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Prairie Schooner 78.1 (2004) 164-169



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Three Short Stories

Leonardo Alishan


Outside The Crowded Bus

For Lucian Stone

Picasso said that everything was a miracle, and it was a miracle that one did not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar.
-Jean Cocteau (1891-1963)

The chickens and hens, as well as the lone sheep tied to the back seat, were expressing their discomfort as loudly as we were. The bus was a very old bus, the road a very old road, and aside from Ali and me, only peasants occupied the bus whose smell merged with the smell of the animals they were carrying and made it very hard for us, two young idealists, to feel compassion for them. On that hot summer afternoon, we were on our way to a village near Yazd where we were supposed to secretly meet two students from the University of Shiraz.

The rattling bus stopped amidst the rising dust anywhere and everywhere peasants stood by the roadside. Sometimes they got on; at other times, they just stared at the bus driver with curiosity as if to ask, can you not tell that we are just enjoying the sight of the desert and the scent of dust?

Next to the driver's seat there were signs indicating, "No Loud Music on the Bus," "No Smoking Except in the Four Back Seats," and a graffiti cut with pieces of sharp metal that read, "No Prophets Allowed." There was nothing else about all the other numerous elements that were turning this trip into a virtual descent into hell. I guess those notices had been issued by the central government for all buses regardless of their area of operation. Ali turned to me and said, "Not only is this guy sitting behind the bus driver smoking, but who among these poor bastards could afford a radio, let alone to play it loud!" I smiled. Ali just shook his head and said, "We're all living a big joke."

Again, in the middle of nowhere, the bus stopped. An old man slowly climbed up the two steps. He pointed with his right index finger to the sign saying, "No Prophets Allowed," looked at the [End Page 164] bus driver, shook his head, and descended the steps backwards. The bus driver muttered, "Crazy son-of-a-bitch," and was about to shut the door and move on when Ali shouted, "Stop!" I said, "What are you doing?" As if possessed, Ali answered, "I have to talk to this old man." I protested, "Ali, we want to change this stinking status quo of our society, we want to bring happiness to our people. How can you be so selfish?" He didn't even look at me. He just got up and, without even picking up his backpack, left
the bus.

Two days later, after a lot of meaningless passionate talk, three hangovers, and two sleepless nights, I was back in Tehran. My mother told me that Ali had called four times. I answered his call, feeling rather angry at him for abandoning me in the middle of nowhere. He told me that he needed to see me. We met at a café near our university.

"So," I asked Ali, "who was that old man; what did he have to say that was so important?" Ali answered, "The old man is a madman the sound of whose chains cure other madmen. He is the light of all pilgrims but never a pilgrim himself. He is like Moses: he guides the people to the promised land but can't enter it himself." I said, "Are you crazy? What's all this nonsense you're making up?" Ali answered, "He told these things to me himself. I'm not making anything up." Then he paused for a moment and added, "He is a prophet." "Oh, yeah?" I said, "What goddamn vision did he have that is so different from all the superstitions we've been fighting against so far with so little success...

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