The Seventh Heaven (16 page)

“Wonders without end!” I rushed to affirm.

He fixed me with an inquiring look. “Let me tell you some of the ideas that circulate in our society,” I said.

I spoke concisely, with concentration. He listened in confusion. “I seek refuge in God,” he shouted. “The people who hold those views aren’t humans—they’re demons!”

Only then I understood: I had become one of the demons of the haunted wood.

I
saw myself on a delightful excursion, like those of our earliest times. Seemingly it was a fair day in winter, for the sky was clear and the sun mild. We arrived together at the square, just as we agreed to meet despite death having parted us. In our hands were little bags made of dyed, woven palm leaves, filled with food and drink. Our throats chirped with laughter as we crossed the eastern limits of the square, heading into the desert nearby, to take our ease by the water springs, the date palms, and the henna trees there. As usual, we spent the day in amusing banter and song, until we were all consumed with pleasure. Then, just before sunset, we returned with our bags depleted to the square, the sun slanting down toward the horizon, as waves of coolness washed over us, tenderly
and sweetly. We traded waves of farewell, as the dear ones went down the vacant byways to their homes.

Coming from the square, I lingered quietly for some time near my own home, and—due to the paucity of people out and about at the end of the day—found myself evidently alone. Enjoying the sense of satiety, like a wanderer on the roads, I trekked along my everyday route that passed through the square, running between two rows of markets and commercial agencies, plus workshops for handicrafts and manufacturing. From their midst arose a cacophony of customers’ voices, the humming of ovens and the pounding of hammers. Their racket and commotion went on without a lull until well after nightfall, the departure of the busses and the settling of the cash in the registers.

This was the street on which I dreamt when growing up, and when I was working—and it made me very happy to roam its parts. But when its end came in sight, I was surprised to see a barricade of stones completely blocking its exit. Confused and angry, I wondered, when did this obstruction appear? Who had made it? And what was the purpose for making it? Looking around, I noticed that at the barrier’s right-hand corner a person was sitting behind a desk on which there was only a telephone. When my eyes settled on him, I was nailed where I stood by a terror I had never before beheld. A coarse face with an aspect that defied all imagination was inspecting me closely. In place of the nose was a short trunk like that of an elephant, while one sunken eye stared out of the middle of its forehead. I did a double take in revulsion and asked
myself,
Is that human or animal? What kind of beast could it be?
Yet when I saw the people were undisturbed, engrossed in their affairs, I became confused—and focused all my thoughts on getting myself out of this street that I had mistakenly believed led to my house. I found myself once again in the square, as—just by chance— someone was crossing my path. I blocked the road in front of him, pleading for help. I pointed to the blockaded road and asked, “What’s happening on this street?”

He stared at me furiously for impeding his way. “Excuse me,” he shouted, “but I’ve no time for idle talk!”

Then he walked around me and disappeared. For my part, I could think of nothing but getting back home— everything else could bide its time. No doubt the journey had made me giddy—perhaps the next road would prove my true path. How surprised my friends would be when I told them what I saw! Then I entered the start of another street. Narrow at first, it lacked any of the features to show it was really my road. Yet even my urgent doubts of my memory’s soundness didn’t distract me from my course. This one, too, seemed to be empty. True, both sides were lined with little, well-spaced coffeehouses, yet there was hardly anyone on it. From these cafés floated strange, provocative, and disturbing aromas. Those sitting in them did not seem to hear or see, nor to pay attention to anything. Nor did they look in any way bound to life itself. My strides lengthened as I continued to flee with a creeping unease. Yet when I drew close to the end, my feet were nailed where I stood for the second time. A shiver spread through my limbs, and I couldn’t believe my eyes—as
watched a troupe of skeletons doing a popular dance. Yes, Death itself was dancing before my sight, without musical accompaniment! Quickly I retreated before I would faint.
What’s happening to the world?
I wondered.
How can I, in all this destruction, find the police in order to take refuge with them? I should go to the police station before heading to my house in order to escape this stifling predicament—while there are still no pedestrians in the square.
But then I remembered the cruel lesson I received from the first man, besides the fact that I had no confidence in anything anymore. There was no serious goal left for me but to get back to my home. And here was the third way—so I resolved to try it out, leaving my fate in the hands of God. Regardless, it was a bustling road beating with the breaths of scores of human beings. Perhaps this was, indeed, my true path, from which I had strayed. From it echoed the cries of those hawking every sort of thing to eat and drink. Customers came empty-handed, and left loaded down with paper sacks, plastic bags, and wrappers. Quickly I sensed a glimmer of hope. But what do I see now, O Lord? One of the customers is drying his tears as he leaves. Another is bent over in agony, screaming as though he’d been fatally stung. And another has thrown a flaming ember into his paper sack—and is now sucking his fingers to cool them off. Though tormented by these evil omens, I did not stop—not until I saw, at the end of the way, a meat seller laying out a row of human heads on his tray. I let out a horrific scream. The buyers, alerted to my presence, began to stare at my own head with interest. Then my body took off and I found myself fleeing, not heedingy
anything until I again reached the square.
O God— have I gone mad?
I raved. Nothing remained but to try the fourth road—and this was the last. What could I do if this one, too, betrayed me?

“What’s happened to the world?” I called out aloud.

An angry voice shrieked back at me, “You’re frightening me—may God never forgive you!”

I looked at the man apologetically, and motioned toward the final road. “I beg your pardon,” I entreated, “I’m exhausted and I need someone to go with me.”

He stared at me doubtfully. “I’m sorry,” he reproved. “Entrust yourself to God.”

He turned about menacingly as he moved away from me. There was nothing left but to try my luck on my own. Sunset was descending without any escape. The road wasn’t my normal way, but it seemed to lead to civilization. This was a big, exciting street, remarkable for its magnificence and splendor; one could call it the Avenue of the Grand Cafés. The names of its coffeehouses, painted in electric signs, were frank and defiant: Café of the Pickpockets, Café of the Con Men, Café of the Pimps, Exclusive Café of the Bribe. For the first time I smiled—and whatever would be, would be. The important thing was to return to my house, and let the cafés—with their brazen, openly touted shamelessness, and whoever was in them—go to damnation. I kept up my pace, propelled by both worry and hope. For the first time, I glimpsed at the end of the street something that reassured my heart and calmed my imagination. I saw a band of security men led by a fearsome brute—and had no doubt they were about to launch
a vigorous attack to clean the place up and put things in order. With exuberance I sputtered, “May God preserve you! Have you heard what’s happening on the other streets?”

I was met with a hail of cold, dry looks that warned of malice and woe. In my stunned dismay, I imagined they were getting ready to arrest me. I began to question their real identities, and sped off without stopping—all too aware that there remained for me no new passage to salvation. I reached the square as darkness was spreading— drowning in a quagmire of confusion, without a life preserver. The place was not empty, as it appeared, but its precincts were occupied with numerous spirits, the atmosphere filled with obscure murmurings. Then cries boomed out, clashing and conflicting to the utmost—raging, threatening, and preparing for combat in the jet-black gloom. I felt myself endangered, though I had no weapon beyond my empty bag. From where did all these creatures come? And what do they want? Are they friend or foe? Did they spring from the desert or from the wild, riotous roads? Then the shouts were permeated with sounds of different kinds—songs of debauchery, religious anthems, and military airs. My chest tightened and I was about to smother, as feelings of annihilation, loss, and despair lashed me onward—until, in the climax of my exasperation, I balled up my fist and struck myself on the skull….

Suddenly, in what seemed a miracle, Hell disappeared. It vanished suddenly, not by degrees, as wakefulness fell
from its free kingdom in the sky. An enlightened wakeful-ness, replete with kindness, peace, and serenity, restful and at rest—a happiness exuding sympathy and affection. I peered through the window—and saw the radiant horizon blooming in the garden of the rising sun.

A
t a certain time, Tayyib al-Mahdi believed that his mission in this world had come to an end. Deeply relaxed, with only minor aches and pains, he would mutter to himself in contentment, “All praise to God, Lord of the Worlds.” He had generous health insurance and a more than adequate pension. He lived in an apartment that he owned in Nasr City, which he had won as a reward for many years of service abroad. His four daughters had each gotten married—there was nothing left for him to do but to spend his evenings with his wife, watching television, reading the newspapers, and listening to the radio channel devoted to the Qur’an.

Was it so strange, then, that he thought he had discharged his duties in life in a commendable way? Yet he
had no idea what the future had hidden from him, for one night a man of radiant appearance, bathed in light and wrapped in a snow-white robe, came to him in a dream. In a kindly tone, the apparition told him:

From this moment onward, and for as long as God wills, you shall have the power to tell something, Be!— and it will be. Do with it what you please.

When he woke from his sleep, Tayyib pondered the meaning of his dream. But no sooner had he forgotten it, the way one typically does with dreams, than peculiarly it recurred exactly in its entirety on the following night, and for many nights on end, until he felt there was some secret message hidden within it. Wisely, though, he kept it to himself, telling no one about it, not even his companion in life, his wife Haniya. At the same time, he felt infused with physical energy, filled with confidence, inspiration, and joy. And why not? He was a good man; his sins were forgivable ones. Pious and observant, he was a lover of virtue who lived his life—despite his modest status—as though he bore on his shoulders the worries of the world and of people everywhere.