Two strange occurrences on a bus

Summers in southern Siberia are hot. They are also flat, but so are the winters. In the summer it is noon from sunrise to sunset. In between the ill-conceived towns there is nothing to create shade except for the occasional clouds of dust that slowly collect along the ground, then rise up as would an aeroplane with a brick wall at the end of the runway, then expand, each bit of dust asexually multiplying itself a hundredfold, then the sides close in to form a net of sorts that falls upon its prey, a head of hair if possible but a cow will do, and often does. It is thought by some that a warm body creates a tiny area of low pressure that acts as a magnet for the dust clouds, and others that the dust is attracted only to strong personalities, in people and cows alike, and so only those that have given up on life are let alone. The strength of the sudden winds can push a person some meters off her path, though the ground off the path is as flat and dry and dusty as anywhere else, and so this is no great inconvenience.

Arman was walking into the wind. There was a town a long ways behind him, and another a long ways in front of him. Each dust cloud came with about five seconds’ warning, as the dirt some way in front of him made its exponential ascent, and thus he had enough time to meet each cloud with his back turned and his hands over his ears and nose. He did not waver when dirt entered his ears and nose anyway, because he kept a simple faith that, had it not been for his hands, it would have been worse. He wore grey pants held on by suspenders over a once-white shirt that was now instead the color of everything. He wore also an inexpensive straw hat on which were written words incorrectly spelled in a foreign language. He carried something like a briefcase, worn to the same extent as his clothes and face. When a dust storm approached, he held the briefcase in the crook of his arm while he shielded his face.

Arman could see for several kilometers in every direction, and there was nothing to see. The sky was large like a goiter. The road, believed to exist under about ten centimeters of dirt, continued straight forwards and backwards, and was distinguishable by its hard-packed appearance and by the somewhat-straight lines of rubbish on either side.

When he first heard the noise behind him he made the instantaneous and subconscious decision that it was not important; or at least, it could wait, and thus he did not pay it any mind at first. It grew enough to enter his consciousness, and Arman wondered what it might be. There were not many alternatives. It was probably a car. If so, then Arman would ask for a ride. It might be a military vehicle, in which case he would not.

He calculated by the growing sound how much longer he had until he should turn around to look. He was reluctant to do so, not because he was concerned with watching the dust gather, but because he'd kept a steady pace and gait for over an hour, and he did not want to give it up. Even his about faces during a dust cloud had become synchronized and a part of one fluid motion. He made a deal with himself that he would turn in ten seconds; when this passed, he gave himself three more, not because he was lazy but because by the sound he knew he could afford it; then, he stopped walking, straightened his back and turned around. The sound was made by the bus, which was now only some short distance from him. He had not thought it would be the bus, because one week ago the bus broke down and needed a part that had to be sent for, and while he had not spoken with anyone associated with the bus, it was commonly said that the wait would be between one month and five years, and he believed this. If he had known the bus was running, then he would have taken the bus from the very beginning, because he was not so poor that he would spend the morning and early afternoon walking when he could instead pay the twenty tenge fare. Though now he was a bit reluctant, because he had walked a long way, and if he took the bus now, it would be to admit that his effort was wasted, whereas if he kept on, he would be tired but he'd have saved money, and because each man puts a different value on his time, no one could say he'd made the wrong decision. But he was tired, and he had a long way to go, and it would be nice to return home at an earlier hour. He stuck out his right arm, pointed to the ground at about a forty five degree angle from his body, the hand hanging limp. The bus passed him, then one tail light lit up, and it stopped without pulling over. Arman walked up to the folding doors. One had opened, the other was stuck. Arman squeezed into the bus and took his seat at the rear.

There were four other passengers. Two were elderly women dressed in twenty layers of robes, shawls and wraps. One had a headscarf colored dirty green, the other's was colored dirty grey. One sat on the side, facing perpendicular to the direction of travel, the other sat facing forward, also on the left side of the bus.

Behind her was a young mother and her child. The mother was wearing a white transparent blouse and a black opaque bra that fully covered her breasts. She wore blue jeans and a red headscarf to counter the dust. Her child was wrapped in a light blue blanket made of a lightweight material.

It was stuffy on the bus, and hot. All windows were closed, in the belief that a draft, of any size or temperature, is deadly to either the very young or very old. There were no curtains to cover the windows on the right side of the bus where the sun shone in. Outside, Arman's sweat had evaporated soon upon emerging; here it dripped. At first Arman tried his best to prevent the sweat from ruining his clothing, because he could not change until he returned home. Everyone was facing away from him except for the one old woman facing sideways, and her eyes were closed, both hands resting on the head of her cane. He slipped off his shoe and removed his sock, then unbuttoned one of the buttons on his shirt, reached inside his shirt and used his sock to sop up the sweat on his body. He replaced the sock. The new dampness of the sock was not as unpleasant to him as the embarrassment that would otherwise be caused by his shirt. However, in one minute the situation was as bad as before. He spread his arms a little, so that the sweat might drip down his sides – an unpleasant sensation – instead of collecting in the armpits of his shirt. But it was too late, and in five more minutes he stopped fighting it. None of the other four seemed to be bothered by the heat, except maybe the baby, who was upset over something, but Arman did not know what. The baby was not crying outright, but instead gave short bursts of sobs that were mixed with hiccups. Its mother bounced it a bit but did not make a sound or look at it.

The bumps on the road, noticeable to Arman while walking, became exaggerated by the speed and poor suspension of the bus. Arman and the mother were bounced about uncomfortably on the thinly cushioned seats. The old women were also bounced but to a lesser extent, having perhaps a lower center of gravity. Arman had some coins in his pocket that he took out and held in his hand. He counted them to make sure that none had been lost, and none had been.

Arman surveyed the interior of the bus. The paint was yellow and for the most part in fair condition. There were some phrases in German on the walls that hadn't been understood since they were written. A piece of clear glass was placed behind the driver's seat, and a poster of a woman had been taped to it. The woman was wearing a piece of lingerie that a woman would probably not normally choose to wear; it covered her from her crotch to her breasts, something like a cotton bathing suit. Her nipples could be made out. Two straps secured it over her shoulders. On her legs were sheer white stockings. Though she was lying on a bed, she was improbably wearing white high-heeled shoes. She had blond hair and a long, large face, and the expression of someone who had been found out trying to poison her husband. The windshield was cracked in a number of places. In the rearview mirror Arman could see that the driver was the devil. Some trinkets dangled from the mirror. A number of coins were on the dashboard, not separated by value. The transmission was manual.

It bothered Arman a good deal that the driver was the devil, even though Arman was a practical man, and he did not hold popular ideas of the devil created to scare little boys and girls. Still, it was the devil, and he regarded him as you would a war criminal whom you happen to spot in Argentina. Sure, that was a long time ago, but still...

The bus kept on at an even pace despite the bumps. Arman had seen the devil twice before, and that was how he recognized him. The first time was at the bazaar, the second time was in a dream, which had been enough years ago that Arman didn't think about it much anymore, until now.

The curtains on the left windows were drawn, but through the right windows Arman could see a few trees, each with a few leaves, and one with an abandoned and run down bird's nest left by an asocial bird who had died some time ago. Arman thought about getting off the bus. There was no stop here, but Arman was reasonably sure that if he asked, the devil would let him off. But it was still a long way to where he was going. And Arman worried about causing offense, because it would be obvious that he did not really want to get off here, having just got on, that he was just getting off because the devil was driving the bus. And so he decided to stay, but he kept his eyes on the back of the devil's head, or rather, on the poster of the woman, which blocked his view.

Arman wondered if the other passengers knew the devil was driving their bus. Perhaps, he thought, they were his family, his wife, child, and grandmothers. He was old, but not too old to have a young wife, in this society. He looked like an old man who looked young. Arman studied the mother, and decided she was not the type to lay with the devil. And so, it was most likely that only he knew the driver's identity. He wondered if there was some moral obligation to tell them. They may hold different beliefs than him, and therefore object strongly to riding a bus driven by the devil. But Arman did not want to appear suspicious, and he was far enough away from the others that he would have had to either move seats or speak loudly, which he did not want to do.

The devil made no attempt to avoid the potholes, and it would probably have been fruitless either way. Arman reflected that, within the kilometers on either side, the road was probably the least flat piece of land, but convention kept the driver from veering off onto the steppe. Ordinarily, Arman would not have minded the situation as much as he did now. His problem was that he knew, as everyone does, that things happen in threes, and this was his third time. That's why he wasn't at all frightened his second time, in his dream, because things don't happen in twos.

The devil and Arman had never spoken. Usually, upon leaving a bus, Arman said a 'thank you' to the driver; he did not know what he would say to the devil, if indeed he did leave the bus; his afternoon had been thrown up in the air. In the dream, the devil had been a hot-air balloon that scooped him up and took him thrice around the world, so fast that he'd arrived back three days before he left, and thus had to relive an unpleasant case of bowel trouble the night before the dream. For some time after the dream, Arman was fascinated with time travel, until he'd spoken with a geology teacher who explained to him the nature of the international dateline. Arman reasoned that the devil had played a trick on him, but he was not afraid, because it was only the second time, and indeed no harm came from it.

Arman rested his head on the rear wall, but the bumps made the wall bang against his head so he sat up straight. It was a peculiar situation he was in. Arman shot furtive glances at the rearview mirror, first to see if the devil was looking at him, then to get a look at his face. The devil looked tired, and Arman had a measure of pity for him. He did not doubt that the devil had had a hard life, and he did not hate him. Still, he was the Prince of Darkness, and Arman knew better than to let sympathy get the better of him. Once, as a child, Arman had tried to befriend a stray dog on the idea that they each would be happier if they were friends, thus neither would refuse. The dog did refuse, however, and a faded scar on his hand reminded Arman that not everyone had the same nature as him, and if this is true for a dog, it is likely true for the devil as well. Thus, Arman wanted nothing more from the devil than he perform his duty, drive the bus, and let him off without a to-do.

The bus slowed down a bit. Arman looked out the window, but the steppe was unbroken, and by his calculation, they were still quite far from the town. The bus came to a halt and the door opened. A man stepped on, and Arman was surprised to find that it was himself. The man who was also Arman nodded to the devil, who didn't notice. The man, Arman, took his seat on the right side of the bus, across from the old woman facing forward.

The man had not seen Arman, seated in the back. But Arman had seen him, and he was thrown into some confusion. His first thought went back to time travel, as that was, in his experience, the devil's forte, and he thought that perhaps he was watching himself get on the bus some minutes before. But there was a tree outside the window, and the land where Arman had boarded the bus had been perfectly dead. Then Arman thought that maybe this wasn't himself after all. But, there is nothing easier than telling what is you and what is not you, and he knew this was him. Moreover, if he crossed his eyes a bit and looked to his left, he could see the old woman instead of the wall, even though this woman was really in front of him and to the other man's left. And so, there was no doubting it.

Arman felt troubled at being split so. He did not know if it was common or not, but he had never heard of it. Moreover, he was not sure whether or not it was the work of the devil. Certainly, if it was not, then it was a mighty coincidence; but on the other hand, it was hard to guess what the devil's motives in such an adventure might be. None of the other passengers seemed to realize that there were two of the same person on the bus, and the devil had not acknowledged either one of them.

Arman wondered where his other self was going. He hoped that they were not going to the same place, because it would be difficult to explain, and he knew that he would be made to feel guilty and ashamed about it, even though he had done nothing wrong. Arman had forgotten about the sweat produced by his body; there was so much by now that any more would not be noticed anyway.

The bus slowed down again, and Arman hoped very much that his other self would get off, because he wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, however, the old woman across from him got off, and another Arman got on. This one was a woman, with beautiful legs and a blouse that Arman would have worn if he had been a woman, but it was still Arman, without a doubt, and she sat where the old woman had been. Now he could sense himself to each side, as well as in back, and he could see his two selves in front. Arman was now quite agitated. He did not like this bus, and he wished to be off. He did not now care how long he would have to walk. He would get up, walk past his selves, and tell the devil to let him off, right here, yes, no, it's none of your business why, just let me off. Arman stood up, but he sat down again. He sat down because he realized he could not get off the bus; if he got off, he would still be on by a two to one ratio. He had missed his chance, and now he was stuck. The bus slowed, the mother and her child got off, and three more Armans got on.

The presence of so many Armans made the air seem stuffier. None of them acknowledged Arman or one another. Three sat on the right, two on the left. One old woman who was not Arman was still on the bus. Arman thought that he was safe as long as she was here, and he hoped that her stop would be after his. Her eyes were still closed; perhaps she was asleep and had missed her stop, and would have to wait until the bus made its return trip. Perhaps this was all the devil's plan and it had been foiled by a tired old woman. But she got off at the next stop and two more Armans got on, and they sat on either side of Arman.

There were eight now, total. The two that had boarded most recently were both large women with enormous thighs underneath canvas black skirts, breasts with the sensualness of tumors and a one to one to one split between real teeth, silver teeth and missing teeth. The bus was not so wide, and so their thighs squeezed Arman into himself. He did not dare move.

Arman was becoming dizzy from the various perspectives, and the road conditions did not help him. He had to use the toilet. Now that he was alone with the devil, he feared what might happen. It may be true that the devil was not his old self, but then, nor was he reformed; perhaps, he could not create opportunities like he once could, but if given an opportunity he would no doubt use it. Arman noticed that the bus was speeding up. Perhaps they were going to hell. If he was indeed driving to hell, Arman was sure that he should ask to get off, while he still recognized the terrain outside. But the thighs of his other selves squeezed him in so tightly that he could not move. He felt cold, now. He thought maybe that this was what happened when a person became too hot, that he then felt cold. But then he had to admit that he was quite afraid, and indeed he was fighting back a panic, and that the sweat dripping down his back was a response to terror as much as the heat, and so perhaps his fear had thrown his sense of temperature into disarray.

The first time he saw the devil was when his mother had sent him as a child of nine to buy one egg to complete a recipe. He went first to the store but found it closed, and so he went to the bazaar, where they were cheaper but usually smaller. It was a Monday, and so only a few people had set up their stalls. He walked past them but did not see any eggs. Finally he saw one stall with a sign that said eggs, ten tenge. Arman looked at the vendor, who was shrouded in a great overcloak. He had grey hairs mixed in with the black of his beard and moustache. His eyebrows were too bushy, and his irises were a darker brown than normal, and they were large, too. Arman did not speak but put ten tenge on the counter. The man took the money; spit; then disappeared behind a curtain, where he stayed for five minutes. Arman had a strong urge to run, but he feared the beating he would receive upon returning home with neither egg nor money. Finally the man reappeared. He was out of breath and sweating a good deal. He placed one exceptionally large egg on the counter. It looked like a normal egg, but evil. Arman did not want to touch it, and so he rolled his sleeve past his hand and grabbed it through the material. He hurried home, deciding on the way that he would feign an illness and tell his mother he could not eat dinner. She submitted to his plea with a good deal of skepticism. He was on his way out of the kitchen and to his bedroom when he heard the egg crack and his mother exclaim, “Oh my, two yolks!” That was when Arman knew the man had been the devil.

Arman went over his affairs in his mind. To his disappointment, he found no pressing reason he could offer as to why he should stay alive, if it came down to bargaining. Terror was slowly replaced by submission. Arman was consoled a bit that it was the devil who had come to take him, because now at least he might see his father. He did wonder why there were eight of himself involved in the matter, however, because he had not heard of such things occurring. He reasoned that it must be for symbolism, but eight was not a symbolic number. He wondered if perhaps five more would get on, but none did, which was good because there were too few seats and one would have had to stand, and he did not want to stand. He thought maybe he was a bad person for disliking his selves, but really eight was too much for anyone.

The bus stopped, and the door opened. Arman waited to see who would get on, but no one did. No one moved. The air was stifling, the two enormous Armans next to him with the enormous bodies and the enormous lungs had stolen all of the oxygen out of the air in front of him, and now he felt faint, he could not see straight. His vision was a bit fuzzy. He realized that he was dying; at least, the thought occurred to him, but he was not absolutely sure, and he had always heard that when it’s over, you know for sure. Any air movement that there had been had stopped with the bus. The heat, the devil, the Armans, the whole situation briefly and quickly reached the point of being intolerable, and then it passed into what a situation is when once it was intolerable and now it is your life. He accepted it. The devil was looking ahead, patient. Will no one get on? thought Arman. He imagined he would vomit, and the thought of eight people vomiting aboard a stifling hot bus was so repulsive that he did vomit, but the others did not and were polite enough not to notice, as, he reflected, he would have been had the situation been reversed. He looked to the window, thinking that if he did not stick his head out into fresh air, or whatever air there was outside, he would surely lose consciousness. He saw the sign outside the window and realized it was his stop. He freed himself from the thighs and stood up, took a big step over his vomit and made his way towards the front. In his hand were still several coins, sticky now but so was everything. He chose a twenty and placed it in the devil’s outstretched hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but the devil was not looking at him. He closed it without saying a word, then descended the steps and squeezed outside through the one door. He took a couple steps on the sidewalk, then placed his hands on his knees and focused on his breathing. The bus drove off. When Arman was sufficiently recovered, he started along his way. It was some minutes later when he realized he’d left his briefcase on the bus.