The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
I lowered the photograph.
First I checked the right-hand mirror.
Then the left.
Then the pavement.
Then behind the bus.
Then the right-hand mirror again.
Force of habit.
Some people fasten their seat belts as soon as they sit behind a wheel. I first check to see who’s following me.
When you’ve spent years of your life trying to work out whether the man three shops behind you is really out to buy bread or is on somebody’s payroll, your mind doesn’t retire easily.
Not even in a dream.
Not even when you’re dead.
Or meant to be dead.
Or when your death has been postponed for the time being because of administrative difficulties.
The donkey stirred behind me. I turned to look at it.
— You’re off the suspect list for now.
It brayed.
— I said for now. Don’t get too pleased.
I looked through the windscreen.
Coco stood on the pavement, a little way off, watching the bus.
My eyes moved past Coco and farther along the street.
The woman in red was there.
She had moved away from the bus.
Not so far that I could not see her.
Not near enough for me to tell why she had stopped.
I did not like the distance.
Not because she was a woman.
Because it was distance.
To most people, distance means a few yards.
To someone like me, it means questions.
Why is she standing there?
Why doesn’t she come closer?
Whom is she waiting for?
What’s behind her?
Who’s to her right?
Which way is the exit?
And most of all:
why am I working all this out?
I looked up.
The photographer was apparently still on top of the bus.
— Comrade! If you’re going to stay up there, at least report what’s happening behind us.
No answer.
— Splendid. We’ve hired an intelligence officer who won’t give us any intelligence.
The donkey brayed.
— Don’t apply for the job. Your record isn’t clear either.
I looked at the woman again. She had not moved.
I could have called her.
I didn’t.
I could have sounded the horn.
I didn’t.
I could have got off and gone towards her.
I wanted that most of all.
But I didn’t.
The woman in red raised her head. From that distance I could not be certain, but I felt she was looking straight at me.
Neither of us moved for a few seconds.
I was in the bus.
She was on the pavement.
Coco was somewhere between us.
And behind me was a donkey that probably understood the situation better than any of us.
At last she raised her hand.
Not to wave goodbye.
Not to call me over.
She simply held her palm towards me.
Stop.
I knew that signal well.
Many people had told me to stop in my life.
Police officers.
Interrogators.
Guards.
Comrades.
Women.
Doctors.
Security officers.
And, more recently, Death itself.
The difficulty was that none of them meant precisely the same thing by “stop”.
I took my hands off the wheel.
The woman began walking slowly towards the bus.
Three steps.
Four.
Then she stopped and looked behind her again.
This time I looked too.
There was nothing there.
But that one movement was enough for my body to react before my thoughts did.
My hand went towards the door handle.
My eyes went to the mirror.
My shoulders tightened.
She noticed.
Even from that distance, she called:
— Khalo!
I lowered the window.
— What?
— Why do you get ready to run every time I look behind me?
— It’s not running. It’s tactical readiness.
She smiled.
— Readiness against whom?
I was about to give my usual answer:
“Nobody.”
But I didn’t.
Someone truly afraid of nobody doesn’t check the mirrors this often.
She came a few steps nearer.
— Do you look at me like that too?
— Like what?
— As though you have to decide whether I’m dangerous or safe.
I did not answer. This time I had no joke ready either.
— I’m not an interrogator, Khalo.
I looked at her.
— I know, I said quietly.
— Then why do you search for the right answer before replying whenever I ask you a question?
That struck home.
I took a cigar from my pocket.
She laughed.
— Smoking again?
— A cigar is an impartial witness. It doesn’t ask questions.
— Perhaps that’s why you like it.
She paused, then said:
— Khalo, I’m here. I haven’t rejected you.
— I never said you had.
— Then stop denying yourself, she said.
The lighter remained in my hand. I looked at her.
This woman was becoming dangerous.
Not the sort of danger you can find an escape route from.
The sort that makes you stay and look at yourself.
— Now tell me why you were standing so far away.
— I wanted to see what you’d do.
— You were testing me?
— No.
— Then what?
She was silent for a few moments.
— I wanted to see whether, if I took some distance, you’d allow me that distance, or come after me at once.
I did not light the cigar.
— And your verdict?
She looked at me.
— I’m still watching.
For the first time I understood that I was not the only one watching. She was reading me too.
The difference was that I was looking for danger, and I still did not know what she was looking for.
To be continued, if there’s any life left.
Naser Kamali
London, in my quiet, pleasant room and the solitude I love
Undated
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