Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

In our village, every individual was waiting for the letter that would settle their personal destiny. One day, I received my own letter — and read it to find I had been condemned to death by hanging.

Word spread far and wide, as was customary among us. The members of our village club met and decided to celebrate the event when it happened.

In my house, where I lived with my mother, brothers, and sisters, breasts were gladdened and all were pleased. On the much-anticipated day, the drums pounded in the club. I came out of my house wearing my finest clothes, surrounded by the members of my family.

But then my mother, separating herself from our state of mind, began to cry. If only my father had lived long enough, she wailed, to see for himself this glorious day.

From my position in the garden I could see a lady of sixty coming toward me, her face frowning. Angrily, she snarled, “Because of you, I lost the prize.”

I recalled the woman and her upset face — but I couldn’t get the meaning of what she was saying. She kept repeating, “The committee disqualified my story on the pretext that it was a copy of your story published forty years ago.”

Suddenly everything became clear. I could see that bad luck still plagued her as she told me, “I swore to them my story could not be so accused, simply because it’s my own biography.”

Exasperated, I replied, “I certainly agree: I lifted bits from the events of your life in which I played a despicable role.”

The woman answered, laughing sarcastically, “Here’s a chance for me to be your victim in real life — and not just in fiction.”

The building of the house was finished: an architectural marvel, people from all over gathered around it, each hoping to possess it. The haggling increased and the arguments intensified until a giant cut through the crowd, roaring in a ringing voice, “Force is the answer.”

The people fell silent — except for one man, who answered the challenge. A feverish battle raged between them until the giant dealt a blow to his opponent’s head, knocking him unconscious. Then the giant broke into the house and locked it up completely after him.

The hours passed without the door opening to provide a chance for vengeance. Those standing outside took no useful action, while seeming as though they would not disperse.

In the beginning was the wagon. I was pushing it before me with power and mirth. One day I found a little girl atop it, and became even more active and gay. Then more people kept coming until they covered the whole wagon, sapping away all my strength and merriment. The riders sensed my sufferings. I determined to abandon the wagon as soon as a good opportunity arose. With the passage of days, the wagon emptied, returning to the way it was before. As for me, I didn’t go back, but grew weaker and weaker, until finally I became indifferent to the wagon, and collapsed beside it.

There I was in a radiant reception hall. In my hands was a golden platter filled with all manner of delectable delights.

I was reminded of the brilliant evening companions among our lifelong friends who had left this world. I began to see them approaching, their resonant laughter preceding them. We traded salaams of greeting, as they began to praise the platter and what it presented. Yet my happiness was suddenly extinguished when I exclaimed that I could not partake with them, for the doctors had categorically forbidden me ever to smoke.

Surprise showed on their faces as they scrutinized me intensely. They asked dismissively, “Are you still afraid of Death?”

On top of a nearby home I spied furniture, wrapped and decorated. Then I remembered that I’d heard the house’s owner had turned the place into a cultural institute for which he charged no admission: he was content to live on the roof.

Pleased by this, I admired him for it, and was invited to attend some of his lessons. I found the place crammed with humanity. The man said today’s lesson would be about the bull that bore the world on his horn. His speech struck me as odd, and a derisory laugh escaped me. Faces glazed with anger turned toward me.

The man himself fixed me with a glowering stare, silently pointing to the door.

Five men wielding switchblades seized me: I gave them my money and they fled with confusing speed. Yet some of their features remained imprinted in my memory.

Since that incident, I have avoided walking alone on the side streets, though the main road is never devoid of its own ordeals. One day I found the traffic stopped and the people gathered on either side.

Before long came a convoy of many cars. As the last part of it passed before me, I saw a face that made my heart leap, and began to mutter, “There must be so many who look the same.”

The journey’s start was agreed. The family met the news contentedly, hastening to advance me money.

I went immediately to the tailor to be fitted for a suit in the latest fashion, and the man truly did an outstanding job. Still, he wasn’t satisfied.

Producing an elegant turban, he thrust it on my head. “Now,” he said, “the suit’s in the current style.”

The fighting grew fiercer along the roads until its rattle and ruckus brought all means of transport to a complete halt. I returned exhausted to my home — where I longed to lighten my tiredness under the water of my shower. When I went into the bath, I found my girl inside, drying off her nude body. Completely transformed, I rushed toward her, but she pushed me far away from her — warning that the warring in the streets was growing closer to my house.

Here was the office of the Secretariat, where I spent a lifetime before going on pension. Here, too, I had been companion to the cream of employees, in all of whose funerals Fate decreed that I take part.

I stared inside the room to see the youths who had succeeded us, and was nearly felled by the shock — for I found no one there but my old colleagues. I rushed inside, shouting, “God’s peace upon my dear ones!” with anticipation, confusion, and unease. Yet not one of them raised his head from his papers, and I withdrew back unto myself in frustration and despair.

When the time came to go, they left their places without any of them turning to look at me — not even the lovely lady translator. And so I found myself alone in the empty chamber.