The Dreams (18 page)

A
t the end of an exhausting errand, I came to a locked gate. Gathering all my remaining strength, I shook it till it began to open.

Beyond it I could see a lake, from which missiles were being launched into space. As each one exploded in the air, it lit up the face of a former lover—the heavens were filled with those I adored.

Yet still I wait for the glowing face of the one who taught me love, who made me long to live forever.

T
he gloom approached relentlessly, spreading toward us without pause. “They mean to kill us!” my friend said in warning—and I told him I could finally see a way out.

I couldn’t deny that the path would be hard. “But I have nothing better to offer,” I said, “so follow me if you wish.”

My friend thought for a long while, then fell in behind me—for, “All lives,” he declared, “are in the hands of God alone!”

W
hat a horrendous uproar! There are voices clashing and the sound of scurrying footsteps, then other footsteps running away; a scream here and a shout there, plus bullets being fired, and a woman wailing for help from God.

I was dazed by the resemblance between her voice and that of my dearly departed mother. Quickly I dashed onto the roof where my brothers and sisters were gathered, my elder brother discussing the call for help and our mother.

Absolutely sure that I was right, I told them this was our mother’s voice, that no other’s could be like hers.

A
t last, the new minister arrived.

I presented myself to him as his parliamentary secretary, but he didn’t understand a word I said. I tried to explain my work to him, but he brushed me off nastily, ordering that I be transferred from my position—and so began my life’s suffering.

Then Fate decreed that he and I should be thrust together in an unexpected venue: prison. Once over the shock, I began to remind him of our first encounter and all that came from it—until he himself recalled it, expressing his regret and apologizing for what he’d done to me.

At this, I seized upon our being held in the same place to tell him about the job of parliamentary secretary.

T
he new housemaid came, accompanied by some of her relatives. It’s almost as though they wanted to inspect the place, to be sure it was suitable for their lovely daughter.

Yet she did not stay with us more than half a day—and left anger and anxiety behind her. Then one evening I spied her slinking out of a neighbor’s flat, in a frankly licentious state.

Suddenly, the hidden truth struck me, and I saw what they were looking for when they visited our house.

A
dispute over repairs to our house arose between the lady who lives in the lower floor and the landlady, who dwells above.

As their voices rang out through the tiny alley, doors and windows opened; some took the side of the building’s owner, while others rooted for the woman downstairs.

The argument kept raging until insults flew—the red anger warning that bloodshed would follow.

I
went to congratulate an old friend on his appointment as minister, but contrary to my expectation, I was met with absolute apathy as I awaited the rendezvous in vain. It began to dawn on me that some people had lied about me, and my old friend’s affection had rotted as a result. Finally, I made to leave—blind to all before me—but ran into a colleague on my way out.

He had not lost his feeling for me, calling God’s curse down on the wagging tongues who had slandered me. So I asked him, “Why didn’t the minister come to meet me, simply to inquire into the truth of the matter?”

“A long time has passed,” he replied, “and the legal period to hear more witnesses has expired.”

I
was sitting in the café, when, without seeking my leave, our neighborhood’s chief bully sat down next to me.

As I welcomed him with distaste, he announced that he had chosen me to marry his daughter, a divorcée. My limbs trembling, I replied that I was going to wed my paternal uncle’s daughter that weekend.

He answered with confident simplicity, “You’re going to marry my daughter, and your uncle’s daughter’s going to marry me.”

I
was in Ramle Station, always bustling with people, when at one end I caught sight of the man whose slogans the masses love to repeat, wooing a stunning woman.

“If you’re doing something scandalous,” I whispered in his ear, “then you should be discreet.”

But he answered me bluntly, “Is there anything more discreet than this?”

I
arrived at the station at a critical moment, squeezing into the queue that stretched from the ticket window.

We remained stuck between the platform and the window until the last whistle sounded, warning us to get aboard. But I was still far down the line.

And that is how I missed the train.