The Dreams (28 page)

Next I’m marching with him through an African jungle. When we reach a certain spot, he pulls a key from his pocket, then bends down until he disappears in the tall grass. Suddenly, a door swings open—to reveal a vast display arrayed with precious stones.

The sun’s rays gleam upon ingots of gold, whose glinting casts a light into the world of the Unseen.

F
rom the radiating waves of light, my deceased friend “T” abruptly emerged.

Welcoming him, I told him he’d departed without even an obituary. Nor had he had a proper wake. The workers had shown up to set up the tent, yet no one came to offer their condolences. Not even a Qur’an reader appeared.

My friend then rose upon a throne, chanting with a pleasing voice the Chapter of the Compassionate One.

I
laid out the little table with all that was good and delicious, when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and my girlfriend launched herself onto the couch. As soon as she landed on it, her head lolled on the cushion, and her arms fell limp. Scrambling over to her, I slapped her cheeks and and felt her pulse at the wrists.

“O my God!” I cried to myself in terror. “She’s dead!”

Already I could see the specter of crime and scandal. So I carried her with my own arms to the kitchen and threw her from the window that overlooks the building’s stairwell. Then I stood there, trembling from head to toe.

The full glare of morning found me standing with some of the tenants, plus the owner of our home, who talked with us about the lady who’d been taken to hospital.

“She’s dead,” I said.

“No,” the landlord replied. “The doctor told me, ‘There’s a lot of hope we can save her, and the prosecutor is waiting for the right time to speak with her.’ ”

The specter of crime and scandal reappeared before my eyes.

O
ur mentor invited us to lunch in his apartment. After we’d eaten, we all sat around him, asking him questions and discussing his answers, when suddenly the police burst in. They arrested us and drove us off to detention, where we spent six months without trial.

Then we were released without even knowing the reason for which we’d been held. To this day, whenever I recall the torment of prison, I wonder why it was that we’d ever been seized.

O
ur houses were built on the edge of the desert. Each one had an open-air stairwell where sat a large clay jar full of refreshing water. The thirsty would come to quench their need, and to pray for us.

One day a gang snuck in, concealed among those coming to drink. They attacked one home, robbed it, and fled. After that, we locked up all the doors—then we learned they were digging a tunnel in order to get at us. One of these tunnels opened a spring of water, which rushed out in a flood that made the desert bloom—heralding happiness for all.

“Open up the gates,” one of our wise men proclaimed, “and be blest with the best of neighbors!”

T
he film producer commissioned me to write a comedy. So I conjured a city whose inhabitants struggled for a morsel of food and bread, locked in mutual conflict, suffering from diseases and violent incidents. Next there came a devastating earthquake, which finished off all those who remained, wiping away their memory as though they had never been.

The producer burst out laughing.

“You really are a great comedian,” he affirmed.

I
was strolling through the zoo with my girlfriend. Then we sat down in an empty corner of the Tea Island. Each time a roar or a moo or a howl reached us, we snuggled closer together, until, little by little, we both melted into one.

M
y friend “S” told me that the agricultural reform laws had hurt his father so gravely that he might collapse mentally—and he wanted to meet the Minister of Finance. “I have chosen you,” my friend confided, “to impersonate the minister, because you are my dearest chum.”

I found the great estate owner in a mournful state. “Your Excellency the Pasha,” he welcomed me, “are you really going to confiscate our lands?”

I denied every word, saying these were but rumors meant to win the hearts of the masses. As we left the man’s mansion, my friend thanked me profusely, drying his tears.

“All society’s progress comes at a price,” I said consolingly. “And don’t forget that you were one of those who called for socialism,” I added.

“Writing is one thing,” he protested sharply, “but actually applying it is something else completely.”

W
hat a great reception hall, gleaming with light and colorful decor! I found myself in it with my brothers and sisters, my maternal and paternal aunts and uncles, along with their sons and daughters.

Then my friends from Gamaliya arrived along with those from Abbasiya and the Harafish. They started singing and laughing themselves hoarse, dancing until their feet gave out, and wooing for love until their hearts pined away.

Now they all lie in their graves, leaving behind them only silence—a warning against forgetfulness.

Exalted is He who alone remains!