Naguib Mahfouz: The Seventh Heaven

“They say,” I remarked, “that the wood’s filled with ‘afari —evil spirits.”

“The only demons are human beings,” he rejoined.

For the first time I made for the wood. I stopped at its edge peering inward, and saw the towering trees in orderly rows, like soldierly battalions, and the weeds blanketing the ground with their ripe, luscious verdure. A canal cut through them widthwise, shimmering streams branching away from it. Once accustomed to everything, I advanced without trepidation. I met no human being, but became intoxicated on the solitude and tranquility. “What a waste,” I thought. “So much time lost — may God suffer those who imagine that Paradise is a refuge for demons.” At roughly the center of the wood, some laughter reached me — and in truth, my heart shuddered. Yet my dread vanished in seconds — for there was no doubt this laughter came from a descendant of Adam. I inspected my surroundings with care, and in the distance, made out a small band of youths. Just as quickly I realized they were not strangers, but neighbors and colleagues from my school. I went toward them, clearing my throat — and their heads turned in my direction until I greeted them and stopped, smiling. After a silence, one of them said, “Welcome. What fortunate coincidence brought you here?”

“And what brought all of you here?” I asked instead.

“As you see — we chat with one another, or we read, or have serious discussions.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not a short time, in any case.”

After some hesitation, I ventured, “I’d be pleased to join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you love study and debate?”

“I adore them with all my heart.”

“Then you’re welcome, if you wish.”

From that time on, I began a new life, that perhaps I could call the life of the wood. During the whole summer vacation, I spent two hours at least each day in this circle, as, with the calling of the birds, thoughts and opinions descended from above. The world had changed, changed utterly. This wasn’t merely a diversion or a game, or an intellectual exercise for its own sake. Rather, it led to a journey, an adventure — an experience encompassing all things possible….

By habit I sat with my father and mother after supper. We would listen to the phonograph, talking with one another. I had been concealing the secret of the wood, not revealing it to anyone — and my parents were the last persons I ever imagined to tell about it. A very long time ago— I no longer remember just how long — they went to their eternal rest, and were granted everlasting peace. My father does not get excited unless prodded by news of politics, which he relishes to follow and comment upon. One day he concluded his conversation by exclaiming, “How many wonders there are in this country!”

“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.

Isaw 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?