The Mirage (16 page)

That night I dreamed of my beloved, and it was the first time she visited me in my sleep.

M
y aspirations revolved around two things: having a good income—which was coming eventually—and winning a bride. I to be the type that’s tormented by ambition, and if I’d had any ambition at all during the dream days of the past, it had been buried in the warehousing section of the Ministry of War, where a bonus of half a pound was considered a distant hope at best. No, I wasn’t moved by high-aiming ambition. However, my soul longed for happiness and peace of mind, a pleasant life, and a loving, upstanding wife. There was nothing new in my life apart from the fact that I’d begun performing the five daily prayers regularly after having neglected them from time to time. Perhaps it was my lovesickness that readied me for such unsullied communion with God five times a day. At the same time, though, my soul experienced no release from its old pain. In fact, given the moments of frenzied enjoyment that I continued to steal by night, prayer actually caused my pain to increase. I was no longer able to give it up. On
the contrary, I surrendered to it more completely than ever before, yet regret had no mercy on me even for a day. There’s nothing more miserable than to be tormented by regret when you’re a person of faith.

It was this ongoing struggle that led me to take a long look at myself and my life. When I did so, I was appalled at first to see what a monotonous existence I led, a day of which was equal to a year, and a year equal to a day. Hadn’t an entire year passed since I began work at the ministry without a single new development? A lifetime was passing by in a boring job to which I’d been doomed, and in a forlornness that was dissipated in only two circumstances: when I was at the tram stop, and in conversation with my mother at home. Even these brief moments of happiness weren’t without a tinge of misery and pain. When I was with my beloved, I was haunted by the specter of my mother; and when I was with my mother, I was frightened by the specter of my beloved. This generated an unsettling angst mingled with remorse, and I was enveloped by a cloud of melancholy that refused to leave me. When I think back to those days, I blame myself, not because there was no good reason for my unhappiness, but rather, due to my usual bad habit of blowing my pains and sufferings out of all proportion, and because never in my life have I faced anything with the required courage and resolution.

As for my mother, she couldn’t pinpoint a reason for the glumness in me that caused her so much anxiety. I don’t know how many times she said to me sorrowfully, “Why do you seem sad sometimes? For the life of me, I can’t imagine what it is that you lack. You wanted to be a government employee, and you’ve become one. God’s blessed you with loving care and concern from your grandfather,
who provides a comfortable life for us. And in your service you have a mother who would gladly give you her very life if you asked her to. Not only that, but you have youth and good health, which I pray you’ll enjoy for long years to come. So what do you lack?”

I was amazed that she would be asking what I lacked. It was true, of course, that she’d enumerated for me an abundance of blessings. However, the value of these blessings was lost on me. They were, to me, like the air that we breathe every moment of our lives without it ever occurring to us to be thankful for it. Instead, I thought constantly about what I lacked, blinded to what I already had by what I was bent on attaining. I seemed to have been destined not to know anything about life’s true wisdom, and I’d never gone beyond the narrow confines of my own soul. And herein lay the secret of my malady. It was this that had cut me off from life’s joys and pleasures and all that these entail by way of virtues, meaning, and friendship. Toward others I harbored feelings of alienation and fear. In fact, such feelings caused me to view the entire world as an enemy that lay in wait for me. It may be that the only thing that would have satisfied me would have been for the world to abandon its own concerns and devote itself to making me happy! And since it wasn’t able to do that, I shunned it out of a sense of helplessness and fear and declared myself its enemy. I crawled into my shell, ignorant of the people, hopes, and virtues that filled my soul. Even in the face of love, which was the first noble sentiment ever to inspire me, I stood motionless and terrified, waiting desperately for it to make the first move.

Then came my mother’s turn, albeit belatedly. I started rebelling against her, although my rebellion remained a
smoldering ember that emitted no sparks. It grew out of the peculiar attitude she took toward anything that reminded her of the fact that, sooner or later, I would marry. I’d first picked up on it myself when, during one of her formal visits, my aunt spoke of her hope that I might marry her daughter, who’d become a young woman. I saw my mother receive the suggestion in such an observably bad temper that she wasn’t able even to maintain the atmosphere of goodwill and courtesy that ought to prevail between two sisters, and my aunt left in a huff.

I noticed it again when a matchmaker who used to visit us during the clothes shopping seasons suggested that she find me a suitable bride. I saw my mother explode at the woman with such rage that her tongue was tied in astonishment and bewilderment.

I observed these things in horror and speechless indignation, and could find no satisfactory explanation for it. I had no desire for my maternal cousin, nor for any of the brides that the matchmaker might have chosen for me. However, what I sensed was that my mother hated the thought of my marrying at all and, fearing for my hopes, I was enraged.

One day, seemingly apprehensive in the face of my anger, she said to me, “These woman aren’t interested in your happiness. They’re just looking for a way to make their daughters happy!”

What she said made no sense to me, and in her eyes I discerned the hope on her part that I’d express my indifference to the matter. However, I had enough courage to remain silent.

In an anxious-sounding tone she said, “Marriage is a way of life established by God, and it won’t do for someone to marry before he’s a full-grown man.”

And I wondered to myself resentfully: If I haven’t become a full-grown man by the age of twenty-six, when will I? I wished I could say what was on my mind, but my courage failed me, and I didn’t say a word.

She looked searchingly into my face, then went on uneasily, “I want you to have a bride who’s truly worthy of you, one whose beauty will dazzle people’s eyes, whose good morals are praised by all, who’s from an aristocratic family, and who’ll provide you with a sumptuous mansion to live in.”

Concealing my rage, I asked, “And where is such a bride to be found?”

“We’ll find her some day, God willing!” she said, biting her lip.

I said to myself: If this isn’t setting me up for failure, then I don’t know what is. Seething inside, I imagined her face surrounded by a halo of fury, and I thought to myself bitterly: When my mother gets angry, her beauty disappears, and the kindness seeps out of her face.

M
arriage! Marriage! It was all I could think about anymore. I couldn’t imagine my life having meaning unless this dream could be fulfilled. I thought to myself: If we don’t marry, what are we living for? In fact, why were we even brought into existence? I ached for it so badly, it made my heart weep. Marriage is the paradise of those who’ve been afflicted by the fires of hell. Not for a moment did I stop imagining it in those wandering daydreams of mine that would absent me from my surroundings. I’d see myself next to my beloved, her comely face concealed by a silken veil embroidered with jasmine blossoms, and with candles glowing all about us. I’d see myself taking her to a dwelling at the other end of Cairo, though I didn’t know why I liked for it to be at the other end of Cairo. Then I’d see her waiting for me on the balcony and, released from the prison of the warehousing section, I’d come rushing toward her. I was blessed with a happiness that transported me so thoroughly, one would have thought I could defy gravity, and
which was so wondrous, I couldn’t imagine it even in my dreams. However, I didn’t enjoy such fantasies undisturbed, for time and time again, the euphoria produced by my imaginary joy would be followed by a vague melancholy that I couldn’t explain. Never was my mother’s beloved face absent from my mind. Consequently, I’d be assailed by a shame so devastating that my forehead would be wet with perspiration, and a guilt so loathsome that my mouth would be contorted with revulsion.

There was also the fact that I hadn’t rid myself entirely of a certain predilection for the single life. The love of solitude is a kind of malady. It’s like a drug from which you’d like to flee, yet you can’t give it up. You loathe it in yourself, yet at the same time you long for it. Would I really have the nerve to renounce my long past? At times my soul would pine for the happy married life. Then at other times I’d be possessed by the fear of losing the delight of placid solitude and the tranquility born of being exempt from responsibility. Flight from responsibility was a long-standing sickness of mine. It was such a part of me that I’d even chafe at having to shave or do my necktie. How, then, would I manage the responsibilities of a household, children, and all they’d bring with them by way of social life and its attendant obligations and traditions? The mere thought of such duties made my limbs grow cold. At the same time, though, there wasn’t so much as a moment when I didn’t long to be married.

I began to feel that I’d fallen prey to two deadly concerns: my indecision and my mother. And for all I knew, my mother was the only concern. Everything in me desired a peaceful haven in which to take refuge. So I made up my mind to face the danger head on, come what may.

One evening as I was sitting with my mother, I said to her suddenly, “I’ve noticed, Mama, that you’d rather I didn’t get married. Is this so?”

Her beautiful green eyes opened wide in astonishment and I could see a flicker of uncertainty pass through them.

Then, her voice altered, she said, “I always want your happiness, and that’s my main concern. If I haven’t agreed in the past to the proposals made to me in this connection, it was because they fell short of what I want for you. You surely realize this. But.…”

She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “But … why are you asking me this question?”

I looked away from her as though I were afraid she might read my mind.

Then I said casually, “It was just a question. I always like to know what’s going on in your mind.”

Her voice trembling, she replied, “There’s nothing in my mind but the desire for you to have far more happiness than you could even wish for yourself. However, marriage isn’t fun and games. Take your mother’s tragedy, for example, which is the most powerful evidence in favor of what I’m saying. Remember that choosing a wife is no easy task. Besides, it’s the task of the mother first and foremost, since this is the area in which she has the most experience. She knows her son better than he knows himself, and she places his happiness before her own. Besides, age is an important matter, too, and you’re still practically a child. So why do you ask me this question?”

(Here her voice began to tremble even more.)

“Think about your mother’s tragedy, which should never be absent from your mind. What pain and torment I’ve been through, and what insults I’ve had to bear! Think
of all the tears I’ve shed over my children, who’ve lived as virtual strangers to me even though we were in the same city! And even you—the possibility that I might have to part with you used to haunt me every minute, and it caused me many a sleepless night. If they’d taken you away from me, I would have died of a broken heart. How many times I’ve wished I could die and find rest from this worrisome life of mine.…”

It seemed to me that she was referring to her present life with this last comment.

“This is why I devoted myself to taking care of you and sacrificed my own happiness for your sake. And.…”

Here she hesitated for a moment. She may have been about to remind me of the suitor she had refused on my account, but she thought better of it.

“And don’t think I’m trying to make you feel as though you owe me something. Mothers aren’t like that. If only sons felt the same kind of compassion that mothers do. How easily you forget.… Lord! Forgive me, I don’t know what I’m saying. But don’t think bad things about your mother. We give everything gladly, and then when our children grow up, all they think about is turning their backs on us and finding themselves some way of escape. Again, forgive me! Unfortunately, I’m not good at controlling myself. But we’ve had this whole lifetime together, and you’re my only hope in this world. If you turn me out, I will have nowhere to go. Our children are our lives in both our youth and our old age. As for you, you love us when you’re small, but when you grow up you hate us. Or, you love us when you don’t have anyone else to love. What did I say? God forgive me! Forgive me, Kamil, I’m agitated. And I’m no good at talking.”

I was astounded at how talking had sucked her into this downward spiral. It had been bearable at first, but then it had spun out of control. I tried to keep her from going on and on, but to no avail. Consequently, I’d had no choice but to drink the bitter potion to the dregs with all the pain and grief it brought in its wake. We exchanged a long look, with reproach coming from my end and consternation from hers. Alas, she wasn’t entirely in her right mind.

“So is this what a person gets for asking an innocent question?” I asked glumly.

With tears welling up in her eyes and her glance lowered, she said, “There are times when I’m no good at talking and it would be better for me to hold my tongue. Don’t worry about me. And if some day you’d like me to get out of your life, all you have to do is say the word, and you’ll never see me again!”

Clapping my hand over her mouth, I shouted, “May God forgive you! That’s enough talk! I made a huge mistake by asking my innocent question!”

Then she pretended to make light of the matter. In fact, she let out a long laugh as though nothing had happened, while I nursed my wounds in the privacy of my own heart. Her words had a profound impact on me. Indeed, they shook me violently, and I felt a grief the likes of which I’d never felt before. I wondered how on earth she could have allowed her agitation to get the better of her to the point of hurling such cruel accusations in my face. I wasn’t without a feeling of bitterness toward her, not because she’d accused me falsely—after all, anyone could do such a thing in a moment of passing anger—but rather because she’d met my unspoken desires with an outburst that had gone beyond the limits of reason. Giving free rein to my
bitterness, I thought: She remembered herself more than she should have, and she forgot me more than she should have. As was my wont, I let my own selfishness have its say by accusing her of the very same fault.