Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

From my prospect on the sidewalk, I cast my gaze onto the garden enclosed by the iron fence. There I saw the queen of my heart as she dispensed chocolates to lovers gathered there.

I raced toward the fence’s gate until I reached the entrance, panting as I ran inside. But I found not a trace of my dear one, and cried out a curse upon love. The time came for me to go back outside — and there I saw my girlfriend in the same place where I had been, walking arm-in-arm with a young man who appeared to be her fiancé.

I wanted to return whence I came, but exhaustion, prolonged reflection, and the lost opportunity would not let me.

This was a circular field in whose center was a slender date palm, and around which little houses were clustered. In the afternoon, the doors would open and women would come out to chat under the palm. Usually the conversation was about marriage and their daughters. I would withdraw far away to follow what they were saying with zeal.

When the sun set I would be devoured by hunger. No one would know of my condition except for my childhood girlfriend who would slink up to me carrying a small plate, one half of it filled with white cheese, the other smothered in parsley.

We would labor together to assuage each other’s hunger, to the hum of the gossip about who would be wedding whom.

This is a trial and this a bench and sitting at it is a single judge and this is the seat of the accused and sitting at it is a group of national leaders and this is the courtroom, where I have sat down longing to get to know the party responsible for what has befallen us. But I grow confused when the dialogue between the judge and the leaders is conducted in a language I have never before heard, until the magistrate adjusts himself in his seat as he prepares to announce the verdict in the Arabic tongue. I lean forward to hear, but then the judge points at me — to pronounce a sentence of death upon me. I cry out in alarm that I’m not part of this proceeding and that I’d come of my own free will simply to watch and see — but no one even notices my scream.

We prettied up the house to welcome back the son — during his time away, he’d become a celebrity. We spent the evening on our balcony with its beautiful view and its cleansing breeze, as the prodigal one entertained us with poetry and songs well into the night.

But in the morning we found the balcony’s entrance blocked by a monstrous wardrobe. I felt ashamed — nor did our son hide his dismay when it dawned on him that folks from the heart of his family detested his presence, despising his delightful work.

At length I went down to the toilet on the lower floor of the old house. Soon, however, I became annoyed with its dampness and discomfort, and went out searching all over again until I wound up on the upper floor. This was better than all the other areas, but then it rained with unusual intensity. The water ran down from the roof and forced us to heap up the furniture and to cover it completely, following which we fled the flat for the stairwell. When it dawned on the new resident of the lower level that we were there, he came out to us — inviting us with extreme insistence to go inside where it was warm, safe, and dry.

What’s happening in our house? All the chairs are lined up with their feet nailed down and the ceilings are stripped of their lamps and the walls of their pictures and the floors of their carpets — so what’s going on in our house?

They say it’s all to protect our home against the many burglaries of apartments. But I reply without pause that a break-in would be dearer to my heart than ugliness and chaos.

I saw myself in Abbasiya wandering in the vastness of my memories, recalling in particular the late Lady Eye. So I contacted her by telephone, inviting her to meet me by the fountain, and there I welcomed her with a passionate heart.

I suggested that we spend the evening together in Fishawi Café, as in our happiest days. But when we reached the familiar place, the deceased blind bookseller came over to us and greeted us warmly — though he scolded the dearly departed Eye for her long absence.

She told him what had kept her away was Death. But he rejected that excuse — for Death, he said, can never come between lovers.

All the men in our quarter get their grooming done in Uncle Abduh’s salon — pulled in by the irresistible woman who sits behind the counter. We all want to better ourselves financially, so we have our beards trimmed there every morning in the realm of beauty.

One day as I walked down a street that was shining clean and lovely, the belle of Uncle Abduh’s shop drew close to me. I had to turn and stare at her. Suddenly she stuck out her tongue at me — then, just as quickly, her face changed into a thick block of wood.

Fleeing from her as fast as I could, a great laugh caught up with me. Peering in the direction from which it came, I saw the gorgeous creature dancing in the arms of her boss, both in the grip of merriment and glee.

The ministry shook with the news that a coup d’etat had taken place early that morning: the employees all gathered before the television to catch the first official bulletin. One of the older men said that he’d heard the same announcement early in his youth.

Meanwhile, I discovered that the coup’s leader was one of my closest friends. After broadcasting the fact excitedly, I relaxed with joy, convinced that life would now be laughing with me.

But my aged colleague recalled that the world had laughed for him, once, too — when he’d found himself condemned without a trial.

What a peculiar prayer for the dead!

Indeed, here lay a coffin upon which was written, “This is so-and-so’s funeral, carried out according to his wishes.” Furthermore, it said, “He was a worthy fellow, renowned for his streak of bad luck, as hardly a single reader knew his many writings.”

So many people came to take part or just to look on, that when the procession reached the cemetery, it was the largest demonstration ever seen on such an occasion.

By the time that night fell, the deceased’s name lived on everyone’s lips.

I left the beautiful train, my heart filled with a brilliant light — but around me I found a blighted landscape. Where was the garden, unmatched in any country?

I spotted a handsome man approaching: as he drew near, I recognized the one who had married my sweetheart years before. He apologized that the wars had delayed his coming. He had, he said, finally made up his mind to return this week — and that in exactly one month life would come back to his most beautiful friend in all existence.