The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The woman was still looking at me through the window.
I was looking at her too.
She did not wave, smile or give me any sign that I should go or stay.
She simply watched.
Some looks are like questions.
Others are like answers.
Hers was the sort you cannot tell is a question or an answer, but you know that if you look away, you will lose something.
My hand was still on the steering wheel. The engine was off, but I heard a faint sound beneath my feet, like the heart of an old man pretending to be asleep while listening to every word.
In the front mirror I saw the donkey. It sat behind me and was watching the woman too.
— What are you looking at?
It moved its ears.
— It’s personal.
A short bray.
— No, I don’t want your expert opinion. The last time you interfered in matters of the heart, you boarded this bus without permission.
It turned its head and looked out of the other window.
It was sulking.
At least when donkeys sulk, you know they are sulking. They are honest about it. They don’t play games with you. That’s why the donkey has become my favourite animal.
Some people stay beside you for years and you still cannot tell whether they love you, hate you or are merely waiting for the next bus.
I looked at the woman again. She was still there.
Coco sat a little farther away, by the kerb. Its gaze moved between her and me, as though it had become the border guard for a relationship whose border, country and even name were still unknown.
Something shifted on the roof of the bus.
I put my head out.
— Naseroo! Are you still up there?
The young photographer answered:
— Yes.
— Why don’t you come down?
— I’m waiting.
— For what?
— For the moment you finally do something against your habits.
— An interrogator told me in 1367, “If I find one single immoral act in your life, believe me, I’ll have you executed.” Later, after Maryam was released, she told me that Revolutionary Guard Intelligence had been searching for an “immoral” act in my past so they could destroy me.
Then I said:
— Young man, you’re a younger version of me, not the person appointed to reform my behaviour.
— That’s precisely why I know how much reform you need.
The donkey brayed.
— Very well. A coalition has formed against me: my own youth and a donkey.
The woman moved away from the window.
My heart gave that extra beat again. This member of my body had still not learnt that the meeting was over and it could not make decisions without the central committee’s approval.
She disappeared for a few seconds.
My first thought was that I should get off.
My second was that I should not.
My third was that perhaps a man in a grey jacket was waiting behind the door.
My fourth was to work out which way the exit lay.
My mind always sets up a welcoming committee, an escape committee and at least two commissions of inquiry for every event.
But this time I did nothing.
I sat and waited.
From my youth until now, I had spent most of my life either leaving or preparing to leave.
Home.
A city.
A country.
People.
Even when I stayed somewhere, half of me stood by the door.
This time I decided that all of me would remain in the seat.
The building door opened and the woman came out.
It was still raining. She had no umbrella. Her red clothing was so bright against the grey street that it seemed someone had accidentally dropped a piece of life into the middle of a dream about death.
She came slowly towards the bus.
Not hurrying.
Not hesitating.
With every step she took, my mind produced a fresh possibility.
Perhaps she had come to ask something.
Perhaps to say goodbye.
Perhaps she was the death officer in different clothes.
Perhaps she did not exist at all and I was still lying on the floor of the archives.
When she reached the bus, she stopped beside the door. It was shut.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
A few seconds passed.
— Aren’t you going to open it?
— Depends.
— On what?
— Whether you’re a passenger, an officer or a friend.
The corner of her mouth moved.
— What if I’m an officer?
— Identification.
— A passenger?
— A ticket.
— A friend?
— Just a mischievous smile.
— And if I’m none of those?
— Then I ought to be more worried.
I pressed the button. The bus door opened noisily.
She put a foot on the step.
The donkey stood up. Coco came forward from the pavement but did not board. It waited beside the door.
The woman glanced at the donkey, then at me.
— Do you always travel with a donkey?
— No. Sometimes I’ve travelled with people, but it didn’t go well. Though it still depends on what happens next!
The donkey nodded with satisfaction.
The woman climbed aboard. The door closed behind her. The smell of rain came in with her.
It was neither perfume nor flowers. It was the smell of a street newly washed, a street that did not yet know whether someone was about to leave it or stay.
Yet her scent changed the air inside the imaginary bus as well.
The donkey gave her a sideways glance and began to bray.
She did not come forward. She sat in the first seat by the door.
Three rows lay between us.
The very distance she had chosen for herself.
— Ticket?
— I haven’t got one.
— Destination?
She did not answer.
I switched on the ticket machine. Its screen flickered several times. Normally a stop’s name would appear, but instead there was only a sentence:
“Passenger not recognised.”
— Even the machine doesn’t know you.
— Machines usually take longer to know people than people do themselves.
I pressed the button again. The machine made a noise and issued a slip of paper.
At the top it said:
“Life Number Seven Bus”
Below that:
“Passenger’s name: Not registered”
And beneath it:
“Destination: Naser Kamali”
I stared at the paper for a few moments and read it again. Perhaps I had mistaken it.
But there it was:
“Destination: Naser Kamali.”
I showed it to her.
— What does this mean?
She looked, without surprise.
— This time the destination isn’t a stop.
— I’m not a destination.
— How can you be sure?
— Because I’ve spent my entire life on the road.
— Perhaps that’s why.
The young photographer called from the roof:
— Are we moving?
I put my head out.
— Don’t rush me. I still don’t know whether I’m the driver or the destination.
— Perhaps both, came his voice.
— Just take pictures for now. Leave philosophy to people with steady jobs.
The woman laughed.
It was the first time I had heard her laugh. It was neither loud nor long, but something changed inside the bus.
The ceiling lights came on one by one.
The engine started without my turning a key.
The donkey went back to its seat.
Coco was still outside.
I opened the door again.
— Coco, aren’t you coming?
Coco looked at her, then at me. It wagged its tail once but stayed put.
— Coco knows some roads must be travelled without a guard, the woman said.
— Coco isn’t a guard.
— Then what is Coco?
I looked at the dog.
For years people had asked me what I was to one person or another.
A friend?
A comrade?
A lover?
A brother?
A companion?
And now I had no answer even for what I was to a dog.
— Coco is someone whose staying needs no explanation.
— Lucky Coco, she said softly.
I shut the door and put my hands on the wheel.
— Where do we go now?
She stood, came forward slowly and stopped beside me. She looked at the street ahead.
— Straight on.
— How far?
— Until the next time you want to run away.
— That’s rather a long address for a satnav.
— Then drive without one.
I put the bus in gear. It moved off.
The street was empty. Rain struck the windscreen, and every few seconds the wipers wiped the world clean, only for it to become wet and blurred again.
I checked the mirror.
The donkey was in its place.
The woman stood beside me.
On the roof, my younger self had his camera ready.
Coco grew smaller and smaller on the pavement.
But behind Coco stood a man in a grey jacket.
The death officer.
This time he had no black file. He held something white, a piece of paper that looked like a ticket.
I braked.
The woman put her hand on the steering wheel.
— Why have you stopped?
I pointed at the mirror.
— He’s appeared again.
She looked into it.
— Which one?
— How many are there?
I looked at her. Her face had grown serious.
— Who do you see?
— Someone who wasn’t meant to get a ticket yet, she said quietly.
I looked back into the mirror. The officer raised the white paper.
Even from that distance I could read two words:
“Second passenger.”
And immediately below was a name the rain would not let me see in full.
Only its first letter was clear:
“N…”
To be continued, if there’s any life left.
Naser Kamali
London, in my quiet and pleasant room and the solitude I love
Undated
Translator's notes
- 1367 is a year in the Iranian solar calendar, spanning 1988–89 in the Gregorian calendar.
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید