The Dreams (13 page)

H
e was the best in our young days, a truly rare kind of friend. Wondrously light of spirit, bright of repartee, elegant of riposte, brilliant at trading jibes, with a rich fund of stories, he was unusually gifted in all these fields. And he was always ready to join us whenever the occasion called for singing, dancing, or any form of amusement.

This is how we enjoyed our time together until he was chosen for a prestigious position known in our country for its gravitas and majesty. We watched apprehensively and soon our fears were realized, for he told us, as though replying to our anxiety, that he had decided to change his life from A to Z. No one questioned him on this as he bid us goodbye, commending us to God.

He would encounter us on public occasions, greeting us with an intense formality that deepened our feelings of estrangement and despair. Our old intimacy waned and practically disappeared, and we no longer heard of him except in the announcements of transfers and promotions. He began to fade from our consciousness until we nearly forgot him altogether. Time furthered our separation, until Fate decreed that we should meet by chance as our country was fêting its new national day—and we all came out to take part in the fun.

The drums were beaten as the brass band played. The army’s troupe led the way, followed by that of the police, then the cars carrying the elite. Right ahead of them was our old friend, but in a state we would never have imagined—for we beheld him riding an ass. The clash between the inanity of his mount and the grandiosity of his dress was screamingly clear: the people laughed when he appeared.

Yet, it may truly be said, he looked neither to right or left, nor did he surrender a hair of his dignity.

T
he old house in Abbasiya was filled with the migratory birds—my brothers and sisters—on the day we had agreed to visit our mother. They asked me to have a meal of seafood prepared from the famous fish restaurant nearby.

Immediately I went to the restaurant and placed the order, and found that all of the tables were full except for the one nearest the door. I went over to it, sat down at one end of it and waited. Then a woman of about sixty, accompanied by a younger woman of around twenty, approached and sat down at the table. The waiter came with plates of
tagin
.

Unexpectedly, the older woman invited me to share their repast. Just as unexpectedly, I silently accepted the invitation and began to eat their food. No sooner had the waiter brought the meal wrapped up for the people at our house than I grabbed it, got up, and left without thanks or excuse. As I exited the restaurant I saw at but an arm’s length away my departed friend, A. Sh., and was enormously pleased. Out of excessive courtesy I offered him the package. Without uttering a word he took it eagerly, before stepping through an open door—which he closed and locked behind him.

Astonished at his behavior, I had no choice but to return to the restaurant and make the order again. As the waiter
brought sweets to the lady and her young companion, they invited me to share this with them; I did so without hesitation.

The woman told me that she wished to go to Shari’ Bayn al-Sarayat, but did not know how to get there. I consented to take her and the three of us walked through the streets of Abbasiya. We became acquainted through the exchange of thanks and various kinds of conversation until we passed Shari’ Bayn al-Sarayat without my noticing it.

I also forgot the food that was readied for me at the restaurant—just as I forgot the men and women waiting for me at the old house in Abbasiya.

B
ack in the old house in Abbasiya, I’m evidently annoyed because nothing came of my criticism, such as painting the walls or fixing the woodwork, the floors, and the furniture.

Then, from the far end of the flat, my mother’s voice calls out in a sweet, pleasant tone that it’s time I went out looking for a new apartment that would please me.

At this, the time and the place switch as I find myself in a reception hall, with many rooms and people. The way it looks reminds me of a government agency. This is confirmed by the arrival of my departed colleague, Mr. H.A., who informs me that the minister had sent a request to see me. Immediately I dashed to the minister’s office, and, excusing myself, entered it—to find the man in other than his usual smiling state. He said that he had dreamed about my criticism of the revolution and its leader, which had wounded him grievously. I told him that I considered myself blindly infatuated with the principles of the revolution rather than being among those who opposed it—though I also always wished for its perfect completion, and for the avoidance of stumbles and setbacks.

Again I was taken through other times and places until I was a little boy meandering through Bayt al-Qadi Square. A friend my own age invited me to the wedding of his older
brother. He said that his brother had invited Sa’d Zaghlul to officiate at the party and to give it his blessings—and that the great man had accepted, promising to attend. Utterly astounded, I told him, “Even more important than currently being prime minister, Sa’d Zaghlul is our nation’s leader. What’s more, you aren’t among his relatives, or his comrades in the struggle.”

“Sa’d truly is the nation’s leader,” the boy rejoined, “and singles out the simple people for his affection”—adding that I would see for myself.

At the appointed time I went to the feast in Crimson Lane, where my friend guided me into a room. There—in the place of honor—I saw Sa’d Zaghlul, wearing the suit of the master of ceremonies, sitting down with him. The two were engrossed in conversation, laughing hard together. I was so dazzled by what I saw that it rooted itself in my depths forever.

T
he giant playing field sat in the place of the neighbors’ houses on the opposite side of the street, filled with British soldiers singing and dancing about. Disturbed and uneasy, we followed them, then they scattered down our street and those branching off from it.

We thought the matter over, fixing our attention on the move from one part of town to another. Not finding a proper house we contented ourselves with a stately apartment, sparing no effort until it was worthy to live in. We had just about settled comfortably into the place when we heard a rustling sound of the sort usually made by mice. Our leisure was spoiled. But before we could think of what to do, we heard someone banging on the outside door.

Opening the door, I saw many men armed with sticks. They said they were residents of the building who were chasing a thief—which, they thought, had fled into our flat. Forcing their way into our apartment, they ransacked the rooms, making a dreadful racket—only to announce that they had not found the fugitive.

After having turned our home upside down, they left without having caught the vanished crook. As we exchanged
looks of irritation and rage, we once again heard the same rustling sound. Furious, I declared that—whether a mouse, a thief, or a demon—I would not open the door for anyone banging again.

M
y mother greeted our dear neighbor and her beautiful daughter in the living room on the third floor of our old house. I was invited to sit with them out of trust in the friendship between our two families.

During all the chatter I stared at the daughter and she stared at me—this was not lost on her mother. As she left the room, the neighbor woman whispered to me, “You two should go down together to the floor below as is customary among members of the family.” I accepted the invitation with perplexity and perfect joy. No sooner had we entered the floor below when I drew her close—but before I could go the next step I heard a strange commotion as the place was overrun with women and men and teenagers, splitting off into different rooms.

Then a man from State Security came and stood before the door, declaring that he would uphold the law, and I nearly went crazy with confusion. My bewilderment doubled when I saw the others singing in one room, and dancing in another. I looked to my girlfriend pleading for salvation, only to find her calm and smiling.

At that, I decided to flee—but found the security man at the exit. I was stuck there motionless, a prey to befuddlement, and dashed by despair.