Naguib Mahfouz - The Seventh Heaven

But then someone knocked at my door — interrupting my work. Amazed, I told the visitor to enter. Then she— she — drew toward me with all her former magic and beauty, swathed in her new, celestial garb. Opening my arms wide, I clutched her to my breast in longing and desire.

“I thought that we would never meet again!” I blurted.

With her sweet voice, she replied, “And I don’t believe that, after this moment, we shall ever part again.”

“Together, together — until the Abode of Adoration,” I said with breathless passion.

Catching sight of my work, she asked, “With what did you begin?”

“With cartography!”

“I started with poetry,” she said, with obvious unease.

We exchanged expectant looks, then I muttered, “We cannot stay together.”

“Shall we separate by our own choice now,” she said, “after we’ve tasted the bitterness of our ancient parting?”

“We shall not meet again before we arrive at the Mansion of Love.”

“That is a long way away.”

“Yet we shall get there someday.”

“Can’t we do anything to help make it come true?”

“I can only do the work which is fitting for me, and perhaps it’s the same for you.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“My desire is the same as yours, or even stronger — yet we have no choice.”

She sank into silence. In grief and regret, I told her, “In any case, our reunion is coming — there is no doubt about that. And time has no meaning to us.”

She smiled painfully as she receded slowly, until finally she had vanished completely. This time I did not surrender to mourning, as I had in my former existence.

Wary that anxiety might distract me, I redoubled my efforts at work and my enthusiasm for it. Neither the length of the road nor any problems bothered me. Nor did I fear the betrayals of time, or the creep of old age, or the threat of death. Then came yet more knocking at my door. My heart beating hard, I expected to see her beloved face — but this time it was a man, someone new, not the guide who had brought me to my home.

“I am the medium between this world and the one you have left,” he said, presenting himself to me.

The old world that I had forgotten utterly. I stared at him questioningly, and he continued matter-of-factly, “I have disrupted your labor, but I am faithful to my duty.”

Then he added, still neutrally, “There is someone calling to you from the people of the earth.”

What do they want? What have I to do with them? How could they not perceive the importance of the work for which our past lives had prepared us?

“Who is calling for me?” I inquired.

“Your son, Ahmad.”

“Ah … who was still in his mother’s womb when I left their world,” I recalled.

My heart pounded despite myself, and I asked, “Would you counsel me to answer his call?”

With polite indifference, he replied, “That is not my affair. You must decide on your own.”

A conflict erupted within me, yet I quickly surrendered to this catastrophe, the possibility of which had not previously occurred to me. Under the weight of wicked feelings, I mumbled quietly, “I see that I’d best respond to this plea.”

Immediately I found myself peering into a closed courtroom immersed in a kind of darkness. Before me were seats arranged in a semi-circle, on which a group of men were sitting. Among them was Ahmad — whom I knew by my inner sight — who had taken his seat on the right. At the same time, I saw my intermediary reposed on a cushion, a transparent curtain separating him from the rest of those present.

“Ahmad,” I called to my son softly.

“Father!” he said, leaping up from his seat.

“Yes, I am your father.”

With burning curiosity, he asked me, “How are you, father?”

“God be praised,” I answered.

“What is life like where you are?”

“We do not have a language in common for me to convey it to you. But everything here is fine.”

Sighing, he rejoined, “Life here seems cruel. Nothing good is left to us.”

“You yourselves must change that until all of it is good.”

“But how, father?”

“The question is yours, and so is the answer,” I said. “All live according to their own ambition.”

“Yet all are wondering, what is hidden from us tomorrow?”

“God knows tomorrow, but the human being creates it.”

“There’s no possibility we can count on your aid?”

“I have already rendered it,” I replied.

In a plaintive voice, he exclaimed, “They accuse me of loving only myself!”

“You do not know how to love yourself,” I told him, feeling the urge to leave.

Faster than lightning, I was back in my house. There, sharp pangs of repentance and remorse assailed me. How could it not upset me that I should be taken from my noble endeavors to be engrossed in the affairs of the world that is gone? Yet what did I know but the somber guide should then regard me again with his shining visage. The agonies of guilt growing stronger, I appealed to him, “I know that I have faltered, but I will make amends for my fault by working even harder!”

He showed no interest in what I said; his untroubled expression remained unchanged. Then he departed just as he had come, without uttering a word. Yet he left behind him a flower, the likes of which I had never before seen: huge in size, with luxuriant leaves and an enchanting color, emitting a fragrance of unprecedented beauty and power. It dawned on me that he could not have left it without a cause — but certainly had meant it as a gift for me.

A serene happiness overwhelmed me, and I mused to myself, No doubt, my journey — contrary to what had worried me — has won me such favor.

Over and over again they point to it and warn me. “Don’t go near the wood,” they say. “It’s haunted by demons!”

The wood stands at the southern edge of the Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday in Abbasiya. From a distance it looks like a many-peaked mountain of gloomy green, three tram stops in length, and nearly as wide. Overhead the sky perhaps is streaked with smoke borne by the breeze from the rubbish tips, where garbage is always burning. Of what kind are these lofty trees, and what is the reason for their presence in this place? Who planted them here, and why? The Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday is where all the young people of Abbasiya go to play football, and where a number of amateur teams practice at the same time. When we finish our friendly matches wendent pull on our gallabiyas over our everyday athletic clothes, then return to our neighborhood — skirting the wood on the way.

Childhood gives way to adolescence. New passions are ignited within me, including the love of reading. In my soul there dawns an enlightenment that celebrates all things new and novel, as many old myths are dispelled from my mind. I no longer believe in the demons of the wood — yet I fail to free myself completely of the latent dregs of fear deep down. I often used to withdraw by myself to the desert, especially during the summer vacations, reading, contemplating, and smoking cigarettes, far from any censorious eye. I would gaze at the forest from afar, smiling sarcastically at my memories. Still, I kept my distance. Finally I grew annoyed with my own attitude, and felt driven to challenge it by asking myself, Isn’t it time you discovered the truth about the wood?

After not a short discussion, I boldly resolved to do something about it. I chose to act in mid-afternoon, in broad daylight, since the night in any case would not be safe. The place where I used to sit was close to the water pumping station, inside which bustled workers and engineers. Once I greeted one of them and asked him about the secret of the wood. He told me it belonged to the station. He said it was planted a long time ago, taking advantage of the abundant water. It did not extend any further, perhaps, due to the annual celebrations of the Prophet’s Birthday next door.