Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

A group of boys were playing on the road just ahead of me: I felt they harbored some sort of ill will against me. This surprised me, for nothing to provoke that sentiment had ever occurred between us. As I walked on cautiously, I remembered with wonder the way I was at their age.

A huge shop loomed before me, which I took to be for selling pastry, as it said on its giant sign. The labor of preparation was at its most intense as I approached, asking: “Do the pastries you offer include baklava and kunafa ?’

The men stopped their work to stare at me. At the same time, the gang of boys laughed boisterously and whistled. From the farthest corners of the shop, a man appeared and inquired, “Is it true there are still people who love baklava and kunafa ?”

I strolled among the workers as the boys danced and whistled and thrust their clenched fists in my face.

I found the Harafish in the room when I arrived. I asked about the only one of us who was absent. They said they’d dispatched him to ask the great composer Sayyid Darwish to send the new ballet troupe along.

I hadn’t realized how spoiled the atmosphere had grown between us, as their faces all scowled at me. I wanted to go away — but at that moment the ballet troupe arrived, enveloped in music and dance. The tension between us lessened as we threw ourselves into the dancing and singing. Raptures raining down on us, our hearts became purified — love and affection pervading us all.

As we reveled with the male and female dancers and chanted in chorus with the hymns and songs, we all made a silent covenant to record the history of that night.

I was heading toward the elegant white building. In the heart of the great hall, the beautiful woman was sitting. We held a meeting with her, and she began to talk about the artistic production company that she had decided to form.

We all welcomed the company and its owner, presenting our individual views about work and production. We differed on nothing — except the salaries. She proposed setting each person’s salary by agreement with her. Some others thought the salaries should be based on a fixed percentage of the expenditures for films and plays. The debate carried over into the next session. I advised my colleagues that to stick to her idea would simply put us at her mercy: the percentage concept clarified the matter, shutting the door on any sort of opportunism.

The lady invited us to dinner, along with some other guests. After the meal, there was a celebration with music. Before we knew it, the woman had stripped off all her clothes and was dancing for us totally naked — an extremely enticing scene.

My final opinion was settled, once and for all: I resolved to distance myself completely from the company — and from its owner, as well.

I was staring at a seductive woman as she walked down the street, when he boldly came up and whispered in my ear.

“If you have any orders,” he said, “she’s at your command.”

Despite the repulsive gleam in his eyes, I did not turn away. We agreed on a fee, one-half of which he demanded in advance: I gave him the half. He gave me an appointment, but when I showed up, I found him alone. He offered the excuse that she was indisposed, and he was perfectly prepared to repay the advance — but I believed him, leaving it with him.

He went on accosting me in my comings and goings, pleading for my patience. Fearing our encounters would damage my reputation, I informed him that my desire had since dampened. And — while I wouldn’t demand the return of my down payment — he had to stay away from me. He stopped approaching me, but still kept showing up most places I would go.

Finally, I became fed up, hating him so much that I decided to move to Alexandria. At Sidi Gaber station, I saw him, standing there as though in waiting.

The train came to a stop, though there was no station. My lady companion asked why this had happened, but I didn’t know how to answer her.

Next, squadrons of soldiers from the army encircled the train, then burst inside, wielding their guns. Many military officers who had been on the train, plus a certain number of civilians, were driven outside. I was among those placed under arrest, leaving my girlfriend distraught and afraid. We found ourselves out in the desert. The armed soldiers ordered us to remove our clothes except for our underwear. Then they moved the military detainees to one side and the civilians to another. We began to whisper to each other that we were lost and that the end had come.

The soldiers’ commander came and called out to each of us by name. A voice among us asked, “Will you kill us without trial?”

The commander answered with candor, “There’s no need here for a trial.”

The train pulled away — and I remembered the one with whom I had come.

We were invited to a meeting in the Azbakiya Gardens. There it was suggested that we honor our glorious professor on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of his birth. No one showed any enthusiasm — nor did anyone appear to object.

The ceremony, it was agreed, would take place in the Foreign Ministry, where he spent the flower of his life, and accomplished his greatest deeds. On the appointed day, I went early to inspect the place, immediately heading to the chosen hall. It was as elegant and awe-inspiring as always, though this time it was made even more glamorous by the presence of hundreds of gorgeous women the man had loved throughout his life.

They came dressed in identical uniforms for their role as hostesses, each one displaying the succulent splendor of youth. My heart pounded madly as I grew woozy amidst the charms of the raving beauties — succumbing to the lure of love. I simmered with the thoughts that I would utter in the speech conferring honor.

I inquired about my friend, and was told that the great musician and songwriter, Shaykh Zakariya Ahmad, chanted his tunes each night in his house until dawn. “What good fortune!” I exclaimed, and was invited to come by one evening.

I went into the vast room, whose walls were embellished with arabesques, and saw Shaykh Zakariya seated on a couch, cradling his ‘ud . He sang, “ Would that please God ?” as his family — women and children — sat in a circle around a man hanging by his feet.

Beneath the man’s head, but an arm’s length away sat a great vat of acid.

I became confused.

My confusion was compounded when I realized that everyone present was following the songs, paying not the slightest heed to the man being tortured.

In the closed room, the discussion went on between the lady broadcaster and myself about local versus foreign music. At different points in the conversation, I stood at the piano and played some songs.