When he paid no attention to me, I dogged him obstinately, whining to him softly, “A safe house truly, appropriate for Your Excellency!”
“Where?” he asked abruptly.
With a pleasure I had never before felt in my life, I told him, “In Virgo Star Alley, the third house on the right within.”
When we came close to the square he called out to his driver. As the man scurried up to him, he ordered him loudly, “Hold this creep, and get the police!”
Desperately, I thrust the palm of my hand over the driver’s mouth. “No — wait — I’m not one of them!” I implored him. “I’m a respected person!” I panted, my heart racing.
“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 The veil of darkness is withdrawn from my dream.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!”