The Dreams (15 page)

I
dreamed I was on the Street of Love, as I used to call it in my hopeful youth. I dreamed that I sauntered between grand houses and gardens perfumed with flowers. But where was the mansion of my worshipped one? Gone without a trace, its place had been taken by a huge mosque of majestic dimensions, of magnificent design, with the tallest and most graceful of minarets. I was shocked. As I stood there in a stupor, the muezzin started the call for the sunset prayer. Without tarrying I went into the mosque, praying with the worshippers. When the prayers were finished, I moved slowly, as though not wanting to leave. Hence I was the last one departing to reach the door. There I discovered that my shoes had gone missing—and I had to find my own way out.

A
tram station—and I was confused as to where in it I should wait for mine to arrive. But I was really awaiting the radiant face of the beauty in the window overlooking the stop, at which I kept on staring and staring.

My longing went on and on, and how many of my friends had asked me how long my torture would continue? Yet I was going on a trip that I could not avoid, as though it were Fate or Destiny. In truth, it was a strenuous, debilitating journey, much longer that I thought it would be. And on my return, the only thing that I could make out was a square-shaped enclosure, which was the window.

I spotted her within it, but she appeared to be mute, neither asking questions, nor answering them. As in the past, I stood beneath the aperture indifferent to the passers-by, until finally the sound of a conversation drifted down, like a whisper mingled with discreet laughter.

I heard a voice wonder, “What’s this guy’s story, the one who’s hanging around under the window?”

“He’s blubbering over the memory of a sweetheart—and her house,” came her giggling reply.

I
was entrusted with carrying a letter to the late Dr. Husayn Fawzi. I told him that I had brought with me a proposal to restore him to the service with a significant increase in salary. He would also receive a luxurious office.

The doctor laughed, saying that the pay didn’t interest him, nor did the office. What mattered was respect for his ideas and his dignity.

I backed away, secure in the knowledge that my mission had failed.

T
he crime was discovered early in the morning. Before long, the story of its beastliness was on every tongue. Yet I couldn’t find anywhere to hide because the whole place was crisscrossed with policemen and female psychiatrists. I was in total panic until the greatest of the lady shrinks invited me to her office.

She told me that the majority of her colleagues attributed the crime’s brutality to the latent cruelty in the perpetrator’s character. She, however, thought it was due to the killer’s inexperience, as well as his ignorance of the modern scientific bases for the art of murder. For this reason she had decided to enroll him in the Institute for Contemporary Criminality—and may God grant him success!

I
n our village, every individual was waiting for the letter that would settle their personal destiny. One day, I received my own letter—and read it to find I had been condemned to death by hanging.

Word spread far and wide, as was customary among us. The members of our village club met and decided to celebrate the event when it happened.

In my house, where I lived with my mother, brothers, and sisters, breasts were gladdened and all were pleased. On the much-anticipated day, the drums pounded in the club. I came out of my house wearing my finest clothes, surrounded by the members of my family.

But then my mother, separating herself from our state of mind, began to cry. If only my father had lived long enough, she wailed, to see for himself this glorious day.

F
rom my position in the garden I could see a lady of sixty coming toward me, her face frowning. Angrily, she snarled, “Because of you, I lost the prize.”

I recalled the woman and her upset face—but I couldn’t get the meaning of what she was saying. She kept repeating, “The committee disqualified my story on the pretext that it was a copy of your story published forty years ago.”

Suddenly everything became clear. I could see that bad luck still plagued her as she told me, “I swore to them my story could not be so accused, simply because it’s my own biography.”

Exasperated, I replied, “I certainly agree: I lifted bits from the events of your life in which I played a despicable role.”

The woman answered, laughing sarcastically, “Here’s a chance for me to be your victim in real life—and not just in fiction.”

T
he building of the house was finished: an architectural marvel, people from all over gathered around it, each hoping to possess it. The haggling increased and the arguments intensified until a giant cut through the crowd, roaring in a ringing voice, “Force is the answer.”

The people fell silent—except for one man, who answered the challenge. A feverish battle raged between them until the giant dealt a blow to his opponent’s head, knocking him unconscious. Then the giant broke into the house and locked it up completely after him.

The hours passed without the door opening to provide a chance for vengeance. Those standing outside took no useful action, while seeming as though they would not disperse.

I
n the beginning was the wagon. I was pushing it before me with power and mirth. One day I found a little girl atop it, and became even more active and gay. Then more people kept coming until they covered the whole wagon, sapping away all my strength and merriment. The riders sensed my sufferings. I determined to abandon the wagon as soon as a good opportunity arose. With the passage of days, the wagon emptied, returning to the way it was before. As for me, I didn’t go back, but grew weaker and weaker, until finally I became indifferent to the wagon, and collapsed beside it.