able to come back.
I looked around me.
Endless shelves.
Files of the dead.
Dim light.
The smell of old paper.
And a donkey that, for reasons I could not fathom, had followed me into the afterlife.
— Comrade, where exactly would I be coming back from, if this is where I am?
The donkey shook its head.
— You see? Even our friend here agrees with me.
I reached forward again.
At that moment my mother’s voice came from the darkness:
— Khalo…
I froze.
— Mum?
— Some doors change you once you’ve opened them. You won’t be the same person again.
— Mum, where are you?
No answer.
The woman behind the glass still had her hand against it.
I placed mine on the page.
The glass was cold.
It really was glass.
Rain fell on the other side.
She stood in front of me.
Only a thin layer separated us.
— You still have time.
— For what?
— To make sure you don’t leave this life unfinished as well.
Suddenly everything went dark.
The shelves shook.
The light went out.
The donkey let out a loud bray.
The file fell from my hand.
From the far end of the archives came the sound of several people running.
Then a man called out:
— File Seven has been opened!
Another shouted:
— Who gave permission?
And a third voice said:
— He did.
The lights came on one by one.
But I was no longer in the archives.
I stood in the middle of a street.
Rain was falling.
The donkey was beside me.
The shadow had vanished.
Across the street stood the same woman in red.
She raised her hand.
I raised mine.
Between us lay a street.
A lifetime.
And perhaps only a few steps.
I was about to go towards her when a bus stopped right in front of me.
Its destination board read:
“Life Number Seven — Final Stop Unknown.”
The driver opened the door, leant out and said:
— Khalo, are you getting on, or are you going to be late again?
I looked at the woman.
At the bus.
At the donkey.
The donkey boarded without my permission.
— You little traitor. You could at least have waited to see what I decided.
The driver said:
— Hurry up. This bus passes here only once.
I set my foot on the first step.
At that exact moment, a voice behind me called:
— Naser Kamali!
I turned.
The same death officer in the grey jacket stood in the rain. He held a black file and was out of breath.
— There’s been a mistake! he shouted.
— What mistake?
He held up the file. In large letters on the cover it said:
“Order for Immediate Return to Life.”
And beneath it, stamped in red:
“The above-named person’s death is cancelled until further notice.”
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