Apart from being guilty, we were forbidden from going to the can, even though it was in the back of the bus, but the strange thing is that no one from the back or the front said anything, absolutely nothing, everything seemed quite normal that we would be banned from going to the can, men and women, until I said that it was not possible, we had the right to go to the can, it was a necessity. And then the super smart group gave in, yes gave in, that's the word, as if it was a huge favor, giving us the chance to go to the bathroom between three and four in the afternoon and at night, two hours a day, and they had the other twenty-two hours, one of the front people claimed that they were more than us, they were the majority he said, and nobody, absolutely no one asked or wondered what that had to do with majorities. Yes, of course I fought with my boyfriend, he did nothing to defend me, the front people possessed us, we were their things, we became things, and they could touch us, especially the women, just like that, and he did nothing about it. "What can I do." It wasn't even a question, he simply said it, resigned, like a dead person, his strength was gone, all his masculine strength, he became a broken man, a man with a past, all he could say was that it will end soon, but it never did, it was one day after another and one night after another, and the front people became more and more violent with the women, they raped us, you see, I can't even say it, we were raped, yes, I remember their faces, and it was all of them, without exception, not one, and the back men despised us because the front men raped us even Severio told me that I was a whore, that I turned them on that's why they raped me, I want to kill them all, that's what I want. Everyone, and if you're a man, all men, all of them, well, I'm not saying women are much better, they started competing, who had been raped more times that day, because that meant, as you can imagine, that they were prettier. I wanted to be the ugliest, but they raped me more than the others, almost every day, and those bitches were like jealous, yeah, they were jealous.
“But that's not love and it has nothing to do with beauty, it is pure violence.”
“Yes, but that's the way it is and it's easy for you to say that because you're the most attractive one.”
“How is that easy?”
“Yes, they rape you more and that's why you're the prettiest.”
“But I want to be the ugliest.”
“Sure, that's easy to say when you're the prettiest.”
“Beauty does not matter.”
“Sure, that's easy to say when you have a body like yours and you are used to having everyone look at you.”
“What are you talking about, easy?”
But nobody listened to me, and no one listened to no one.
From where I was sitting I couldn't see much, but I realized that we were lost. Sometimes the bus would come to a sudden halt, and then start backing. And the faces of the passengers became blurry, instead of eyes they had spots, and the same for the nose and mouth. They all looked alike. Someone said that the front people were poor men, that's how he said it, and they all started talking at once.
“And it seems they're escaping from a genocide. We must feel compassion for them.”
“Compassion? “
“Yes, some have lost their entire family, all of it, cousins and siblings, uncles and grandparents, everyone, they're the sole survivors of an ancient village or a tribe, I don't know.”
“But they're oppressing us.”
“It depends on how you see things, because they are the ones who have to decide what to do and they say that we cannot really understand the world because we haven't had our grandparents killed, so we don't have to worry about making decisions.”
“But maybe they're making bad decisions.”
“Maybe, but they are in charge, it's better not to be in charge because all the decisions are bad.”
“This is an ambush, an impasse, a maze, let them manage it.”
“They are raping us.”
“It's worse when they rape you and then kill you.”
“And much worse when they rape you and then kill your entire family.”
“So we need to have compassion even though they are raping us.”
“And even though they kill us.”
“Even though they abuse us.”
“Even though they kidnap us.”
“But we're all in the same bus, and if we have an accident we're all going to suffer equally.”
“No, it's not true, we are behind, the front people will suffer more, and anyway there is nothing we can do, they make the laws.”
“They are the laws.”
“We can say what we think, we can talk, and we can try to convince them.”
“They are very convinced.”
“Yes, they know what has to be done, they are front people, they are very developed and they understand buses better than we do. Say the truth.”
“What truth? How do they know about buses more than us if they come from an Eastern tribe and from a country without buses?”
“They have learned.”
“Where?”
“On the bus.”
Then the front people started throwing stones at us, and one of them left a back guy in a coma. When we took the broken stones and threw them back at them they called us terrorists, and most back people were opposed to throwing stones because it didn't seem humane to them. The front people accused us of racism and of not wanting to accept the natural course of the world. And the back people of not wanting to be part of the society of the bus and of being segregative. By that I mean they practically accused us of everything, separatists, terrorists, anti-whatever, undemocratic, anti-development, anti-ballons, anti-bus-people, anti-life, and everything else.
And I'm afraid to tell you everything that happened, because I don't know who you are and why you're asking me all this, I think I'm entitled to a lawyer, but no lawyer has come, and maybe you are front people who just want to abuse me, so I don't think I can say more than what I've already said, or not until I know who you are, because a front guy said he had a bomb in his suitcase and that we better shut up, although we don't really know if it was true or not. I think it wasn't true, who can carry an atomic bomb in a briefcase? But I was told that there are dirty bombs, that's what they're called. Does this mean the others are clean? I don't know. And I'm hungry, so if I could have something to eat and something to drink, it would help me to keep going. Or perhaps it would be best to answer your questions, a lot of unimportant things happened in four days and I don't see any reason to just enumerate them.
5.
“What is your name?”
“Nahid.”
“What is your last name?” A woman's voice.
“Ah, good news, there is a woman. There are two of you, at least two. Can I know what I'm doing here?”
“The first thing you have to know is that here we make the questions.”
“Ask.”
“What?”
“We ask or we formulate a question, or we just ask, but we don't make the questions. In English we ask questions, we formulate questions, but we don't make questions.”
“And where did that come from?”
“Whatever, that's what my grammar teacher always said.”
“And your last name?”
“Gramática[7].”
“Well, Mrs. Nahid Gramática, we want to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, very well, I love questions.”
“Where are you from?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“It's just a way to connect with you.” The woman’s voice came back.
“Oh, very well, I love making connections.”
“So where are you from?” a slightly nervous man’s voice.
“Where do you think I'm from, Gramática of course.”
“And where is that?”
“In Mesopotamia.”
“Aha...”
“Are you married?”
“Like everyone else.”
“Does this mean yes or no?”
&nb
sp; “That means: divorced. Or do you live on another planet?”
“Alright, let's talk about the bus.”
“Why did you get on that bus?”
“Looking for love, a date in the Mediterranean. Romantic, right?”
“With whom?”
“With a certain Abdel Rahman el Rantisi.”
“Where?”
“At Al Andalus beach. At the restaurant with that same name. I think he will be gone by now, because we set a date seven years ago on a trip with my husband, when I saw him in an espadrilles shoe store in Malaga, I told him I was married, he said that changes, and we set a date for seven years later.”
“It seems a little weird, doesn't it?”
“Yes, but I believe weirder things have happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like the horse on the bus.”
“The what?”
“Did nobody tell you about it? There was a horse on the bus, in the front. Well, it was more like a pony, let's say it was a pony, because it took two seats. And nobody said anything since I went up in London I thought that was weird and bad luck too.”
“Are you superstitious?” A woman's voice, coughing a little.
“Well, a little bit, like everybody. But don't you tell me that a horse on a bus is not a little strange.”
“Yes, very strange.”
“And who killed the passenger who was next to you?”
“Well, not next to me... He was in front of me sitting with my boyfriend because we couldn't find a place together, we asked him to change places, but he refused because my seat wasn't comfortable. We didn't insist. He was right.”
“And who killed him?”
“I don't know, I was asleep, but I think it was the horse. It was a white horse. We ate it.”
“What?”
“On the second day, we ate it, the front people received the best parts, but it wasn't bad, we were hungry.”
“And the owner didn't put up a fight?”
“The owner...? The horse itself put up a fight. It stood up against us. But we shot it. That's how it is with horses. We made a bonfire and we put it in the fire, it was full of trees, olive trees, which gave it a better flavor, according to a French butcher who knew a lot about horse meat, for me it was the first time I ate horse meat. In Gramática, we were not used to eating that meat.”
“And were there Jews on the bus?”
“Sure, there was a whole mix, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, and even some said that the horse was Jewish. I know very little about horse religions. And besides he was a white horse.”
“Didn't you say black?” Woman's voice.
“She said white.” Man's voice.
“She said black.” Woman's voice.
“I'm telling you she said white.” Man's voice.
“Why does it matter?”
“We are the ones who ask here.”
“Alright, keep fighting then.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“White.”
“Black.”
“And was the horse that good?”
“Scrumptious.”
“And you, Mrs. Gramática, do you really think that the horse killed Cash?”
“Yes. After that trip, I believe anything.”
“What else do you believe?”
“I believe that Red Riding Hood ate the wolf, that the world is rectangular, that God exists, that my lover is waiting for me at Al Andalus, that buses have wings, that the Messiah has returned, that the world is logical, that I have seven children, that frogs are carnations and that King Arthur was gay.”
“Anything else?”
“That's not enough? For someone who, just a few days ago, didn't believe in anything...”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is what it is.”
“And what do you think of the front people?”
“They are good people and they’re very compassionate, they are right, back people are jerks and they're bad, they had no other option but to mistreat us, but back people are to blame just for being back people, if there were no back people they would be angels, of that I'm sure, even my boyfriend acted like a jerk and left with another woman, that's what back people do, they're treacherous, they're bad. I only aspire to that, to become a front woman, I hope you will be the ones to give me that blessing.”
“Alright, you can rest, we will continue later on.”
6.
Nahid was alone in the small cell thinking about her cat, Cleopatra, a gray cat that she had left with her mother to go on that journey. The journey toward her destiny. And then she heard applause.
They were coming from a live album, then came an electric guitar, and the drum joined in quickly after. A distant voice, a little-known, but not so much, not very clearly either, began to sing in English, "They say there was a secret chord, that David played to please the lord...", it was Leonard Cohen's song “Hallelujah”, but he wasn't the one singing. Then the door was pushed open and they shoved in a man in his forties, bald, almost completely gray-haired, with a five-day beard.
Dragged by the pressure the man landed right in the middle of Nahid's breasts, who jumped back from shock and hit the wall.
“Hello, I'm Dospasos[8].”
“I would say you're a rather big step.”
The music was very loud and he did not hear what she said. But he continued.
“They finally put some music on, and good music, although the recording is not great, it's a bootleg, it's Bob Dylan singing the song of Leonard Cohen. Very strange.”
“That's it, Dylan, I thought I recognized it. I don't like his voice.”
“What?”
“I don't like his voice,” Nahid shouted.
“Well, there are those who like his voice and others who hate it, I'm in the middle, sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. But I always like Leonard Cohen... Hello, nice to meet you, I'm Dospasos,” he stretched out his hand.
“I'm Nahid.”
“Nahid?”
“Yes, it's a Persian name. My father was Persian.”
“Then you are a persiana[9].”
“Persian.”
“Ok, it was a joke. A really bad one.”
“Do you remember me?”
“No. Where do we know each other from?” He asked while she remembered his face.
“No, nothing,” she said.
Dylan's song ended and a smooth, quiet electric guitar was heard, which seemed better to Nahid, or at least less noisy, and a delicate voice resonated. It was the same Leonard Cohen song sung by another singer, although it sounded like a completely different song.
“It's not Cohen this time either,” Dospasos said, “it's Jeff Buckley.”
“I don't know him.”
“He died recently, drowned in the Mississippi, the river, very young, and his father was also a singer, Tim Buckley, he also died before he was thirty. They have similar voices. Poor women, the one who married Tim, Jeff's mother, but on the other hand, she must have loads of money from royalties from the two of them, I'd say it's as if they reincarnated to pass money on to her, something strange. Do you believe in reincarnations?”
“A little.”
“What do you mean a little?”
Now they could hear each other well, although at times Buckley's voice was broken in two as he almost screamed.
“Well, that's not what I care about now, what I want is to get out of here. I get on a bus and I end up in a cell with nosy people I have no idea who they are.”
“Were you on the bus?”
“Yes, that's where I know you from.”
“You should.”
They skipped to another song, it was finally Leonard Cohen singing “Who by fire”, and they both recognized that song.
And who by fire, who by water,
who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of May,
who by very slow decay,
and who shall I say is calling?
Suddenly they were surprised by the sound of loud drumming. It was the song “First We Take Manhattan” and Dospasos immediately recognized it, but it was only after two or three lines that he realized that it was Joe Cocker singing. He didn't know that version. They had turned the volume up and they could barely hear each other. They stopped talking for a while. She looked at him but was afraid to meet his eyes. When he laid eyes on her, she turned her face toward another wall. She preferred the wall to the eyes of that man. He thought she was shy.
The song ended, Sting sang “Sisters Of Mercy”. The music had calmed down.
“And what is your name?” She asked.
“My name is Dospasos.”
“That is a last name.”
“Yes, normally it is, but it's my name, my parents gave me that name because they were in a bookstore looking for that writer named Dos Passos, but they called me Dospasos, in one word. My last name is Auster. Dospasos Auster.”
“Very literary.”
“Well, yes, my parents were very literary, they still are, they are alive, I haven't seen them for years.”
“Mine is Gramática, it's my last name.”
She didn't want to be there with him, she was scared, and she hated those eyes. His beard was repugnant, but she knew that the best thing was not to tell him anything.
“And where were you on the bus?”
“Around.”
“I mean back or front...”
“I don't know anything about that.”
“What?”
“I am a poor Persian girl, that's it, you said it, a persiana.”
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