The Dreams (5 page)

I
was dazzled by the new apartment after it was turned over to me. I inspected every corner—and it filled my soul with joy. “Now you need a regular job,” I told myself. “You’d better get cracking without delay.”

I went to the market. Covering a vast area, it was surrounded by a formidable wall. I presented my deed of ownership for the flat, and they let me come inside.

The place was packed with people. I saw a great many women I had loved in the past, but all were walking arm-in-arm with their men. I proceeded to the intended window and offered my papers, the first being my proof of possession for the new apartment. The man looked them over and told me, “We don’t have any vacant positions right now. We’ll get in touch with you at the appropriate time.”

I felt my hopes frustrated—I would have to wait a long while. I returned to cutting my way through the crowd, contemplating the rush of gorgeous faces that I had loved before. I lingered alone in the flat, while on the street I heard a man say in a booming voice, “It’s nonsense for a man to own an apartment without holding down a job. He should give it up for someone else fortunate enough to be employed.”

I was upset by what he said—and the longer I thought about it, the truer it seemed.

Assailed by doubt and worry, I watched for what lay hidden behind the morrow with a troubled and sleepless eye.

W
e went out looking for a good place to pass the time. We gazed at the crescent moon, exchanging glances—and saw by the lamplight a giant whose like was never before seen by the human eye.

He threw a rod which had no equal in length toward the crescent, striking it squarely. With a brilliant movement it began to unroll its folds of light until it ripened into a full moon. We heard voices shout, “There is no god but God!” and we shouted it with them. I said that nothing like this had ever happened before, and she agreed. The light flowing over creation lifted me over the surface of the water. She called out, “A moonlit night!” and I said, “The boat is inviting us!” as we rode along with the utmost pleasure.

Then the pilot sang, “
I crave you, by the Prophet, I crave you
.” We grew drunk with ecstasy, and I suggested that we swim around the skiff. We stripped off our clothes and leapt into the water, splashing about with absolute delight. But then the moon suddenly turned back into a crescent—and the crescent, too, disappeared. We grew alarmed as we never had before, and I felt that this required a serious reappraisal of our situation. With the
two of us drowning in the dark, I said, “Let’s head for the boat.”

“And if we get lost?” she replied.

“We can make for the shore,” I answered.

“We’ll be naked on the bank,” she fretted.

“Let’s worry about that later,” I told her.

O
n this little street there was no want of pedestrians out and about, or people sitting on their balconies. The lady walked slowly, sometimes stopping in front of the fashion displays.

Four young men, not yet twenty years old, made their way toward her. She frowned in their faces and turned away from their path. But they swooped down upon her, harassing her. She resisted them as the neighborhood watched without intervening. The youths tore her robe, exposing parts of her body, as the woman cried out in alarm. I observed what was happening and stopped in my tracks, paralyzed by shock and disgust. I wanted to do something—or wanted someone else to do something—but nothing occurred.

After the tragedy had finished and the criminals had fled, the police arrived, the place changed—and I found myself with a group of others in front of the officer’s desk. Our testimony was all in accord. When asked what we did, we answered, “Nothing.” I was embarrassed and disturbed, my hand trembling as I affixed my name to the official report.

W
e were working in the office when he looked me in the face and said, “Your mind is preoccupied.”

I answered tersely, powerless with fatigue, “The cost of the medicines is beyond my means.”

“I understand and appreciate that,” he said, “and I praise God who saved me from its claws.”

So I asked him, “How could you survive that for which there is no survival?”

He replied, “I have a friend whose brother is a pharmacist. When he knows that I have an illness, he assures me that he’ll find a solution. He takes down what medications I and my family need each month, which he tells to his brother the druggist—then surprises me with their equivalent for less than a tenth of the regular price.”

I asked him if these operations weren’t dangerous. He tried to put me at ease, speaking to me at length on the ways of the different pharmaceutical companies until he had me upset and confused. Nonetheless, I didn’t hesistate—but wrote for him a list of the medications that I needed each month, and felt deeply relieved.

Then suddenly he said to me, “But I want a service from you in return.” I began to prepare myself to do what he asked.

“I’m disturbed by the attacks on the government’s red tape and bureaucracy. The government is aggrieved by what people say and write on this subject—so I want you to devote your pen to defending against it.” Astonished, I asked, what was the secret of his zeal for something that all people alike criticize and reject?

Angrily, he replied, “Brother, what is a civil servant worth who faces the public without bureaucracy and red tape?” My head whirled in confusion between the medications and the procedural maze.

I
was strolling down the street. I knew this place well—for it was where I worked and where I played, where I met my friends and my sweethearts alike. I greeted this one as I shook hands with that one—while noticing a man crossing in front of me, neither very close nor very far away.

From time to time, he would turn about to be sure that I was behind him. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time I’d seen him, but certainly there was no mutual bond between us. What he was doing annoyed me, and presented me with a challenge. I quickened my steps, and he quickened his. I felt he was plotting something, and this made me more defiant. Then a friend called me over to deal with some private business and I headed to his shop, where, absorbed in conversation, I forgot about the man.

When, in the late afternoon, our business was finished, I bid my friend goodbye. As I made for my house, I remembered the man and turned to look behind me. I saw him following me, just as I had found him walking ahead of me before.… Incensed, I decided to stop to see what he was doing. Instead, I found myself moving faster as though I were fleeing from him. Dismayed, I wondered, what does he want?

When my house came in sight, I finally felt relaxed as I opened the door and stepped inside without a glance over my shoulder. Finding the place empty, I went to my bedroom—then stopped at the peculiar sensation that the man was lurking within.

A
fter not a short absence, I decided that my flat in Alexandria needed some repairs. The laborers came, the foreman at their lead. The work began with remarkable energy. My attention was drawn to a particular youth—who seemed strangely familiar. I felt a frisson in my body when I recalled that I had indeed seen him once—as he attacked a woman on a side street, taking her bag and running away. Yet I wasn’t sure, so—without the boy’s sensing it—I asked the foreman how much he trusted him.

“He’s as bankable as a gold pound,” the foreman said, “for he’s my son, whom I’ve raised myself.” This calmed my heart for a time—though whenever my sight fell on the boy my chest began to tighten. Seeking a sense of safety, I opened one of the windows that overlooked the street in which there labored those whom I knew and who knew me—but instead, I saw the alley of the garage on which my flat in Cairo looks down. Amazed, my heart pounded even more. As the time went on and darkness approached, I asked the men to end their work for the day before the evening began, since the electricity had been cut due to my long time away.

“Don’t worry,” the unsettling youth said, “I have a candle.” Concerned that the situation would offer him an
opportunity to steal whatever was light enough to carry, I went to look for the foreman—and was told that he had gone into the washroom. Waiting for him to come out with mounting anxiety, I imagined that his disappearance into the W.C. was part of a conspiracy—and that I was alone with a gang of thieves. I called out to the foreman as the signs of approaching evening spread through the flat.