The Dreams (4 page)

H
ere was the airport. Its atmosphere rumbled with sundry sounds and languages. The women, having finished all their procedures, stood waiting. I drew close to them, offering each one a rose in a silver wrapper.

“Travel safely—with prayers for your success,” I said.

They thanked me, smiling, as one of them said, “This is a strenuous mission, and it will take years and years for us to succeed.”

I grasped what she meant, and pain gripped my heart. We traded silent looks of farewell, as the old times passed before our eyes. The airplane moved: my vision followed it until the vessel vanished over the horizon. When I returned to the reception hall, all I could recall was my desire to find the post office.

It was as if I had come with only this goal. I heard a voice whisper, “Do you want the post office?” Puzzled, I peered in its direction—to find a girl whom I had never seen before. I asked her who she was.

“I’m Rayya’s daughter. Maybe you remember Rayya and Sakina?”

In mounting panic, I replied, “The memory frightens me!”

“If you want the post office,” she advised, “then follow me.”

So—with the fiercest trepidation—I did as she said.

I
was walking along the green banks of the Nile. The night was damp as the secret dialogue continued between the moon and the river’s waters, on which the luminous rays rippled. My spirit wandered through the recesses of Abbasiya, suffused with the scent of love and jasmine.

I found myself debating the question that had assailed me from time to time—why hadn’t she visited me in a dream even once since she died, at the very least to confirm that she was real, and not merely an adolescent fantasy? Was her picture imprinted in my mind really a true likeness? Then, with the sound of music blaring from the direction of the darkened street, ghosts appeared, their forms solidified by the light of the first lamp they happened to approach. To my astonishment, the brass band was not strange to me—I had listened to it often in my youth, as it marched in the wake of funerals. This tune I almost knew by heart.

But the truly happy coincidence was the sight of my departed sweetheart walking behind the musicians: this was surely her, with her ravishing appearance, her sublime step, and her refined face. Finally she had blessed me with a visit. Leaving the burial procession, she stood in front of me to prove that life had not all been in vain. Standing breathlessly erect, I rushed toward her with all the strength of my soul,
saying to myself that this chance—to touch the darling of my heart—would never come again.

Moving a step toward her, I took her in my arms—then heard the crackle of something breaking. Her dress felt as though it was draped over empty space—and no sooner had I discovered this, than the marvelous head fell to the ground and rolled into the river. The waves bore it away like a Rose of the Nile—leaving me to eternal grief.

A
great hallway along which offices were arrayed. A government department, or perhaps a commercial agency. The employees were either sitting quietly at their desks, or moving about between their offices.

They were made up of both sexes, obviously working well together, lightly and openly flirting with each other. I seemed to be one of the newer functionaries here, with a suitably low salary, a fact that I felt profoundly. Yet this didn’t prevent me from asking for the hand of a beautiful young lady of higher rank, who had worked here longer than me. In the event, she thanked me, but declined my request.

“We lack what we’d need for a happy life,” she explained.

This pierced me with a wound in the seam of my psyche.

From that day onward, I grew wary of broaching any such subject with my female colleagues, though I was attracted to more than one of them. I felt the bitter suffering of loneliness and dejection. Then a new girl joined our service—and for the first time, I found myself in a superior position. I was an auditor, while she was a typist: my salary was twice as large as hers. She was not good looking, and, even worse, people gossiped about her immoral behavior.
Out of despair, I decided to break through my isolation—so I flirted with her. She flirted back. So happy was I that I lost my head and asked her to marry me.

“I’m sorry,” she replied.

Not believing my ears, I pressed on, “There’s nothing wrong with my salary, especially when added with yours.”

“Money doesn’t concern me,” she said.

I thought of asking what
did
matter to her, but she’d already walked away.

T
he assisting doctor congratulated me on the operation’s success. Awaking from the anaesthesia, I felt deep relief and happiness for my sheer survival. I’d gone into the recovery room, when a nurse came and sat on a chair, bringing her head close to mine. After staring at me thoughtfully for quite some time, she said with intense composure, “How long I’ve waited to see you lying weak and helpless like this.”

I looked back at her and said with dismay, “But this is the first time I’ve seen you in my life—why would you wish me any harm?”

With malice and resentment, she replied, “The time for vengeance has come.”

She stood up and left the room, leaving me in a vortex of perplexity, fear, and anxiety. How could this woman imagine I had ever done her ill, when I had never seen her before? The surgeon came to check on me. I clung to him, saying, “Doctor, please understand—my life is in danger!”

He listened as I told him what had happened. He ordered all the nurses serving in the ward to file in front of me—but the one I sought was not among them.

As he left, the doctor assured me, “You’re under our complete protection here.”

The evil forbodings did not forsake me. Everyone who entered the room peered at me strangely, as if I’d become an object of wonder and doubt—while I saw a long road full of hardships ahead.

T
he quarters of Gamaliya and Abbasiya passed before me, yet I seemed to be walking in only one place.

I imagined that someone was tailing me. I turned to look behind me, but the rain poured down more intensely than it had in years—so I scurried back to my home. I wanted to take off my clothes, but then had the uncanny feeling that a strange man was hiding in my house. His audacity infuriated me—so I screamed at him to give himself up. The door to the foyer opened and there appeared a man whose equal in size and strength I had never before seen. “Give
yourself
up,” he said, in a quietly sarcastic voice.

A sense of feebleness and fear gripped me: I was certain that one blow from his elephant-sized hand would flatten me completely. Then he ordered me to give up my wallet and my overcoat. The overcoat was more important to me—yet I hesitated but a little before handing him both items. He shoved me, and I hit the ground. When I regained my feet, he had disappeared—and I wondered if I should call out to raise an alarm.

But what had happened was contemptible and shameful, and would make me an object of jokes and ridicule—so I did nothing.

I thought about going to the police station, but one of my
friends was an officer from the detective bureau. Hence the scandal would spread one way or another.

I decided upon silence, but this didn’t save me from worry.

I dreaded that I would run into the thief somewhere while he was walking happily about in my coat, and with my money.

W
e sat on both sides of the launch. Each man appeared singly, with no relation to the others—then the pilot came and started up the boat’s motor.

The pilot was a beautiful young girl. My heart quivered at the sight of her. She looked out of the window as I stood beneath the tree: the time was somewhere between childhood and the first stirrings of early manhood. I fixed my eye on her noble head as she speedily steered us along the river, my heart pounding in harmony with the gusts of the breeze. I thought of going up to her to see how she would receive me.

But then I found myself on a street in one of the poorer quarters—it might have been the Ghuriya—as it was jammed with humanity on the birth-feast of Husayn. I caught sight of her making her way with difficulty down one of the winding lanes, and resolved to catch up with her—while the group of chanting celebrants fêted the martyred saint.

Just as quickly I returned to my seat on the boat, which had covered a great stretch of the river. I glanced at the bridge, and saw that the pilot was an elderly woman with a brooding face. I looked around and wondered about the absent young beauty—and saw nothing but empty seats.

So I began to query the old hag about the missing, lovely girl.