The Dreams (9 page)

T
he ship cut its way through the stately waves of the Nile. We were sitting in a circle, in the center of which reposed our teacher. Clearly we were taking the final exam, and our answers were rated excellent.

We dispersed for tea and cake. In the meantime, we received our diplomas.

The ship pulled up at the pier and we disembarked, each one bearing his degree in a giant envelope. I found myself walking down a wide street devoid of both people and buildings, when a lonely mosque loomed before me. I went toward it in order to pray and relax for a while, but when I went inside, it seemed to actually be an old house. I felt the urge to go back out, but a bunch of brigands surrounded me, taking my certificate, my watch, and my wallet, and raining a hail of blows upon me before disappearing into the recesses of the place.

I ran outside onto the street, not believing that I had survived. After walking a short way, I came across a patrol of policemen, and told their commander what had happened to me.

We all marched together to the house full of thieves. They rushed in with their weapons drawn—only to find it was a mosque where people were praying behind their imam.

Confused, we beat a hasty retreat, and the patrol’s commander ordered that I be placed under arrest.

I kept testifying over and over to what had befallen me, swearing the most sacred oath that it was true. But clearly they had begun to doubt my sanity—and I was no less perplexed than them.

T
he night of my paternal cousin’s wedding, which was being held in our house in Abbasiya, amidst drums and songs. My cousin came forward arm-in-arm with his bride, both in their wedding clothes. Before they mounted the stairs to go into their married home, a police inspector cut them off. We all became confused and ask ourselves, “What’s behind all this?”

The inspector swooped down on the bride, closely inspecting her face, taking her fingerprints on a little pad. He examined them with a magnifying glass—then put her under arrest and walked her over to the police car. Everyone realized what that meant, and gathered around my cousin, consoling him and praising God for having saved him from an impending evil.

Despite all that, the young man went away crying. I resolved to spend the night with my family in the house in Abbasiya, but discovered that all the electric lights had failed. I asked my sister how they managed to live in the dark. I also discovered that the walls needed painting and repair. I grew annoyed with the place, wanting to fix it up and restore it to its splendor of old.

I
found myself seated before the Minister of the Interior at his desk. A few days earlier, he had been my colleague in the newspaper: his selection as minister came as a surprise. I seized the opportunity to ask him for a meeting, and he received me with welcome and affection. Then I presented him with my request, to recommend me to a businessman known to be his friend, when I applied for a position in one of his companies.

He wrote out the requested letter by hand, and the meeting ended on a happy note. On the evening of the same day, as I promenaded on the banks of the Nile, a man whose name is bantered in the press accosted me. He pulled out a gun and robbed me of my money—roughly fifty Egyptian pounds.

Traumatized, I went back to my flat, yet took no action that would affect the appointment that the businessman had given me. The next morning, I was at his office. After a few minutes, he permitted me to enter. I handed him the reference, then froze where I stood.

“My Lord,” I said to myself, in this moment of high anxiety—for he was the very thief who had robbed me, or his twin brother. The ground spun before me.

M
y motor boat raced across the surface of the lake, with another boat following me, or so I imagined. As I sped up, so did the other.

I felt assailed by panic: Why was he pursuing me?

Nearing a great quay, I cast anchor and climbed the stairs onto a wide deck—which, I noticed, belonged to the Russian Embassy. The deck was filled with mourners who had come to give their condolences at the death of a dearly departed woman.

I greeted the ambassador, then took a seat, listening to what was being said about the deceased lady. I gazed at the lake. Seeing no trace of the boat that been trailing me, I felt relieved.

When the time was right, I got back in my boat and steered it toward the other shore. Looking behind me, I saw the strange skiff cruising in my wake. When I reached the lake’s center, I saw it was better to head for shore than return to the embassy. At the shore, I told myself, the true situation would become clear—and I could confront it with all my strength.

W
e were gathered in a garden. As usual, our host was singing as we listened enraptured, sending up shouts of passion and approval. This disturbed the neighbors, who complained to the police. We saw the police coming and split up, trying to get away.

I ran in the previously agreed direction—and each time I looked behind me I saw a policeman running after me, as hard and as determined as I was myself. At the same time, it seemed there was someone running ahead of me as though in flight from me. Who could this person be?

The trim, comely figure reminded me of my absent girlfriend, which spurred me to run even faster. The policeman wanted to overtake me, while I wanted to escape him and catch up with my sweetheart. Thus we climbed the tower and ran up to its roof as I panted to embrace my darling—but then she leapt over the wall and plummeted to the ground from its height. I went out of my mind, and—my misery mounting—I jumped from the wall after my beloved as the policeman approached.

Hitting the ground like a bomb, I expected to feel the most horrendous pain—yet all was well. Completely unhurt, I stood up. Glancing around me, I found no sign of my girlfriend. Then I looked up to see the policeman leering down from the tower, drowning in laughter.

A
group of boys were playing on the road just ahead of me: I felt they harbored some sort of ill will against me. This surprised me, for nothing to provoke that sentiment had ever occurred between us. As I walked on cautiously, I remembered with wonder the way I was at their age.

A huge shop loomed before me, which I took to be for selling pastry, as it said on its giant sign. The labor of preparation was at its most intense as I approached, asking: “Do the pastries you offer include baklava and
kunafa
?’

The men stopped their work to stare at me. At the same time, the gang of boys laughed boisterously and whistled. From the farthest corners of the shop, a man appeared and inquired, “Is it true there are still people who love baklava and
kunafa
?”

I strolled among the workers as the boys danced and whistled and thrust their clenched fists in my face.

I
found the Harafish in the room when I arrived. I asked about the only one of us who was absent. They said they’d dispatched him to ask the great composer Sayyid Darwish to send the new ballet troupe along.

I hadn’t realized how spoiled the atmosphere had grown between us, as their faces all scowled at me. I wanted to go away—but at that moment the ballet troupe arrived, enveloped in music and dance. The tension between us lessened as we threw ourselves into the dancing and singing. Raptures raining down on us, our hearts became purified—love and affection pervading us all.

As we reveled with the male and female dancers and chanted in chorus with the hymns and songs, we all made a silent covenant to record the history of that night.