The Dreams

Dream 154

Crashing waves of humanity propelled my friend the lady broadcaster and myself along until we stopped in a small square facing a wall of people: not even a needle could have passed through it. Glancing around, I saw the sweet shop in which I regularly took breakfast on the other side of the square. But we could not move.

I remarked to my friend that her program on the victory would be delayed a short while.

“In any case,” she replied, “I have a disturbing piece of news: that Makram Ebeid, the great struggler for freedom, has died in the crowd.”

My heart shuddered with sadness for the death of the hero. Meanwhile, a waiter from the confectioner’s shop saw me. Putting some pastries in a paper bag, he then stood on top of a chair and threw it over the heads of the throng. I grabbed it frantically and opened it, but my friend’s hand beat me to it as she whispered apologetically, “I was about to perish from hunger.”

At this, I stretched my own hand inside the bag — but all I found were some foreign-style pickles.