The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The man came and sat directly opposite the donkey.
That in itself was a little odd.
The bus was almost empty. There were at least seven or eight other seats where he could have sat comfortably, looked out at the window, watched the London rain and, if he felt particularly miserable, even contemplated the fate of humanity.
Instead he passed them all and sat opposite the donkey.
The donkey looked at him.
The man looked at the donkey.
I watched them both in the mirror.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
— Interesting choice, I said.
— What?
— The seat. Of all the seats in this bus, you chose that one.
He glanced at the donkey.
— Is there a problem?
— Not for me. You’ll have to ask him.
The donkey flicked his ears.
The man leant back a little.
Lena laughed.
The woman in red laid her book on her knees.
Coco got up from beside my feet, walked over, sniffed the man and came back.
— The initial inspection is complete, apparently.
— Is this bus always like this? asked the man.
— Like what?
— Strange.
— No. Some days are worse.
— It depends who’s on board, said Lena.
The man looked at her.
Lena smiled.
Perhaps he did not yet know how much trouble that simple smile would cause him.
The bus moved on.
The rain had eased. Streetlights stretched across the windows, and London beyond them looked like a city somebody had painted with a wet hand.
The man wore a neat coat and a narrow scarf. He carried a walking stick that seemed more a part of his character than something he needed to walk.
— Are you from London? Lena asked.
— I’ve been here a long time.
— How many years?
He paused.
— A lot.
— Is ‘a lot’ a new unit for measuring migration? I called from the mirror.
He didn’t smile.
— Then you must remember Iran well, Lena said.
— Iran back then? Yes.
He said ‘back then’ as though it had been a country of its own with definite borders: the Iran of back then.
— When was that? Lena asked.
He paused again.
— When the country had… order.
The donkey raised his head.
— See? He’s sensitive to the word ‘order’.
— I’m speaking seriously, said the man.
— And the donkey’s listening seriously.
Lena suppressed a laugh.
— You mean before the revolution?
The man turned to the window.
— I don’t call it a revolution.
Even the woman in red looked up from her book this time.
— What do you call it? Lena asked.
— An event.
— An event? I repeated.
— Yes. A historical event.
— An event is spilling tea down your trousers. Several million people coming out onto the streets is a little bigger than an event.
— It wasn’t everybody.
— Who was it, then? Lena asked calmly.
He waved a hand.
— Certain groups. They were stirred up. They didn’t understand what they had.
— You mean the people who joined the protests didn’t know what they wanted?
— Exactly.
— Well, well. Several million people didn’t understand, but you did?
This time he looked directly at me.
— I saw that period for myself.
— So did many others.
— Some saw its prisons too, Lena said.
A short silence fell.
The man crossed one leg over the other.
— Every government has prisons.
— True, said Lena. — But the question isn’t whether it has prisons. The question is whom it puts inside them, and why.
— The country was developing then, said the man.
— Is it impossible for a country to develop economically and repress people politically at the same time?
He did not answer.
The donkey suddenly brayed.
— Please let our guest answer.
Lena laughed.
The man frowned.
— I can’t have memories of that time, said the woman in red. — I was born two years after the fall of the Pahlavis.
She opened her book again.
The man looked at her.
— So you never saw that period at all.
— That’s exactly what I said, she replied without looking up.
— Our first historical point of agreement tonight has been recorded.
Coco wagged his tail.
— But I have a question, said Lena. — If people really were satisfied with the way things were, why did protests on such a scale happen?
— Propaganda.
— Just propaganda?
— Propaganda, foreigners, clerics, leftists, intellectuals…
— You forgot the donkey.
— What?
— The donkey. With a list that long, I imagine he played some part in bringing down the monarchy too.
The donkey brayed again.
This time Lena laughed aloud.
Even the woman in red held her book in front of her face to hide her laughter.
— You make fun of everything, the man said.
— No. Some things save us the trouble and make fools of themselves.
The man turned to Lena.
— You think the people made the revolution?
— That large numbers of people took part is a matter of history. Why they took part, which forces were involved, what contradictions existed and what happened afterwards are other questions.
— The people made a mistake.
— Possibly, Lena said.
The man looked a little pleased.
But she continued:
— People’s mistakes don’t erase the revolution from history.
His smile disappeared.
I watched him in the mirror.
Something about him was gradually becoming visible that I had not seen when he boarded.
He wasn’t talking only about a government.
He was talking about part of his own life.
It was as though the fall of that government had brought down something within him too, something he still could not accept had fallen after all these years.
— How long have you been out of Iran?
— Nearly fifty years.
— And you still talk about those same few years every day?
He fell silent.
Lena looked at me.
I realised I might have trodden a little too heavily on something tender.
Lena asked more gently:
— Do you miss Iran, or do you miss that period?
He looked at her.
This time he had no quick answer.
He rested a hand on the top of his stick.
— I miss the country it might have become.
— That’s different from the country it was, said Lena.
— Perhaps.
For the first time, he had said a word without certainty in it.
But a few seconds later he pulled himself together.
— Even so, if that event hadn’t happened…
— Still ‘event’?
— Yes.
— You still won’t say ‘revolution’?
— No.
— Very well. There’s no hurry. This is a long bus ride.
Without looking up from her book, the woman in red said:
— I was born two years after the fall of the Pahlavis too.
— Madam, you’ve already told us that.
— I know. I just want it on record that I wasn’t responsible for that event.
Laughter spread through the bus.
This time even the man couldn’t help the slight lift at the corner of his mouth.
The donkey put his head forwards, bringing his face almost level with the man’s.
— Why is he looking at me like that? asked the man.
— He may be waiting for your political position to become entirely clear.
— My political position is clear.
— Not to us yet, said Lena.
— I believe Iran needs a king.
There was silence.
It wasn’t a heavy silence. It was more the silence after a puzzle has been solved.
I watched him in the mirror.
Lena sat back quietly.
The woman in red turned a page.
Coco laid his head on his paws again.
The donkey studied the man for a few seconds, then looked away.
— We’ve arrived at last, I said.
— Where?
— Not us. You.
— Where have I arrived?
— At the sentence you’ve been circling since you boarded.
He said nothing.
— So you’re a monarchist? Lena asked.
— If you want to give it a name, yes.
— Well, that’s no crime. At least we know who’s sitting opposite the donkey now.
— Why do you keep bringing the donkey into it? the man protested.
— Because he’s the only passenger who hasn’t yet declared which political system he prefers.
The donkey let out a loud bray.
— Although he does seem to be issuing a statement.
— My question is different, Lena said. — You can be a monarchist. Why must you deny that millions of people made a choice back then in order to defend the choice you make today?
The man stared at her.
She continued:
— You can say you don’t accept the outcome of the revolution. You can say you’re unhappy with what came afterwards. You can even wish it had never happened. But you cannot remove the people who took to the streets from history merely because the result of their actions doesn’t fit your picture of Iran.
He looked out of the window.
The rain had grown heavier again.
Nobody spoke for a while.
Then the man said quietly:
— Perhaps I still haven’t finished with those days.
This time I made no joke.
Lena said nothing either.
Only the donkey moved forwards and nudged the man’s stick with his muzzle.
The man looked down.
— What’s he after now?
— I don’t know. Perhaps he wants to say fifty years isn’t a short time to think something over.
— Or perhaps he wants a carrot.
— See? At last we’ve agreed on something.
The man laughed.
The woman in red closed her book.
— I’m glad. Especially since I was born two years after the fall of the Pahlavis.
This time even the man laughed.
The bus travelled on along the wet street.
In the mirror I could still see the man sitting opposite the donkey and looking outside.
I felt we had only just learnt he was a monarchist. We had yet to learn why, nearly fifty years later, part of him still refused to accept that the world he had known was over.
That, perhaps, was the next part’s question.
To be continued…
Naser Kamali
London, in my small, cosy room.
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