“Respected?”
“Here’s my identification,” I said, still gasping for breath.
He turned the card over, studying it carefully. “You look like an imposter,” he judged.
I plunged headlong into telling him my story with perfect candor, from the time when my need for security made me first beg for it politely—putting all the other demands of life into it—until that day. The driver remained silent, scrutinizing me in the rays of light falling from a lamp in the square.
“Don’t ever show me your face again,” he commanded coldly.
After countless days had passed, I dragged my way back to Virgo Star Alley, as though I were now many years older. As I came within sight of the house’s entrance, an ancient hag hovered in the currents of darkness, blocking my path.
“The lady is in seclusion,” she rasped in a time-ravaged voice.
I knew the owner of this voice, and asked her, “What have you brought me, Mother of Blessings?”
She knew my voice too, and replied, “The lady requests that you avoid all excess, and wait until you are summoned.”
My heart leapt as I pressed her, “Is the lady expecting an important visitor?”
“I have no knowledge of anything,” she said. “May peace be your companion.”
I found no choice but to return. The clouds of obscurity had been raised from hope. She would not have taken this decision if she did not anticipate an auspicious visitation. And why else would she have said, “Wait until you are summoned,” if it bore no relation to my conundrum? The veil of darkness is withdrawn from my dream. My heart pounds with visions. Security beams at me with its luminous face through the last deepening shadows of descending night. There is nothing left but to adorn myself with patience—which yearning turns into genuine torture. The days roll on, as the torment of forbearance erupts ever more fiercely, growing ever more rapacious as time goes by. My sole worry is to remain at the ready.
And all the while, but one question keeps recurring to me: When will the Messenger come?
Forgetfulness
My searing imagination, its waves exploding in all directions, could never have conjured the endless city, sprawling as far as the eye can see. It was like a disorderly giant of infinite size, waving its thousands of limbs and appendages. Over it towered innumerable rows of massive buildings in the haughty, arrogant style of the age. Another kind, their colors fading, were clearly in the violent grip of time, while a third type was about to collapse in destruction, their residents hanging on in desperate resignation. In every quarter, the people brawled in an uproar, confronting each other in heedless tumult. Busses, cars, horse carriages, camels, and handcarts all followed each other, their noises clashing amidst the countless accidents, blaring weddings, shrieking funerals, bloody arguments,warm embraces, and throats hawking merchandise in the east and west, south and north, the groans of complaint blending with the soft cries of praise and contentment.
The communal home of the immigrants from our village was like a life vest in a stormy sea. The shaykh of the resettled tribe received me, saying, “Our new son—welcome to your family.”
“Thank you, uncle,” I said, kissing his hand.
I found my seat at the institute waiting for me too. I was well-thought of, so the trip was crowned with success. I took a post in the government’s Survey Department, musing, “Hard work has its reward.” And after work I would slip off to the café to see my friends there, though I feared to spend like the other patrons did. My mind was filled with fantasies the way a fasting man dreams of food and drink—for in our residence there were many young flowers just beginning to bloom.
As the wheel of mornings, afternoons, and evenings kept revolving, something unremarkable occurred—a fleeting dream that one either remembers or ignores. Yet it must have shown in my expression, in a way that did not escape the attention of our sharp-eyed shaykh. As he sat cross-legged on his couch, mumbling the prayers of his rosary, he said to me, “Something is distracting you.”
“A man has come to me in a dream,” I confided. “He warned me against forgetfulness.”
The shaykh thought for a while, then declared, “He’s reminding you not to waste your youth.”
I considered carefully what he was saying. In our abode of urban exile, no obstacles were placed between a man and his heart’s desires—ours was a compassionate, brotherly tribe. A room was as suitable for a couple as it was for a single person. The bride was already waiting—and there were many kindly acts and favors to help ease the way.
“Let’s stick to our holy traditions—with the blessings of God,” said the shaykh.
The room was freshly painted and aptly furnished, as well. And so that city which pays no mind to anyone welcomed the new bride and bridegroom. Life in our home away from home was anchored in solidarity; many means were devised to triumph over the hardships of the times. Overwhelmed with happiness, I said to myself, “Our path was paved for us by so many glorious forebears.”
Engrossed in love and marriage, in fatherhood and work, one day I told the shaykh, “This is all thanks to God— and to you.”
“Our house is like Noah’s ark,” he answered benignly, “in the raging flood that engulfs us all.”
“Uncle,” I said, “people have the evil eye for us—they envy us.”
“That only grows greater as time goes by,” he replied.
I awoke one night with a start at the return of my dream. The same man warned me against forgetfulness. I saw him just as he appeared the first time, or so it seemed. The man was the same man, and the words were the same words.
The shaykh listened with concern. “We have grown used to you dreaming about your fears,” he concluded.
“I am quite confident. I have no fears.”
“Really?” he queried me. “You aren’t concerned for the future of your family?”
“Happy today are those who prepare for their last day,” I blurted in protest.
“What would you do tomorrow if the demands of this life should increase upon you?” he asked.
I paused in silent embarrassment.
“Do what many others are doing,” he counseled. “Take an extra job.”
Through his influence, I was able to start training in a center for plumbing skills. I excelled in a most praiseworthy way—and began to invest my new experience in it in the evenings after I finished my government toil each day. My profits kept growing, and my savings as well. The shaykh watched my success with satisfaction.
“This is surely better than illicit gain,” he said. “These days require us to be like the cat with seven lives!”
A marvelous energy pervaded my limbs. I fell rapturously in love with life, disregarding its beating chaos all around us. All this prompted me to lease an apartment for which I paid a sizeable deposit. Inviting me for breakfast, my uncle told me, “This is how things are going these days.”
I believed there was no security for any living being without work and money—and the most fortuitous thing that we gain in our world is a dependable future. I maintained my moderation as best I could; the only new things in my life were cigarettes, fatty meats, and oriental sweets. My sons and daughters graduated from foreign language schools, and with the passing days only the best things came to me. Amidst all this delicious abundance, one night my dream returned for the third time. The man warned me against forgetfulness, as he had before. I saw him just as I did the two previous times, or so it seemed: the man was the same man, and the words were the same words.
Astonished, I did not take it lightly. Unfortunately, the shaykh was not at hand to discuss it with me. Being so absorbed in business, I had stopped seeing him briefly, while I hated to visit him for any purpose other than just to say hello. Still, a feeling of unease assailed me, pervading all I did.
Suffering from it harshly, my wife scolded me, “Goodness comes from God, and evil from ourselves.”
“What is it but a dream?” I said to her dismissively.
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“I don’t see you forgetting anything,” she replied.
Yet I could not escape the hold of the amazing vision upon me. It was always chasing me, occupying my mind. Under its sway, I rushed from the sidewalk to cross the street, without paying attention to the traffic going by. Suddenly, without any warning, I found myself in front of a car that could not brake in time. Striking me, it threw me through the air like a ball. I lost consciousness completely, until I awoke in the hospital, where I learned there was no hope for my recovery at all.
Looking back with pity and sadness, the shaykh later told us:
He was taken to hospital under the dark clouds of death. There he underwent a desperate operation, while the investigation and the testimony of the eyewitnesses all confirmed that he had run into the road as if wanting to end his own life. The car’s driver, therefore, was innocent of any fault. I sat next to my nephew’s bed, knowing there was no chance that he would survive, when the driver arrived in humble consolation, offering to render what assistance he could. He stayed for a while, then left on his own.
When he had gone, my nephew’s eyelids fluttered, and I saw a familiar look on his face. I bent my head down close to his mouth.
“That’s the man,” he muttered faintly, “the man in the dream!”
Those were the last words ever to leave his lips.
Beyond the Clouds
I fight my way through life—and it fights back. It’s the same way today that it will be tomorrow. From the boons of fortune, all I’ve gained has been the making of a family and the begetting of children. Then, as I’ve grown too weak to make them happy, I can no longer make myself happy either. If my own agony was not so uniquely like that of my country, then I would think only of myself, and not of my country. Instead, I have found that my family reflects totally the situation in the country, and that the country exactly mirrors the condition of my family. Both of them suffer from overpopulation, a shortage of resources, an imbalance between income and expenses, ever-increasing debt, and a bleak future. Yet I’ve never sought to hide the reality of our situation, nor promised to do anything beyond my power to perform. Due to my inability to improve my own condition, along with my impotence to help the nation generally, frustration has turned my hair white before its time. I have found nothing to help me escape into the solace of solitude except for one thing—dreaming.
Yes, dreaming is what hews a new path for me; it brings me all I could possibly crave. With the fullness of health, strength, and human intimacy, dreaming lifts me up to a new world entirely—one of exalted truth and perfect justice. Through dreaming I climb dazzlingly into the world of the Unseen. But sometime during the heat of battle between fact and imagination, the night of misery lengthened as I huddled beneath the bedcovers, all of my limbs trembling uncontrollably. My wife became worried, urging me to take more than one prescription of medicine. Still I longed for sleep, with all its powers to save me from distress and torment. Yet I could neither sleep nor ease the growing agitation that shook me so profoundly. Then, a surprise—and what a surprise! I rose like a bird, flying with calmness and dignity through the air of the room. I could not help thinking of all that I had heard about delirium and fever. I looked and saw my body prone on the bed; all were watching it with streaming tears. This had to be a fever, no doubt about that. All the motion and sounds that surged through the room had no meaning at all to me. I urged them to take hold of themselves, to calm down and keep quiet—but they did not hear. I observed them with complete placidity. Then my interest in them and what they were doing began to decline, and slowly, slowly to disappear. Their image began to sink into the depths, fading away until it had vanished completely. A long corridor stretched before me, whose floor and walls were covered in mist, and from whose distant end loomed the purest light. I walked through it with heavy, stumbling steps, staggering at times, longing for some sense of security. Finally, at the source of the light, my father and mother appeared to me. They stared at me with affection as I rushed toward them, my fears diminishing. Then I remembered the hurdle of death that stood between us. I halted in caution, whispering to them as though in excuse, “Maybe I’m dreaming!”
I heard their two voices as though they were one, “But now you are waking.”
They came toward me, arm in arm, wearing clothes made of clouds.
“Wake up! You have become one of us, with nothing standing between us.”
Dreams don’t have this kind of clarity, I said to myself. Then I whispered, “Yes, I’m completely awake.”
“That is good,” they replied.
“Yet I feel that a dreadful nightmare is going on inside me.”
“That will disperse once you have purged yourself of your sins.”
“You will help me …,” I said wishfully.
They answered as one, “Our mission here has ended. Rely upon yourself.”
In a flashing instant, they were gone. No sooner had they disappeared, than I found myself in my new world.
A new world indeed, which I have not the words to describe. A place, and yet not a place. Light, but yet not really light. Colors, yet not like any that I had known. Trees, but not actual trees. Houses that were not houses at all. Ground and sky shrouded in clouds, spreading outward without any bounds. Even the houses were made of clouds, ranged in even rows with vast spaces between them. The trees towered very high, resplendent in wholly unfamiliar shades of a deeply stirring kind. A steady, soothing light—neither dusk nor twilight—pervaded all. For a moment I imagined that I was alone in an existence that had no clear end. Yet the feeling of loneliness did not weigh heavily upon me, nor did it last long. For this existence that surrounded me was itself pulsing with hidden life. It was also alive and intelligent, regarding me with interest, as though wondering what I was going to do next. And within the homes were living beings absorbed in their own affairs. Their cries of “Glory to God” somehow reached my inner sense of hearing. Should I knock on one of those doors to ask for guidance from those inside? Yet, if even my own parents had abandoned me, then what could I expect from strangers? But where could I start, and where would I go?
Then I was met by a majestic personage whose garment trailed away as a cloud. He gazed at me with his luminous face, a miracle of radiance and beauty. With the look in his eyes, he commanded me to follow him until he stopped before a house.
“This is your dwelling,” he said.
I looked at the place as though to inspect it.
“Wait,” he warned, “you will not go inside until you have bathed.”
I pointed to my heart. “A nightmare is churning above my chest,” I told him.
“That is why you must bathe first,” he replied.
A disturbing idea flared within me. “It seems that an unceasing labor lies before me,” I fretted.
“The road is long, with many stations along the way,” he warned. “And its final end is unlike anything else.”
“Will you show me how to proceed, at least for the first step?”
“Rely on yourself, both first and last,” he bid me.
He took me by the hand and led me through a lush forest to a lake of light, and told me to immerse myself within its waves of rays. I complied with the order—floating for a few seconds, before beginning to sink, slowly and without pause, until I settled in the innermost depths of the lake. The waves penetrated deep inside my being, cleansing me thoroughly. A chain of sins and errors that I had committed during my life stretched out before my sight. Each time a sin or error would vanish, an accompanying pain would vanish with it. My weight lessened accordingly, so that I rose from my submersion little by little. This bathing went on for hours, or days, or years, until eventually I was floating once more upon the lake’s surface. Finally, I alighted on the land with nimbleness and glee—then entered my house.
Donning my robe of trailing clouds, I decided not to waste my time in idleness. For a long while I pondered what to do, until finally I resolved to begin with science
to meet the needs of the traveler, in mastering navigation and the drawing of maps.
I threw myself into my work with a determination that knew neither weakness nor hesitation. I was aided by the unvarying climate, which was always mild, both by day and by night, not altering even with the seasons. There were no problems to sap one’s will, nor any hardships or despair. And from somewhere deep inside me, without any outside help, I had a vision of the great road ahead in all its daunting length and the many stops along its course. My heart was satisfied by the choice of mapmaking as my first field of toil, my elation rising to the enormous heights that I had conjured in my earthly dreams themselves.
But then someone knocked at my door—interrupting my work. Amazed, I told the visitor to enter. Then she—she— drew toward me with all her former magic and beauty, swathed in her new, celestial garb. Opening my arms wide, I clutched her to my breast in longing and desire.
“I thought that we would never meet again!” I blurted.
With her sweet voice, she replied, “And I don’t believe that, after this moment, we shall ever part again.”
“Together, together—until the Abode of Adoration,” I said with breathless passion.
Catching sight of my work, she asked, “With what did you begin?”
“With cartography!”
“I started with poetry,” she said, with obvious unease.
We exchanged expectant looks, then I muttered, “We cannot stay together.”
“Shall we separate by our own choice now,” she said, “after we’ve tasted the bitterness of our ancient parting?”
“We shall not meet again before we arrive at the Mansion of Love.”
“That is a long way away.”
“Yet we shall get there someday.”
“Can’t we do anything to help make it come true?”
“I can only do the work which is fitting for me, and perhaps it’s the same for you.”
“Yes,” she replied.
The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales Page 10