The Dreams (17 page)

W
e prettied up the house to welcome back the son—during his time away, he’d become a celebrity. We spent the evening on our balcony with its beautiful view and its cleansing breeze, as the prodigal one entertained us with poetry and songs well into the night.

But in the morning we found the balcony’s entrance blocked by a monstrous wardrobe. I felt ashamed—nor did our son hide his dismay when it dawned on him that folks from the heart of his family detested his presence, despising his delightful work.

A
t length I went down to the toilet on the lower floor of the old house. Soon, however, I became annoyed with its dampness and discomfort, and went out searching all over again until I wound up on the upper floor. This was better than all the other areas, but then it rained with unusual intensity. The water ran down from the roof and forced us to heap up the furniture and to cover it completely, following which we fled the flat for the stairwell. When it dawned on the new resident of the lower level that we were there, he came out to us—inviting us with extreme insistence to go inside where it was warm, safe, and dry.

W
hat’s happening in our house? All the chairs are lined up with their feet nailed down and the ceilings are stripped of their lamps and the walls of their pictures and the floors of their carpets—so what’s going on in our house?

They say it’s all to protect our home against the many burglaries of apartments. But I reply without pause that a break-in would be dearer to my heart than ugliness and chaos.

I
saw myself in Abbasiya wandering in the vastness of my memories, recalling in particular the late Lady Eye. So I contacted her by telephone, inviting her to meet me by the fountain, and there I welcomed her with a passionate heart.

I suggested that we spend the evening together in Fishawi Café, as in our happiest days. But when we reached the familiar place, the deceased blind bookseller came over to us and greeted us warmly—though he scolded the dearly departed Eye for her long absence.

She told him what had kept her away was Death. But he rejected that excuse—for Death, he said, can never come between lovers.

A
ll the men in our quarter get their grooming done in Uncle Abduh’s salon—pulled in by the irresistible woman who sits behind the counter. We all want to better ourselves financially, so we have our beards trimmed there every morning in the realm of beauty.

One day as I walked down a street that was shining clean and lovely, the belle of Uncle Abduh’s shop drew close to me. I had to turn and stare at her. Suddenly she stuck out her tongue at me—then, just as quickly, her face changed into a thick block of wood.

Fleeing from her as fast as I could, a great laugh caught up with me. Peering in the direction from which it came, I saw the gorgeous creature dancing in the arms of her boss, both in the grip of merriment and glee.

T
he ministry shook with the news that a coup d’etat had taken place early that morning: the employees all gathered before the television to catch the first official bulletin. One of the older men said that he’d heard the same announcement early in his youth.

Meanwhile, I discovered that the coup’s leader was one of my closest friends. After broadcasting the fact excitedly, I relaxed with joy, convinced that life would now be laughing with me.

But my aged colleague recalled that the world had laughed for him, once, too—when he’d found himself condemned without a trial.

W
hat a peculiar prayer for the dead!

Indeed, here lay a coffin upon which was written, “This is so-and-so’s funeral, carried out according to his wishes.” Furthermore, it said, “He was a worthy fellow, renowned for his streak of bad luck, as hardly a single reader knew his many writings.”

So many people came to take part or just to look on, that when the procession reached the cemetery, it was the largest demonstration ever seen on such an occasion.

By the time that night fell, the deceased’s name lived on everyone’s lips.

I
left the beautiful train, my heart filled with a brilliant light—but around me I found a blighted landscape. Where was the garden, unmatched in any country?

I spotted a handsome man approaching: as he drew near, I recognized the one who had married my sweetheart years before. He apologized that the wars had delayed his coming. He had, he said, finally made up his mind to return this week—and that in exactly one month life would come back to his most beautiful friend in all existence.

Though I didn’t expect to, I believed him. And I hoped one day my darling and I would dwell in the Garden together, the way we’d grown up with each other in our ancient quarter.

T
his was my pupil to whom I taught music and singing, and who quickly became a wealthy star. Meanwhile, I fell into obscurity, utterly forgotten in my protégé’s shadow—so I left my beautiful and arduous profession, to take up training in the field of archaeology.

But my student gave up learning and knowledge altogether. Addicted to drugs, he let his voice go to waste. One evening we met at a party by chance: he didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him.

Many there began to wonder how we had both fallen so far—and why.