Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

Every so often, the door would open and a woman from the household — she might have been my mother or someone else of her stature — would enter to offer drinks. Without doubt, she regarded our seclusion with suspicion. Tired of her surveillance, I decided to challenge it by doing the unexpected. So, when next I heard the door opening, I rushed toward the broadcaster and clutched her to my chest.

I saw nothing wrong or unusual in what I had done. When I had finished my act of defiance, the woman had not only disappeared from the room, but from the house entirely.

The debate raged between a man, a woman, and her five sons about the right of the mother — who had passed her sixtieth year — to enjoy life and love.

The argument pierced the walls and became the talk of all the neighbors.

Some said it was a spurious love between an old woman and a young man the same age as her children, who was greedy for the money she’d inherited from her late husband. Others declared that a person must accept whatever they get from life — and especially, from love — even if the price be high. The affair seemed a disaster to the woman in the eyes of her five sons. They wound up murdering their wayward mother and going to the dock for it — accused of planning the crime and carrying it out together. In the investigation, arguments raged whose recurrent themes were motherhood and filial piety, honor and dignity, reputation, and respect for traditions.

I still can recall their faces and their words. Just as I remember the deceased woman when she defied the years and the wagging tongues to go her own way — so dazzlingly, seductively dressed and perfumed.

I left the great house in which we had waited — each man alone, not knowing the others — and felt something like security after unease.

Yet the sense of relief didn’t last long, for soon I imagined that others were following me. I glanced behind me and saw in the distance a group coming after me, gesturing with their hands in the breeze.

I quickened my pace until I broke into a run. On the road I spied the house to which I’d been invited, and instantly hurried toward it. I found the people there as if they were returning from abroad, organizing their things and dusting them off. None of them seemed surprised at my appearance among them. They stared at my face with such affection in their expressions, in their talk, and in their smiles, it was as though I’d just come back with them from their travels.

For that moment, at least, I forgot about the people creeping up behind me.

I walked around the fort twice — a citadel of stone whose windows were like tiny holes. From each window appeared a face that I not only knew, but adored. Some had been traveling a long while; others had departed our world at different times. I stared with passion and grief — and imagined that each one was begging from its depths for me to set them free. After looking hopelessly at the stone fort’s gate, I went to the authorities to ask for help.

I left them feeling satisfied, clutching a pole made of steel, and returned to the fort. I brandished the pole, and the faces peered out as I struck a mighty blow at the door, which split apart and collapsed. The faces vanished from the windows as shouts of joy and pleasure rose up, and I stopped, my heart beating hard — waiting to meet the dear ones with longing and desire.

Finally the new tram came to us, becoming the pearl of public transport in the Abbasiya quarter — and I was among the first to grow to hate it. At the start, I was attracted by its green and white color, by its decorated walls and its huge, plush seats. I sat upright marveling at its beauty, saying to myself this is a gorgeous museum, not a tram. But I noticed over time that the behavior of its passengers was far below the standard set by its elegance.

Truly I witnessed outrageous things. Once I saw a foreign boy pounce upon a little girl, wanting to devour her, but I thrust myself between them, reminding him that she was only a child. Before he could start fighting with me, a beautiful woman of middle age climbed aboard, as he shouted out, “I love you!” She told him that she had just returned from Europe where she had attended the party for the release of her autobiography.

She showed us a copy. On the cover was a picture of a totally naked woman!

His great height was amazing — and so was his behavior. He was as tall as the minaret at our local mosque. As for his actions, he would block the path of anyone he chose among the people of our quarter, angling down from his lofty altitude until he stood face to face with them.

He would stare piercingly at their features, searching for their hidden secret. He would keep doing this, then bolt out of sight behind a bend in the road. People would encounter him with dumb surprise and intense dismay — until one of them trailed him to discover the secret of his mystery. When the man failed to come back after a long time, a group of the neighbors went out to search for him and make sure he was all right.

The shaykh of the hara then came to search as well, as was his duty, but returned with wounded pride. The affair wound up on every tongue, as ideas and fantasies multiplied in peoples’ minds. Yet to no avail, for forgetfulness swallowed the whole business — or nearly so.

One evening the shaykh was chatting in front of the mosque when he felt the peculiar man’s presence. The shaykh not only grasped his miraculous nature, but also caught a glimpse of his enigma, which had so confounded others. He resolved on the spot to seize hold of him, and to broadcast what he knew of his riddle to the crowd gathered around. But then his strength betrayed him completely — he could not move, nor could he speak.

I rang the bell and the door opened upon three young women whom I was sure I did not know, yet felt I was not seeing for the first time. I asked about the woman who owned the flat, and they replied that she was still on pilgrimage. No one knew when to expect her.

They walked me through the rooms of the apartment. Each time a door opened it would reveal a group of people around a circular dinner table immersed in pointed conversation — but due to the cacophony of their blended voices I couldn’t make out anything they were discussing. I did not wish to enter any of the rooms, preferring to wait for the owner.

One of the young women informed me that the lady would be delayed by several days. In despair I replied that — after having taken part in futile discussions — I would rather defer all until the lady’s return.

An invitation came to me to visit the house of a dear relative. Drawing near to his home, I saw crowds of invitees going inside. I realized that the invitation was a general one. Among those coming I saw a select group from the generation of our professors and another from that of my colleagues.