Naguib Mahfouz - The Dreams

The apartment broker said to me, “Don’t get upset and don’t despair — you have to be patient: patience is a virtue.”

I knew that he knew the secret of my agony — that I was in danger of losing my home and finding myself on the street. I told him that I had seen a number of places that appealed to me, but always they were beyond my means. And what about these empty flats, whose value is appraised at a million pounds each? Amazingly, he confirmed that four of my female colleagues owned some of these vacant dwellings: he envied them their fantastic wealth.

The last hope, he informed me, was in the building of al-Hagg Ali in the Husayn district — but we had to wait for his return from Mecca. I told him that I remembered, from the days when we lived in the ancient quarter, that I myself used to buy fuul from him sometimes. The man laughed, pointing out that’s what many people claim when they want to buy an apartment in his brand-new building.

“He’s the last hope,” I remarked with fear.

Striking an encouraging tone, the broker repeated, “You have to be patient: patience is a virtue.”

The ship cut its way through the stately waves of the Nile. We were sitting in a circle, in the center of which reposed our teacher. Clearly we were taking the final exam, and our answers were rated excellent.

We dispersed for tea and cake. In the meantime, we received our diplomas.

The ship pulled up at the pier and we disembarked, each one bearing his degree in a giant envelope. I found myself walking down a wide street devoid of both people and buildings, when a lonely mosque loomed before me. I went toward it in order to pray and relax for a while, but when I went inside, it seemed to actually be an old house. I felt the urge to go back out, but a bunch of brigands surrounded me, taking my certificate, my watch, and my wallet, and raining a hail of blows upon me before disappearing into the recesses of the place.

I ran outside onto the street, not believing that I had survived. After walking a short way, I came across a patrol of policemen, and told their commander what had happened to me.

We all marched together to the house full of thieves. They rushed in with their weapons drawn — only to find it was a mosque where people were praying behind their imam.

Confused, we beat a hasty retreat, and the patrol’s commander ordered that I be placed under arrest.

I kept testifying over and over to what had befallen me, swearing the most sacred oath that it was true. But clearly they had begun to doubt my sanity — and I was no less perplexed than them.

The night of my paternal cousin’s wedding, which was being held in our house in Abbasiya, amidst drums and songs. My cousin came forward arm-in-arm with his bride, both in their wedding clothes. Before they mounted the stairs to go into their married home, a police inspector cut them off. We all became confused and ask ourselves, “What’s behind all this?”

The inspector swooped down on the bride, closely inspecting her face, taking her fingerprints on a little pad. He examined them with a magnifying glass — then put her under arrest and walked her over to the police car. Everyone realized what that meant, and gathered around my cousin, consoling him and praising God for having saved him from an impending evil.

Despite all that, the young man went away crying. I resolved to spend the night with my family in the house in Abbasiya, but discovered that all the electric lights had failed. I asked my sister how they managed to live in the dark. I also discovered that the walls needed painting and repair. I grew annoyed with the place, wanting to fix it up and restore it to its splendor of old.

I found myself seated before the Minister of the Interior at his desk. A few days earlier, he had been my colleague in the newspaper: his selection as minister came as a surprise. I seized the opportunity to ask him for a meeting, and he received me with welcome and affection. Then I presented him with my request, to recommend me to a businessman known to be his friend, when I applied for a position in one of his companies.

He wrote out the requested letter by hand, and the meeting ended on a happy note. On the evening of the same day, as I promenaded on the banks of the Nile, a man whose name is bantered in the press accosted me. He pulled out a gun and robbed me of my money — roughly fifty Egyptian pounds.

Traumatized, I went back to my flat, yet took no action that would affect the appointment that the businessman had given me. The next morning, I was at his office. After a few minutes, he permitted me to enter. I handed him the reference, then froze where I stood.

“My Lord,” I said to myself, in this moment of high anxiety — for he was the very thief who had robbed me, or his twin brother. The ground spun before me.

My motor boat raced across the surface of the lake, with another boat following me, or so I imagined. As I sped up, so did the other.

I felt assailed by panic: Why was he pursuing me?

Nearing a great quay, I cast anchor and climbed the stairs onto a wide deck — which, I noticed, belonged to the Russian Embassy. The deck was filled with mourners who had come to give their condolences at the death of a dearly departed woman.

I greeted the ambassador, then took a seat, listening to what was being said about the deceased lady. I gazed at the lake. Seeing no trace of the boat that been trailing me, I felt relieved.

When the time was right, I got back in my boat and steered it toward the other shore. Looking behind me, I saw the strange skiff cruising in my wake. When I reached the lake’s center, I saw it was better to head for shore than return to the embassy. At the shore, I told myself, the true situation would become clear — and I could confront it with all my strength.

We were gathered in a garden. As usual, our host was singing as we listened enraptured, sending up shouts of passion and approval. This disturbed the neighbors, who complained to the police. We saw the police coming and split up, trying to get away.

I ran in the previously agreed direction — and each time I looked behind me I saw a policeman running after me, as hard and as determined as I was myself. At the same time, it seemed there was someone running ahead of me as though in flight from me. Who could this person be?

The trim, comely figure reminded me of my absent girlfriend, which spurred me to run even faster. The policeman wanted to overtake me, while I wanted to escape him and catch up with my sweetheart. Thus we climbed the tower and ran up to its roof as I panted to embrace my darling — but then she leapt over the wall and plummeted to the ground from its height. I went out of my mind, and — my misery mounting — I jumped from the wall after my beloved as the policeman approached.

Hitting the ground like a bomb, I expected to feel the most horrendous pain — yet all was well. Completely unhurt, I stood up. Glancing around me, I found no sign of my girlfriend. Then I looked up to see the policeman leering down from the tower, drowning in laughter.