The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The monarchist set down his water bottle. ‘After all that happened, most students ended up in somewhat similar circumstances. The politically active ones were more used to a harder life, of course. Perhaps the change did not hit them quite as it hit us.’
He paused. ‘What surprised me was how many of them did well at university too. I couldn’t understand it then. I thought: they go to all these meetings, read leaflets, campaign and argue politics until midnight. When do they study?’
He gave a brief smile. ‘Let me tell you a memory.’
We fell quiet.
‘In those days the propaganda constantly called the government’s opponents the “red and black reaction”. They were terrorists and killers, we were told. Anyone in prison must have done something to deserve it. I believed much of that picture myself.
‘I mentioned a student friend who was very active, perhaps even among the leadership. They kept their activities secret, and I never knew exactly what his responsibilities were. Now and then they produced a publication called, if I remember rightly, ‘19 Bahman’. It was mostly theoretical, though it also reported on guerrillas and political prisoners in Iran.
‘Sometimes my friend handed me a copy. “Read it,” he’d say. To be honest, I accepted it mainly because he was my friend. Sometimes I leafed through a few pages or read a few lines. Sometimes I put it aside and never went back to it.
‘He was sharp. He knew I wasn’t really reading it. Oddly, that never stopped him from giving me the next issue. He didn’t insist. He simply handed it over, as if he thought, “One day this fellow will open one and read it.”
‘One morning I saw him at university. I could tell from a distance that something was wrong. Usually he was cheerful, laughing and joking. Even when politics came up, he had extraordinary energy. That day he looked drawn. I went over and we talked briefly. He answered, but his heart wasn’t in it.
‘“What’s happened?” I asked.
‘“Nothing.”
‘It was plainly not nothing. I didn’t press him. Later I learnt what had happened. News had come that SAVAK had killed nine political prisoners and said they had died trying to escape. Someone close to my friend, perhaps a relative, was among them.
‘I couldn’t believe it. “How can that be?” I thought. Then I said, “The Shah’s government wouldn’t lie to the people. If it says they were killed escaping, they must have tried to escape.”
‘Remembering those words after all these years, I’m sometimes more astonished by the certainty in my voice than by anything else. I wasn’t there. I had seen nothing. I knew none of the prisoners. I hadn’t investigated. Yet I was certain, simply because I still believed a government I defended could not lie about such a thing.
‘My friend did not try to persuade me that day. Perhaps he lacked the strength, or his grief was too deep for an argument. Perhaps he knew some beliefs cannot be changed in ten minutes. Time passed, but his face that morning stayed somewhere in my mind.
‘Then another politically active student friend told me, “One of the leftists imprisoned in Iran is in London now. If you’d like to meet him and ask questions, you can come.”
‘“Oh?” I said, trying not to show my interest. “I’ll see.” But I was curious. I had never spoken face to face with a political prisoner, let alone an opponent of the Shah who had been through prison himself.
‘I hesitated a little, then said as casually as I could, “Give me the address. I’ll come if I can.”
‘He was pleased. “I won’t give you the address. We’ll go together.”
‘“Why?”
‘“We don’t give the place out to just anyone.”
‘“What for?”
‘“We’re afraid of the Shah’s security agents and informers. The address is secret. If you want to come, I’ll take you.”
‘I became more curious still. Could a person really have to hide even in a free country like Britain? I did not ask. “I’ll be there.”
‘We arranged seven o’clock that evening. He arrived on time and we set off. Straight away I noticed he was looking around. Sometimes he looked behind us; sometimes he paused. He did not take a direct route. We made a few turns. Until then I had seen such things only in films: a person checking whether they were followed, changing direction, inspecting a place before going in. Now I was in the middle of such a scene myself. “Where am I going?” I wondered. But curiosity would not let me turn back.
‘After some wandering we reached a place I recognised. We went in. There were several people there, and to my surprise I knew nearly all of them: students I’d seen at university, meetings or Iranian gatherings. They welcomed me warmly. Nobody asked why I had come. Nobody said, “He’s a Shah supporter.” At least not to my face! Someone offered tea, someone shook my hand, someone welcomed me. It felt neither frightening nor strange, despite what I’d imagined.
‘Then my friend pointed out a man. Entirely ordinary. He had a moustache and a ready smile. He greeted everyone, answered questions, sometimes laughed or put a hand on someone’s shoulder.
‘“He’s a poet,” my friend said quietly. “A writer. He works in theatre too. SAVAK arrested him and tortured him so badly the marks remain on his body.”
‘My curiosity redoubled. I looked at him. Frankly, I could hardly believe it. We had been told so often that such people were idle, ignorant, violent gunmen that my mind had a ready-made picture of a political opponent. This man matched none of it.
‘“Will you introduce me?” I asked.
‘“Of course.” My friend made his way eagerly through the crowd, waved to the man from a distance and called, “Comrade Saeed!”
‘Everyone called him Comrade Saeed. He turned and my friend led me over. I later learnt he was Saeed Soltanpour.
‘“Comrade Saeed, this is a student friend of ours. He was very keen to meet you.”
‘For a moment I lost my nerve. Minutes earlier I’d come out of curiosity to see “a political prisoner”. Now I stood before a human being who resembled nothing they had spent years making me imagine.
‘Saeed Soltanpour came forward and hugged me so warmly that I nearly wondered if we had known each other for decades and I’d forgotten. He welcomed me, asked what I studied, about the university and life in London. He didn’t interrogate me about my beliefs, ask whom I supported or try to make me a revolutionary on the spot. He just talked, and I watched him.
‘I, a supporter of the Shah, was speaking to someone the Shah’s government labelled a “subversive”. I had been told such people were violent, unfeeling and dangerous, that arresting or even executing them kept society safe. I saw none of it in this man. Quite the opposite. What struck me most was his feeling. When he spoke, his eyes shone. I might have disagreed with many of his views or not fully understood them, but I could not take my eyes off his face. When he spoke of poetry, it was more than a few words on paper. When he talked theatre, you felt he had built a stage right there. His words about people were never dry.
‘I thought, “Is this the man I’m supposed to fear? Is this the ‘subversive’?” I did not know how to answer myself. I only knew the image built in my mind over years did not match the person before me.’
The monarchist went quiet. So did the bus. I had listened throughout, but could not stop myself.
‘What effect did it have on you?’ I asked.
The woman in red, moved by his account herself, turned on me. ‘Oh, Khalo! You’ve done it again — crowing at the wrong time!’
Lena gave me one of those looks that tells you, without a word, that you should have kept your mouth shut. I was about to defend myself when the man came to my rescue.
‘It’s all right. I’d reached the end of that part. Khalo hasn’t spoiled it.’
I breathed easier. ‘Then I’ll repeat the question. What effect did it have?’
He was no longer smiling. He looked ahead for a while, then said sadly, ‘A great deal. Enough that I’m sitting here talking to you about it now.’
Nobody spoke.
‘Do you know what became of your comrade?’ I asked.
His face changed. A tear ran from the corner of his eye. This time he made no effort to hide it.
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘They arrested him on his wedding night.’ His voice dropped. ‘Then they executed him.’
After a few seconds he added, ‘Lajevardi ordered his execution — a man who had himself been imprisoned under the Shah.’
He lowered his head. ‘But Saeed left a beautiful song behind too.’
He did not go on. He picked up his water bottle but did not drink; he merely held it.
‘That’s all I have to say for now.’
Nobody asked another question. A strange silence settled over the bus. Not one born from having nothing to say. There was too much to say, and no one knew which words should come first.
The woman in red lowered her head. Lena looked at some indeterminate point. The newcomer hugged Coco a little tighter. Strangest of all, the donkey was quiet.
I sat at the wheel and asked nothing more. Even I understood this time that some questions should not come immediately. Some memories must be allowed to stay a while once they end. They need no instant analysis or political conclusion. They must not be turned into a way to win an argument. Let them simply remain on the bus, like the tear that had run down the face of a man who, only a few parts earlier, had been nothing to us but ‘the monarchist’.
He was more than that now. Decades before, he had entered a room in London carrying one picture of ‘subversives’ and left with another picture of a person. Perhaps even he did not know that evening how vividly that small encounter would live in his memory years later.
The bus moved gently through London’s streets. Nobody was in a hurry to break the silence. Not even me.
To be continued.
Naser Kamali
Translator’s notes
- ‘Red and black reaction’: A political slogan used to link left-wing and religious opponents of the Pahlavi government in one hostile image. Its wording is retained as part of the monarchist’s recollection of propaganda.
- 19 Bahman: The title literally refers to the nineteenth of Bahman, a month in Iran’s solar calendar. The speaker himself is unsure of the publication’s title.
- ‘Crowing at the wrong time’: The Persian compares Khalo’s badly timed question to a cockerel crowing when it should be quiet.
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