The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
Laughter rang through the bus.
It came so suddenly and so loudly that even the donkey raised his head from the back seat and gave us a look that seemed to ask what important thing had happened without him.
Coco pricked up his ears too.
The woman in red was still laughing. Lena held a hand over her mouth. Behind the wheel, I was trying to watch the road and work out from the mirror how long the laughter would go on.
— All right, all right! A little quieter. If the police stop the bus, I won’t know how to explain why several adults, a dog and a donkey are laughing in it for no apparent reason.
— That’s exactly the problem, said the woman in red.
— What is?
— You think there has to be a reason to laugh.
— That’s a dangerous remark, said Lena.
— Why?
— Because if Khalo starts on ‘the philosophy of laughter’, we’ll be stuck with it until midnight.
The woman in red burst out laughing.
— Very well. Philosophy is banned from this moment.
— So is politics, said the woman in red.
— What about love? asked Lena.
I was quiet for a few moments.
— Love is the most banned of all.
The woman in red raised her eyebrows.
— Why?
— Philosophy only confuses you, politics makes you angry, but love does both and then keeps you awake at night.
— I object, said Lena.
— Objections are banned too.
— Then what exactly are we allowed to talk about? asked the woman in red.
I looked at the donkey in the mirror.
— Him.
He brayed at that very moment.
— Provided he doesn’t join the discussion himself.
— I’ve a better idea, said the woman in red. — Anyone who starts a serious discussion should be fined.
— How much? asked Lena.
— I’ll set the rates. I’m the driver, after all.
The woman in red folded her arms.
— Very well, Mr Driver. Let’s hear them.
— Philosophy, one pound. Politics, two pounds…
— Love?
I saw her eyes in the mirror.
— Five pounds.
They both asked almost at once:
— Why five pounds?
— Because it does more damage.
The donkey brayed.
The woman in red turned towards him.
— Record his objection too.
— Objections cost three pounds.
— The donkey owes three pounds, then, said Lena.
— Let him pay for his ticket first. Then he can have the right to object.
The woman in red turned to the donkey.
— Have you got a ticket?
He looked at her for a few moments, then gave a short bray.
— See? I’ve been suspicious of him from the start. He looks like one of those passengers who suddenly falls asleep as soon as the ticket inspector comes aboard.
Laughter rang through the bus again.
Coco got up and sat beside my feet.
— Don’t be too pleased with yourself. Your ticket situation isn’t clear either.
— Let’s make Coco the fine collector, said the woman in red.
— We can’t.
— Why not?
— He hasn’t got pockets.
— We can put the money under his red bandana.
— No, madam. When the person collecting people’s money hides it under his clothes, an auditor usually turns up before long.
— That was political, Lena said at once.
— Two pounds! said the woman in red.
— How was it political?
— That objection is another three pounds.
— So I owe five pounds?
— So far.
— We haven’t even reached the next stop and you’ve bankrupted me.
— Don’t worry. The fines will go towards the welfare of the animals on this bus.
I looked at the donkey in the mirror.
— So he’s the only passenger who profits financially from my talking.
— That was economics, said Lena.
— Another pound, said the woman in red.
— Why?
— I don’t know, but ‘financially’ sounded suspicious.
— At this rate you’ll have confiscated my house by tonight.
— Political, said the woman in red.
— Fine! I won’t say another word.
And I really did fall silent.
The bus went along the wet street.
The windscreen wipers went back and forth.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
The woman in red put up with it for a little while.
— Why aren’t you talking?
— Because if I talk, you fine me.
— You can’t carry on like that.
— Why not? It’s your rule.
— I didn’t mean you shouldn’t talk at all.
— Then what exactly should I say?
She thought for a while.
— Something ordinary.
— Such as?
— A funny memory, perhaps.
— My memories generally end up in prison, politics, exile or a complicated relationship. Whichever one I start with, I’ll be in debt by the end of the street.
— Then talk about the bus itself, said Lena.
— That’s more dangerous still.
— Why?
I adjusted the mirror a little.
— Because I still haven’t worked out who owns it.
— What do you mean? asked the woman in red.
— One day I woke up after dreaming of my own death. Then I found a file, saw a shadow, the donkey appeared, Coco arrived, I became the driver of a bus, and now two ladies are sitting behind me and collecting fines. If you were in my place, wouldn’t you check the bus’s papers first?
Lena looked at me for a few seconds.
— I’ve got a more important question.
— Ask away.
— Do you have a licence to drive a bus?
My hands froze on the wheel.
The woman in red slowly turned her head towards Lena.
Then both of them looked at me.
— Next question.
— No, no. That’s an excellent question, said the woman in red.
— I said next question.
— Have you got a licence or not?
I tried to look completely serious.
— Look, some matters in life are best left shrouded in mystery.
— My God! We’ve boarded a bus whose driver has no licence!
— I didn’t say I haven’t got one.
— So you have?
— I didn’t say that either.
Lena laughed so hard that she leant her head against the back of her seat.
The donkey brayed too.
I turned towards him.
— You keep quiet! If we looked into your papers, I doubt you’d have a passport, a visa or a ticket.
— At least he doesn’t claim to be the driver, said the woman in red.
— Very well. If anyone objects to my driving, they’re welcome to get off.
The woman in red looked out of the window.
It was still raining.
— Keep going for now.
— See? People are very loyal to their principles as long as the weather is fine.
— Philosophical, said Lena.
— One pound, said the woman in red.
— What sort of philosophy was that?
— You objected. Another three pounds.
I shook my head.
— By the end of this journey I’ll have to sell the bus.
— The one you don’t know who owns? asked Lena.
I fell silent for a few moments.
Then all three of us burst out laughing.
The donkey brayed as well, and I don’t know why, but I felt he was laughing too.
For a few minutes nobody spoke of anything important.
Not death.
Not politics.
Not love.
Not the past.
We just laughed.
Strangely, after all these years, a person can discover that laughter is a kind of rest: not an escape from life, but a few minutes with its weight set down.
The woman in red leant her head against the window.
Lena looked outside.
Coco had settled beside my feet.
Perhaps for the first time, the donkey had decided to offer no opinion.
The bus went on.
We passed several streets.
Then Lena said suddenly:
— By the way, Khalo…
— Yes?
— I’ve got a question.
— If it’s philosophical, you’re paying the fine yourself.
— It isn’t.
— Political?
— No.
— About love?
— No.
— Then it’s free. Ask away.
Lena leant forwards a little.
— Where are we actually going?
My foot eased off the accelerator.
The woman in red lifted her head from the window too.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
I watched the road.
The truth was, I didn’t know.
Since I’d sat down at the wheel, I’d kept moving: turned corners, stopped, seen people, picked up passengers, talked and laughed.
But I had never really asked myself where the destination was.
— I think that question carries a fine.
— Why? asked the woman in red.
— It’s too serious.
— Don’t dodge it, said Lena.
— I’m the driver. I don’t run away; I change the route.
The woman in red laughed, but briefly this time.
Just then a man at the next stop raised his hand.
I put my foot on the brake.
The bus drew up gently beside the stop.
The man stood in the rain without an umbrella. He wore a long grey coat and carried a small bag.
— Do you know him? asked the woman in red.
— No.
— Will you let him on? asked Lena.
I looked at him.
He was looking straight at me.
I opened the door.
The man put one foot on the step but did not climb aboard.
He leant his head inside.
— Excuse me…
— Yes?
— Where is this bus going?
I opened my mouth.
I had no answer.
I looked at the woman in red.
She looked at Lena.
Lena looked at me.
Coco looked at the three of us.
And the donkey gave a short bray from the back of the bus.
The man was still waiting.
— To tell the truth… we’re not quite sure of the destination yet.
His eyebrows rose.
— You mean you don’t know where you’re going yourselves?
— Not exactly.
He studied me for a few moments.
Then he leant farther in and surveyed the bus.
The woman in red.
Lena.
Coco.
And finally the donkey.
I thought he would step back down and wait in the rain for an ordinary bus.
Instead, he suddenly smiled.
— Then I’ve come to the right place.
— What do you mean?
He put his other foot on the step.
— I’ve been looking for a bus whose driver doesn’t know where it’s going.
— Congratulations, the woman in red called from behind me. — You couldn’t have found a better one.
The man got on.
I closed the door.
I watched him in the mirror.
He made his way calmly between the seats.
Several were empty, but he sat in none of them.
He went to the back of the bus.
And sat directly opposite the donkey.
The donkey, who until then had an opinion on everything, fell silent.
The man placed his small bag on his knees.
The donkey looked at him.
He looked back at the donkey.
They remained like that for several seconds.
The woman in red leant close behind me.
— Khalo…
— Yes?
— I think you’ve picked up trouble again.
I pressed the accelerator.
The bus moved on.
I looked in the mirror once more at the man in the grey coat.
He was still looking at the donkey.
And the donkey was still silent.
That silence troubled me more than any bray.
The bus turned into the next street.
I still didn’t know where we were going.
But now we had a passenger who had apparently boarded for exactly that reason.
Worst of all, I felt he knew something about the bus’s destination that I, its driver, did not.
To be continued…
Naser Kamali
London, in my small, cosy room, on a rainy evening.
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