Naguib Mahfouz: The Dreams

So I asked him, “How could you survive that for which there is no survival?”

He replied, “I have a friend whose brother is a pharmacist. When he knows that I have an illness, he assures me that he’ll find a solution. He takes down what medications I and my family need each month, which he tells to his brother the druggist — then surprises me with their equivalent for less than a tenth of the regular price.”

I asked him if these operations weren’t dangerous. He tried to put me at ease, speaking to me at length on the ways of the different pharmaceutical companies until he had me upset and confused. Nonetheless, I didn’t hesistate — but wrote for him a list of the medications that I needed each month, and felt deeply relieved.

Then suddenly he said to me, “But I want a service from you in return.” I began to prepare myself to do what he asked.

“I’m disturbed by the attacks on the government’s red tape and bureaucracy. The government is aggrieved by what people say and write on this subject — so I want you to devote your pen to defending against it.” Astonished, I asked, what was the secret of his zeal for something that all people alike criticize and reject?

Angrily, he replied, “Brother, what is a civil servant worth who faces the public without bureaucracy and red tape?” My head whirled in confusion between the medications and the procedural maze.

I was strolling down the street. I knew this place well — for it was where I worked and where I played, where I met my friends and my sweethearts alike. I greeted this one as I shook hands with that one — while noticing a man crossing in front of me, neither very close nor very far away.

From time to time, he would turn about to be sure that I was behind him. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time I’d seen him, but certainly there was no mutual bond between us. What he was doing annoyed me, and presented me with a challenge. I quickened my steps, and he quickened his. I felt he was plotting something, and this made me more defiant. Then a friend called me over to deal with some private business and I headed to his shop, where, absorbed in conversation, I forgot about the man.

When, in the late afternoon, our business was finished, I bid my friend goodbye. As I made for my house, I remembered the man and turned to look behind me. I saw him following me, just as I had found him walking ahead of me before.… Incensed, I decided to stop to see what he was doing. Instead, I found myself moving faster as though I were fleeing from him. Dismayed, I wondered, what does he want?

When my house came in sight, I finally felt relaxed as I opened the door and stepped inside without a glance over my shoulder. Finding the place empty, I went to my bedroom — then stopped at the peculiar sensation that the man was lurking within.

After not a short absence, I decided that my flat in Alexandria needed some repairs. The laborers came, the foreman at their lead. The work began with remarkable energy. My attention was drawn to a particular youth — who seemed strangely familiar. I felt a frisson in my body when I recalled that I had indeed seen him once — as he attacked a woman on a side street, taking her bag and running away. Yet I wasn’t sure, so — without the boy’s sensing it — I asked the foreman how much he trusted him.

“He’s as bankable as a gold pound,” the foreman said, “for he’s my son, whom I’ve raised myself.” This calmed my heart for a time — though whenever my sight fell on the boy my chest began to tighten. Seeking a sense of safety, I opened one of the windows that overlooked the street in which there labored those whom I knew and who knew me — but instead, I saw the alley of the garage on which my flat in Cairo looks down. Amazed, my heart pounded even more. As the time went on and darkness approached, I asked the men to end their work for the day before the evening began, since the electricity had been cut due to my long time away.

“Don’t worry,” the unsettling youth said, “I have a candle.” Concerned that the situation would offer him an opportunity to steal whatever was light enough to carry, I went to look for the foreman — and was told that he had gone into the washroom. Waiting for him to come out with mounting anxiety, I imagined that his disappearance into the W.C. was part of a conspiracy — and that I was alone with a gang of thieves. I called out to the foreman as the signs of approaching evening spread through the flat.

She was in the room with me — and no one else. My heart danced, singing with joy. I knew that my happiness would be brief: it wouldn’t be long before the door would open and someone would come in. I longed to tell her that I gladly accepted all the conditions that had been communicated to me, but that I would need at least a brief time to meet them. Yet, enchanted by her presence, I said nothing.

Seized by desire, I took two steps toward her — but then the door swung open. The professor came in. “You don’t know the meaning of time,” he told me sharply. I tore myself away and followed him to his institute, which was opposite our building. There he said to me, “You need to work ten hours a day until you perfect your playing.” He commanded me to sit down to practice the piano, and soon I was engrossed in my labor — while my heart hovered about back in my room.

When I was granted leave, the evening was descending in all its glory. I set out to cover the route quickly, yet there was no hope that she would wait for me all through my absence.

Just then a man from China with a long beard and a smiling face blocked my path. “I was in the institute while you were playing,” he said. “There’s no doubt that a splendid future awaits you.” With a bow in my direction, he left.

I continued on my way, shuddering at the thought of the loneliness that attended me where I lived.

We met in my local café, where my friend read to us a detective story he had written. Nearing the end, he asked us to guess the killer’s identity — and who had paid him to commit the crime. I ventured the right answer — which made me incredibly glad.

After an hour, I excused myself to go home. But success had made me so euphoric that I wandered through the streets until, eventually, I found myself back in front of the café, which made everyone laugh. One of them volunteered to escort me to my house, and when we arrived there he said goodbye and left. My house was built in one story, set in a little garden. I felt like taking off my clothes, and when I was down to my underwear, I noticed a streak of dust projecting downward from one of the room’s corners. That same image was found in the story my friend had read to us — it was a warning that the house would fall down on whoever was inside.

I wept that my little place was going to collapse on my head. In the grip of terror, I fled for safety as far and as fast as the wind would take me.

On a ship crossing the ocean, people of all colors and tongues were arrayed. We were expecting the wind to swoop down, and when it did, the horizon disappeared behind the angry waves. I became frightened: it was every man for himself. I felt alone in the depths of the sea. An inner fear told me there was no way to survive the all-encompassing terror — unless this really was just a nightmare, to be shattered by a fevered awakening on my bed.