Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

A third declared, “No matter what, there’s no escaping the final reckoning.”

In the center of this forest rose a hill in the shape of a pyramid. One climbed it through terraced stone passageways decorated with rows of date palms, beds of flowers, and shelters for lovers. I secluded myself with my sweetheart in one of these hideaways.

We swam together in a secret dialogue which removed all awareness of existence from our minds. Suddenly my companion stood up — and in the blink of an eye abandoned our refuge. I got up to catch her and to make sure that she was all right, when a voice like thunder came at me. Projected by an amplifier, it warned people of the presence of a time bomb, urging them to leave the hill immediately and without delay. Everyone rushed toward the rocky passageways. As I glanced around, a group of security forces joined us at a safe distance away.

I looked for my lover, but could find no trace of her anywhere: where could she have gone? Was there, then, any relationship between her and this crime? Would that not subject me, as well, to such an accusation, despite my innocence?

I heard the closest one of those who had stopped me say to his girlfriend that his heart told him, “The whole thing is false.” I wondered if God believed the man’s intuition, while I lingered — torn between thinking about my lost companion, and the expected explosion!

The longing to see my dear ones called to me, and I set off in the direction of the ancient quarter. As usual, I took a short cut on foot until the old house appeared, along with my memories.

I wasted no time in starting to climb toward the third and final floor. But halfway up the stairs, I was stricken by an exhaustion that would not pass, and which made me think about putting off the journey. If it weren’t for my stubborn character — which hates to go back on a commitment — as well as for the intensity of my effort, I would not have made it until I reached the third-floor landing.

From my new vantage point, I could see the apartment door immersed in quiet and calm, and I realized that there were only ten more steps before the end of the staircase. Yet I did not see a single stair, finding in their place a deep pit. My heart pounded with fear for the people of the house.

Though it was now impossible to reach my goal, I did not look behind me. I did not think of going back, nor did I lose hope. I kept my eyes fixed on the door drowning in silence and tranquillity — as I cried out, and cried out, and cried out again from somewhere deep within me.

He was the best in our young days, a truly rare kind of friend. Wondrously light of spirit, bright of repartee, elegant of riposte, brilliant at trading jibes, with a rich fund of stories, he was unusually gifted in all these fields. And he was always ready to join us whenever the occasion called for singing, dancing, or any form of amusement.

This is how we enjoyed our time together until he was chosen for a prestigious position known in our country for its gravitas and majesty. We watched apprehensively and soon our fears were realized, for he told us, as though replying to our anxiety, that he had decided to change his life from A to Z. No one questioned him on this as he bid us goodbye, commending us to God.

He would encounter us on public occasions, greeting us with an intense formality that deepened our feelings of estrangement and despair. Our old intimacy waned and practically disappeared, and we no longer heard of him except in the announcements of transfers and promotions. He began to fade from our consciousness until we nearly forgot him altogether. Time furthered our separation, until Fate decreed that we should meet by chance as our country was fêting its new national day — and we all came out to take part in the fun.

The drums were beaten as the brass band played. The army’s troupe led the way, followed by that of the police, then the cars carrying the elite. Right ahead of them was our old friend, but in a state we would never have imagined — for we beheld him riding an ass. The clash between the inanity of his mount and the grandiosity of his dress was screamingly clear: the people laughed when he appeared.

Yet, it may truly be said, he looked neither to right or left, nor did he surrender a hair of his dignity.

The old house in Abbasiya was filled with the migratory birds — my brothers and sisters — on the day we had agreed to visit our mother. They asked me to have a meal of seafood prepared from the famous fish restaurant nearby.

Immediately I went to the restaurant and placed the order, and found that all of the tables were full except for the one nearest the door. I went over to it, sat down at one end of it and waited. Then a woman of about sixty, accompanied by a younger woman of around twenty, approached and sat down at the table. The waiter came with plates of tagin .

Unexpectedly, the older woman invited me to share their repast. Just as unexpectedly, I silently accepted the invitation and began to eat their food. No sooner had the waiter brought the meal wrapped up for the people at our house than I grabbed it, got up, and left without thanks or excuse. As I exited the restaurant I saw at but an arm’s length away my departed friend, A. Sh., and was enormously pleased. Out of excessive courtesy I offered him the package. Without uttering a word he took it eagerly, before stepping through an open door — which he closed and locked behind him.

Astonished at his behavior, I had no choice but to return to the restaurant and make the order again. As the waiter brought sweets to the lady and her young companion, they invited me to share this with them; I did so without hesitation.

The woman told me that she wished to go to Shari’ Bayn al-Sarayat, but did not know how to get there. I consented to take her and the three of us walked through the streets of Abbasiya. We became acquainted through the exchange of thanks and various kinds of conversation until we passed Shari’ Bayn al-Sarayat without my noticing it.

I also forgot the food that was readied for me at the restaurant — just as I forgot the men and women waiting for me at the old house in Abbasiya.

Back in the old house in Abbasiya, I’m evidently annoyed because nothing came of my criticism, such as painting the walls or fixing the woodwork, the floors, and the furniture.

Then, from the far end of the flat, my mother’s voice calls out in a sweet, pleasant tone that it’s time I went out looking for a new apartment that would please me.

At this, the time and the place switch as I find myself in a reception hall, with many rooms and people. The way it looks reminds me of a government agency. This is confirmed by the arrival of my departed colleague, Mr. H.A., who informs me that the minister had sent a request to see me. Immediately I dashed to the minister’s office, and, excusing myself, entered it — to find the man in other than his usual smiling state. He said that he had dreamed about my criticism of the revolution and its leader, which had wounded him grievously. I told him that I considered myself blindly infatuated with the principles of the revolution rather than being among those who opposed it — though I also always wished for its perfect completion, and for the avoidance of stumbles and setbacks.