The Dreams (8 page)

At that time, it happened that the post of general director in the civil service fell vacant. There were many candidates, some of whom had great connections, jostling madly to fill it. I met with the minister, telling him that he was my only
point of influence in this affair. But he replied, “You aren’t even able to protect your own money—so how could you be trusted with everyone else’s?”

I became a peculiarity, an example of what not to be for my fellow employees. Finally, I asked that my remaining time in service be added to that already served, and to go on pension at once. At last, I felt the security of a position to which no one ever aspires out of greed, and which does not attract the eyes of the covetous.

T
he
mahmal
wobbled atop the camel, festooned with many colors and bouquets of flowers. Leading it was a man holding a pole upright in his mouth, bangles dangling from the pole’s head.

The camel’s head was at the level of the first floor of the house from where I watched through the window. My eye met the camel’s own, and within his eye I read a smile and an
esprit
that placed a blessing within me. Suddenly, I flew from my spot behind the window and spun toward the camel’s head, dressed in my
gallabiya
, my hair blown about. The people shouted, “God is most great!” and “There is no god but God!” and cried out incoherently at the sight of my feat. All the while, I kept rising in the air, until I landed on the roof of my house.

After the
mahmal
had passed, the people all flocked in front of my home, demanding to see the boy who could fly. They then turned abruptly from joyous amazement to fearful alarm, saying that an evil spirit possessed the levitating child—meaning me—and that his flight around the camel’s head was an evil omen for all humanity. Therefore he must be freed of the Devil by flogging until he is cleansed completely. If he should refuse, then he would face the appropriate punishment—which was death.

Filled with fear, the lad and his family called in the police. The police chief demanded to see the miracle take place under his own eyes. He went to the house and witnessed the prodigious feat, and was truly dazzled by it. Yet he found himself torn between two points of view. The family claimed it was a wonder such as those performed by the saints—while the people denounced it as one of Satan’s pranks, and a portent of misfortune.

Finally, the police chief decided to put the boy in prison until the whole subject was lost in oblivion.

I
was sitting in my room, listening to a song on the phonograph, when a ravishing, elegant, and exciting woman of about twenty walked through the open door. Swept away by surprise and desire, I stood up and walked toward her until I stood in front of her.

Calmly she put out her hand, which held a letter. I took it and looked at it, then replied that I could not read it due to the weakness of my eyes, and asked her to read it for me. But she apologized that she did not know how to read or write, saying that her father had composed it for the prince whose name was found on the envelope. Before he died, her father had advised her to bring the missive to me so that I might deliver it to the prince for her. My astonishment mounting, I told her that I didn’t know the prince in question—or any other prince, for that matter. I grew suspicious of her, and tried to change the subject, but then she left.

As I crossed the Qasr al-Nil bridge on my way to work, she appeared before me at the other end. I ignored her, but she followed me for not a short distance.

Coming back to my home, I discovered her quite settled in there. I warned her not to return to the subject of the letter. A long while passed, but still I wasn’t free from evil forebodings—nor, clearly, was she. Definitely, we both had to flee by one route or another.

I
stepped into the minister’s room carrying a typewritten report bearing the names of the employees who had been nominated for promotion. My own name was among them. Obviously, the minister looked after me with special care.

The minister having signed the declaration at the top, I took it to the personnel office for action. I went straight to the official in charge, who turned out to be a beautiful young woman. Looking at the document, she noted that the minister should have put his signature at the bottom, rather than the top. Hence it was impossible to execute the orders for promotions or to give raises to those listed on it. I became exasperated and complained of the bureaucracy that we had to put up with. Nonetheless, she stuck to her position—and I brought the report back to the minister. He signed it in the correct location, laughing as he did. I returned to the young woman, handing her the declaration. Sitting to the right of her desk was a female employee friend of hers known for her cheerfulness. The friend defended what her colleague had done, saying she was withholding promotion from the unmarried employees because she believed the rights of the married ones took precedence over theirs.

The first female employee pretended she was annoyed by
the broadcast of this secret. When the happy-go-lucky one met me again afterwards, she asked my opinion of the official in personnel. I told her honestly that she had delighted me, so she suggested that I inform her of my feelings by way of introduction to a proposal of marriage. I asked for time to think it over—but she said I was no longer a young man, and that my life was being wasted on mere reflection.

She insisted that I tell her—so I surrendered, and did not refuse.

I
n the early evening I was returning to my house wrapped in a coat and scarf, when a young boy and an extraordinarily lovely and miserable girl cut across my path. They asked me for a bit of God’s charity, so I searched in my pocket for some change. Not finding any, I pulled out a five-pound note and asked the boy to go to the nearest kiosk and buy me a piece of chocolate—and to keep whatever was left over.

The boy had no sooner left my sight when the girl began to weep, confessing that her brother treated her with great harshness and forced her to do bad things, and that every day these became more and more deviant and evil. She beseeched God to rescue her from her ordeal.

I felt moved and embarrassed, but then realized that the boy was not coming back. I saw how stupid I was to have placed any trust in him—and thought of how my family would accuse me of good-natured recklessness. Yet I did not leave his sister to him, but took her to my house to begin a new life with my family. Her situation so improved that she seemed more like one of us than our servant.

Then one day a policeman came, accompanied by the girl’s brother, who grabbed her on sight. I found that I was wanted at the police station—where I was faced with a charge of raping the girl and keeping her in my home by
force. I was shocked by what confronted me, and asked the girl to speak. She cried and accused me of crimes I had never even imagined. The official report recorded every word as the world grew black before my eyes.

Despite my firmly rooted faith, the danger of my position did not escape me.

T
he apartment broker said to me, “Don’t get upset and don’t despair—you have to be patient: patience is a virtue.”

I knew that he knew the secret of my agony—that I was in danger of losing my home and finding myself on the street. I told him that I had seen a number of places that appealed to me, but always they were beyond my means. And what about these empty flats, whose value is appraised at a million pounds each? Amazingly, he confirmed that four of my female colleagues owned some of these vacant dwellings: he envied them their fantastic wealth.

The last hope, he informed me, was in the building of al-Hagg Ali in the Husayn district—but we had to wait for his return from Mecca. I told him that I remembered, from the days when we lived in the ancient quarter, that I myself used to buy
fuul
from him sometimes. The man laughed, pointing out that’s what many people claim when they want to buy an apartment in his brand-new building.

“He’s the last hope,” I remarked with fear.

Striking an encouraging tone, the broker repeated, “You have to be patient: patience is a virtue.”