The Dreams (22 page)

R
evolution gripped the city and the king was slain while defending his capital. Immediately there was a banquet held in honor of the revolution’s commanders.

The queen invited their chief to her private wing, where she greeted him, completely naked, revealing all she had.

T
he crisis kept going from bad to worse, until the great merchant was on the brink of bankruptcy. He couldn’t find anyone to loan him money among his own class, which the crisis had destroyed.

But then a man who sells licorice-drinks on the street lent it to him without interest. When the time came to repay him, the crisis reached its peak, to the point that the merchant thought of taking his own life. At that moment, the refreshments peddler saved him with another loan, telling him to consider both amounts as a dowry for his daughter.

They say that the merchant had finally found a solution to his problem. Meanwhile, the drinks seller said to himself that he, too, had found a remedy for his own emergency, whose existence he’d never confided to anyone.

U
nder the tree we would sit with him, for evenings of both enjoyment and learning, when once he excused himself in order to take his medicine. He went up to his flat—but didn’t come back.

When one of us went to check on him, he found the apartment locked up tight from the outside. So began a fruitless search for him in all his haunts, as anxiety gripped us all equally—those who loved him, and those who hated him, and those who were indifferent to him as well.

Meanwhile, at our mosque, the imam led the Prayer for the Absent on the soul of the one who was no longer seen.

A
rriving at the famous establishment on its golden jubilee, I found the grand reception hall jammed with people from all professions and with dogs of every breed.

The one who invited me stopped to say hello and thank me for coming, and we began to reminisce about memories that one can never forget, when a savage dog attacked him. The beast might have killed us all if a brave man had not saved us. He threw himself into the fray—and for the first time ever, a man bit a dog. He kept on biting until he’d sucked all the viciousness out of him.

The dog’s canine nature changed and the behavior of dogs toward people in general was transformed. They sat side by side in peace, chewing candied treats.

And when the event was over, they all stood up and sang “My Country, My Country”—our nation’s anthem—together.

T
here I was in a sailboat with the cream of our nation’s elite. With water surrounding us on every side, my heart pounded—I didn’t know how to swim.

The waves arose from a profound silence that warned of a coming explosion. The members of the upper crust threw themselves overboard, and began to tread water with vim and agility.

Watching them, I grew more and more alarmed as I remembered the huge amount of time lost in amusements. Only a fraction of that would have been enough to learn how to swim—not to mention lifesaving, as well.

C
rashing waves of humanity propelled my friend the lady broadcaster and myself along until we stopped in a small square facing a wall of people: not even a needle could have passed through it. Glancing around, I saw the sweet shop in which I regularly took breakfast on the other side of the square. But we could not move.

I remarked to my friend that her program on the victory would be delayed a short while.

“In any case,” she replied, “I have a disturbing piece of news: that Makram Ebeid, the great struggler for freedom, has died in the crowd.”

My heart shuddered with sadness for the death of the hero. Meanwhile, a waiter from the confectioner’s shop saw me. Putting some pastries in a paper bag, he then stood on top of a chair and threw it over the heads of the throng. I grabbed it frantically and opened it, but my friend’s hand beat me to it as she whispered apologetically, “I was about to perish from hunger.”

At this, I stretched my own hand inside the bag—but all I found were some foreign-style pickles.

I
was informed that my noble mentor, Shaykh Mustafa Abd al-Raziq, had caught a slight cold. I decided to visit him, but instead found him standing in front of my door, tears streaming down his cheeks. He regarded me with his wise expression as he wept.

“Master,” I told him, “it’s nothing more than a minor illness; there’s no reason to cry.”

But he answered, “I’m not weeping for myself.”

Then I understood: the lament was for us all. So I seized the chance to ask him, “What should we do, then, about humanity as a whole?”

“You have a lot of pharmacies full to the brim with all sorts of medications,” he replied, “not to mention the deadly popular remedies.”

F
inally the calm, mild-tempered cat got angry. The winds of rage blew, throwing off sparks that started fires wherever they fell.

Finding no one to address but the winds, I told them we had peaceful means that we were now ready to try.

But they told me the time for that had passed—as the gusts continued to roar, and the sparks to fly.