The Dreams (19 page)

W
e sailed to the kingdom of whose splendors the poets sing. There we joined our chosen guide, who took us from vista to vista, from mountains to sea, from museum to mausoleum.

Finally, the guide said, “The only place left on our tour is the Crystal Garden”—and he urged us to rest and reflect for a bit, so we would not be too dazzled by the sight. But we asked him, “Is there anything more stunning than what we’ve already seen?”

He just smiled and resumed walking—and we followed right behind.

I
was strolling down the corniche in Alexandria toward the building where I would see the elegant lady on a balcony with her husband and young children. As I neared my destination, everything began to fade and dissolve smoothly and magically before me, until I found myself on Abbasiya Street.

I was still advancing toward the new block of flats from whose window the unforgettably enticing woman gazed down at me. The window was empty, so I resolved to wait at the tram station as usual.

But I found no sign of the station at all—nor a trace of the rails the whole length of the street.

T
he night was calm as we settled into a room, the darkness falling gently over our furtive pleasure and intimate joy. Abruptly, a clamor came toward us from the street outside.

Quickly I ran over to peek through the window—and saw a crowd of people surrounding a familiar-looking man. They rained a hail of curses and harsh rebuke upon him, while he offered no resistance. They kept doing this until the words, I felt, were tearing my own body apart.

I
’m heading from Opera Square to the Horreya Café. When I get there I’m surprised to find it empty. Instead of being jammed with patrons as usual, there is only one man engrossed in reading some papers spread out before him.

Suddenly I realize this is my mentor, Shaykh Mustafa Abd al-Raziq. I rush over to him ecstatically, expecting to share our old intimacy, but he turns toward me scowling—and my heart sinks as rapidly as it just had risen.

Pointing toward the papers, the shaykh says he’s sorry to have seen my name listed among the witnesses against him.

I have no idea what to say, or how to get away.

M
any times we gathered in a spot between the fields and the main road, until once my friend told me that it wasn’t always a truly safe place to meet.

From that moment I became disturbed, until one morning I awoke to a mighty commotion of shouts outside.

Below my window I beheld a limitless crowd, in which nothing stood out but its boundless rage.

A
rriving at my flat, I found it swaying from side to side, none of its furniture in its usual place. Little boys and girls whom I’d never seen before were playing all around, not even aware that I was there.

With heart pounding, I stepped onto the balcony overlooking the garden nearby, where a hugely spreading tree’s branches were filled with chirping birds. Their flitting around and singing made me forget about everything but the sound of their choir.

W
e went to congratulate the new minister: we were all old friends, so he greeted us warmly. We found other dear ones there as well—we all reminisced about our childhood together.

The next morning, the radio broadcast the proclamation that the Army had begun to move. But when we reached the Secretariat, we were warned not to say too much in welcoming the news, until we could see what it really would bring.

I
n this villa’s garden we spent merry evenings together in complete freedom. But then the villa’s owner suddenly changed and arbitrarily imposed his will on everything: he dictated the place where we sat, the topic of conversation, and the food and drink, as well.

We took it as a joke, but he persisted, and we became alarmed—though we concealed our feelings from him out of deference for his position. Yet one of us could not hide his emotions forever. One night his suppressed rage exploded; he began screaming and pulled out a pistol, pointing it toward us with a trembling hand.

We split up in terror as he ran through the garden, chasing us with insults and curses.

A
n antique shop shining with brightness and cheer. A miraculously pretty girl sat inside, serving the patrons. Walking around it for a while, I chanced upon a restaurant.

I ate a sandwich and smoked a cigarette, before going back for another glimpse of the adolescent beauty. But instead of her, I found in her place a creaking old crone. My breast quivered as my eyes searched in vain for the gorgeous one for whom I’d come.

I kept staring in confusion at the mirror over her head. There I beheld an old man leaning on a heavy cane, whose legs, and heart, and memory, had faltered.

I
was still just waking up, determined to retain my patience, resolve, and persistence until I reached a peak—when I decided to take a break.