The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The bus horn sounded again.
I turned.
The woman in red was gone.
So was the alley.
The smell of the sea had vanished too.
I stood once more in the middle of that wet street, with the “Life Number Seven” bus in front of me.
The donkey was watching me through the window.
But the driver had disappeared.
The bus door was open.
I got on.
— Where’s the driver?
The donkey brayed.
— I wasn’t asking you. We still haven’t found a common language.
I looked at the driver’s seat. It was empty.
A small note was stuck to the steering wheel:
“Driver: Naser Kamali”
Underneath it:
“Destination: Driver’s choice.”
— What have I got myself into?
The donkey brayed.
— Don’t you start blaming me. I only held a woman’s hand. How was I to know it would end with me driving a bus?
I sat behind the wheel.
I had not driven for years. Even when I did drive, nobody trusted me enough to put the bus carrying other people’s lives in my hands.
I looked for an ignition key on the dashboard. There wasn’t one.
I saw a red button. Beneath it were the words:
“Start Life.”
I drew my hand back.
Experience had taught me that when you see a red button, you first ask why it is red.
At that moment the death officer came aboard, out of breath. His grey jacket was soaked and he still had the black file under his arm.
— Khalo! Don’t touch it!
— Don’t worry. In this dream, whenever someone tells me not to touch something, five minutes later it turns out they don’t know why either.
He came forward.
— You have to go back.
— Where?
— To your previous life.
— The one whose death you cancelled?
— Yes.
— Then what is this bus?
— An administrative error.
I laughed.
— Life Number Seven, the woman in red, my childhood, the street, the rain, the donkey and the bus — all an administrative error?
— There’s nothing in the file about the donkey.
A bray came from among the seats.
— Hear that? An official objection.
The officer opened his file.
— Under the new order, you must return immediately to Life Number Six.
— What’s Life Number Six?
— The life you came from.
— You mean my own life?
— Yes.
— Then why is it Number Six?
He turned a few pages.
— The five previous lives have been closed.
I fell silent.
— What does “closed” mean?
— They’ve ended.
— I can remember only one life.
— People usually think that.
— Comrade, if you’re about to start an argument about reincarnation, I’m getting off. This story is crowded enough already.
— This isn’t about reincarnation.
— What is it about, then?
He closed the file.
— Every time your life changed so much that you could no longer be the person you had been, one life ended.
I made no joke this time.
I looked at the rain-streaked bus window.
Perhaps he was right.
My childhood had been one life.
My youth, with its fervour and its dream of changing the world, another.
The years when certain doors shut behind me, another still.
Leaving, beginning again, becoming a stranger in another city — another life.
And then the years when you think there will be no more great changes, until one day you discover that life has begun a new chapter without asking you.
— So when did Life Number Six begin?
— I don’t know.
— You don’t know again?
— Its start date has been erased from the file.
— Your Department of Death keeps a tidier archive than some governments.
The donkey brayed again.
This time the officer turned to it.
— Why is this animal still here?
— At last, the right question. I’ve been asking it myself for several episodes.
The officer came closer.
— This donkey doesn’t belong to you.
— I never claimed ownership. I’m opposed to owning anyone. Each person’s life and property are their own.
The officer gave me a mocking look.
— It came of its own accord?
He wrote something in the file.
— What did you write?
— Unidentified companion.
— Put “fellow traveller”. It’s more respectful.
He crossed it out and wrote again.
I smiled.
— Did you really change it?
— The form has to be accurate.
— You lot can’t let go of bureaucracy even in a dream.
My eyes returned to the red button.
Start Life.
— What happens if I press it?
— I don’t know, the officer said at once.
— I thought as much.
— Nobody has ever pressed it.
— Why not?
— The driver usually goes back before reaching this point.
— What do you mean?
— They get frightened.
— Of what?
He looked at me.
— Of no longer being able to blame the driver for the way their life has gone.
That hit home.
You can spend years complaining about the government, society, your family, history, prison, migration, love, betrayal, luck, your body, your age, money, the lack of it, even the weather.
And very often you are right to complain.
You do not live in a vacuum. Others built some roads, blocked others and, in some places, left you no road at all.
But sooner or later you reach a point where, for a few moments, the wheel is in your own hands.
And those few moments are frightening.
Because if you choose for yourself, you can no longer lay every part of the responsibility on someone else.
I put my hand on the wheel.
— Khalo, I’m telling you for the last time. You have orders to go back.
— I’ve spent a lifetime hearing orders.
— This is different.
— That’s what everyone who gives orders says.
— This order is meant to keep you alive.
I looked at him.
— Staying alive and living are two different things, mate.
He fell silent.
I put my finger on the red button.
— Wait! he shouted.
— What now?
He held out the file.
— If you press it, Life Number Seven begins.
— I’ve understood that.
— But there’s one condition.
— So we’ve finally reached the small print.
He showed me a page. At the bottom, in tiny letters, it said:
“Entry into Life Number Seven requires the entrant to forgo any return to the previous point.”
I read it several times.
— Does that mean the past is erased?
— No.
— Will I forget it?
— No.
— Will I lose the people in it?
— You’ve already lost some of them.
I said nothing.
The officer continued:
— The past comes with you. You simply cannot go on living inside it.
I looked at the seats. The donkey had stuck its head out between two of them.
— What do you say?
It brayed.
— Very well. One vote in favour recorded.
— You don’t even know what it’s saying, the officer said.
— I’ve seen plenty of votes in my life that were no clearer than that.
I put my hand on the button.
But I did not press it.
My mother’s face came before me.
Not my mother when she was ill.
Not the mother of her final days.
My mother as I loved to remember her: alive, resolute, with that look that sometimes told her what mischief I was planning before I opened my mouth.
Under my breath, I asked:
— Mum, if I go, does that mean I’m leaving you behind?
Her voice came from somewhere inside me:
— You leave people behind when you forget them, not when you keep going.
I closed my eyes and stayed like that for a while.
Then I said:
— All right, Mum.
I opened my eyes and pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
I waited a few seconds, then pressed it again.
Nothing.
I looked at the officer. He shrugged.
I tried three more times.
— You see? Life Number Seven is broken before it’s even begun.
The donkey gave a loud bray.
Then a voice came from beneath the dashboard:
— Insert your card.
— What card?
The mechanical voice repeated:
— Insert your life card.
I looked at the officer.
— What’s a life card?
— I don’t know.
— I swear, if this dream ever ends, the first thing I’ll do is lodge a formal complaint about your department.
I searched my pockets.
A lighter.
A few coins.
A scrap of paper.
And something I could not explain finding there.
A small photograph of my mother.
On the back, in her own handwriting, were the words:
“Khalo, wherever you go, live.”
And from me to life:
“Live life. Be happy in the moment; don’t let your years go to waste.”
I looked at the writing for a long time. Then I held the photograph up to the reader.
The mechanical voice said:
“Card accepted.”
The engine started.
The bus shook.
Its interior lights came on.
The death officer quietly stepped off.
— Aren’t you coming?
— I’m only authorised to go this far.
— Will I see you again?
He glanced at his file.
— Eventually.
— There’s no rush. Next time you come, ring me first.
For the first time, he laughed.
The door closed.
I put my foot on the pedal and the bus moved away.
The donkey came and sat beside me.
— Let’s settle one thing now. If we crash, you can testify that I had no licence. Though I did have a terrible accident once, in 1357. May Azam, who died recently, be remembered with affection, and may Maryam, who is still with us, remain well.
The street slowly grew lighter.
The rain stopped.
The sign at the first exit said:
“The Past.”
I drove past it.
The second read:
“If Only.”
— I’ve been down that road often enough.
I drove on.
The third said:
“The Life Others Want for You.”
The donkey brayed.
— Agreed. We’re not going there either.
A few miles farther on, the last sign appeared.
It had just one word:
“Yourself.”
I turned the wheel and took that road.
I had gone only a few yards when I suddenly saw the woman in red standing in its middle.
I braked. The bus came to a noisy halt.
She walked calmly towards me.
I opened the door. She got on.
This time she sat opposite me.
She neither smiled nor spoke.
— Will you finally tell me who you are?
She looked at me, then said softly:
— Khalo, if you don’t recognise me, you’ve come all this way by mistake.
She reached into her bag, took out a photograph and laid it on the dashboard.
I looked at it.
My cigarette fell from my hand.
In the photograph, there was me.
The woman in red stood beside me.
On the back was a date that had not yet arrived.
To be continued! Of course! Life goes on.
Naser Kamali
London, in my modest and pleasant room
In the small hours of the morning!
Translator's notes
- 1357 is a year in the Iranian solar calendar, spanning 1978–79 in the Gregorian calendar.
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید