Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

Again I was taken through other times and places until I was a little boy meandering through Bayt al-Qadi Square. A friend my own age invited me to the wedding of his older brother. He said that his brother had invited Sa’d Zaghlul to officiate at the party and to give it his blessings — and that the great man had accepted, promising to attend. Utterly astounded, I told him, “Even more important than currently being prime minister, Sa’d Zaghlul is our nation’s leader. What’s more, you aren’t among his relatives, or his comrades in the struggle.”

“Sa’d truly is the nation’s leader,” the boy rejoined, “and singles out the simple people for his affection”—adding that I would see for myself.

At the appointed time I went to the feast in Crimson Lane, where my friend guided me into a room. There — in the place of honor — I saw Sa’d Zaghlul, wearing the suit of the master of ceremonies, sitting down with him. The two were engrossed in conversation, laughing hard together. I was so dazzled by what I saw that it rooted itself in my depths forever.

The giant playing field sat in the place of the neighbors’ houses on the opposite side of the street, filled with British soldiers singing and dancing about. Disturbed and uneasy, we followed them, then they scattered down our street and those branching off from it.

We thought the matter over, fixing our attention on the move from one part of town to another. Not finding a proper house we contented ourselves with a stately apartment, sparing no effort until it was worthy to live in. We had just about settled comfortably into the place when we heard a rustling sound of the sort usually made by mice. Our leisure was spoiled. But before we could think of what to do, we heard someone banging on the outside door.

Opening the door, I saw many men armed with sticks. They said they were residents of the building who were chasing a thief — which, they thought, had fled into our flat. Forcing their way into our apartment, they ransacked the rooms, making a dreadful racket — only to announce that they had not found the fugitive.

After having turned our home upside down, they left without having caught the vanished crook. As we exchanged looks of irritation and rage, we once again heard the same rustling sound. Furious, I declared that — whether a mouse, a thief, or a demon — I would not open the door for anyone banging again.

My mother greeted our dear neighbor and her beautiful daughter in the living room on the third floor of our old house. I was invited to sit with them out of trust in the friendship between our two families.

During all the chatter I stared at the daughter and she stared at me — this was not lost on her mother. As she left the room, the neighbor woman whispered to me, “You two should go down together to the floor below as is customary among members of the family.” I accepted the invitation with perplexity and perfect joy. No sooner had we entered the floor below when I drew her close — but before I could go the next step I heard a strange commotion as the place was overrun with women and men and teenagers, splitting off into different rooms.

Then a man from State Security came and stood before the door, declaring that he would uphold the law, and I nearly went crazy with confusion. My bewilderment doubled when I saw the others singing in one room, and dancing in another. I looked to my girlfriend pleading for salvation, only to find her calm and smiling.

At that, I decided to flee — but found the security man at the exit. I was stuck there motionless, a prey to befuddlement, and dashed by despair.

Beneath this leafy tree sat my friend from my early days who was martyred for love of country. Though it had been decades since his death, he looked quite elegant and in the pink of health and cheer.

The sight of him made my chest flutter as I rushed toward him — but he halted me with a wave of his walking stick. I reminded him of our time as friends, but he paid no heed to my words — saying that he had run out of patience regarding the neighborhood rubbish heap.

After this speech, he threw down his stick and went away, leaving me sad. Yet I swelled up with a new spirit and hurried immediately to the trash pile, raining a hail of blows all over it with his cane. Each blow cut a gap in it: from each gap men and women emerged whose general appearance was unlike garbage.

Indeed, they were models of cleanliness, prestige, and respectability. Each time one of them appeared, they jumped with terror of the rod in my hand. Following this, I became utterly convinced that the sun would rise tomorrow over a world of greenery and pristine air.

I turned onto the quiet side street carrying my overnight bag. Instantly I met memories and passions, encircled by peril and trepidation.

I expected to be scolded for my long absence; hence I’d prepared the appropriate excuses.

Reaching the building’s entrance, I saw the flat on the ground floor, four steps away from the staircase. Grinning broadly, I pressed the buzzer eagerly. The peep window opened to reveal a strange man dressed in a house robe who seemed to be the place’s owner. Suddenly my burning passion plunged to the bottom of a freezing lake. Quickly I concocted a phoney story to extricate myself from this impasse. I said I was looking for the residence of the schoolteacher, So-and-So Effendi, but had come to the wrong building.

Searching my face with wary suspicion, the man said, “This is his flat — he’s inside. What’s your name, sir, so that I may tell him you’re here?”

I realized that I had been found out and had lost face. Raising his voice, the man shouted, “You’re nothing but a vicious liar, like all who’ve come here before you!”

Not able to bear more, I scurried away in defeat, nearly losing my balance. The bag dropped from my hand, exposing a bottle of wine and a kilogram of kabab on a paper plate. But I could think of one thing only: to vanish with lightning speed.

Such a gigantic funeral — I didn’t know how to join the procession. I didn’t know anyone walking in it, not even the man who had died. The strangest thing is that the funeral took a route not used before, heading off toward a network of railroad tracks. We crossed over them into the wasteland, then paused for rest.

During this time, the trains heading north and south arrived. This sparked an argument among those gathered around the bier. One group wanted to carry it to the south, and the other to the north. Both claimed that they were carrying out the wish of the deceased. One of the wise men called out to remind them that the dearly departed was among the righteous friends of God — and would never permit anyone to carry him in an unsatisfactory direction.

We all contemplated the sanctity of what he said. The southern-bound troupe tried to carry the bier, but was unable, while the northerners also hazarded their luck, only to meet with failure, too. At that point everyone realized that the saint didn’t want to leave the place where he was, lying between south and north.