The Dreams

Dream 18

We sat on both sides of the launch. Each man appeared singly, with no relation to the others — then the pilot came and started up the boat’s motor.

The pilot was a beautiful young girl. My heart quivered at the sight of her. She looked out of the window as I stood beneath the tree: the time was somewhere between childhood and the first stirrings of early manhood. I fixed my eye on her noble head as she speedily steered us along the river, my heart pounding in harmony with the gusts of the breeze. I thought of going up to her to see how she would receive me.

But then I found myself on a street in one of the poorer quarters — it might have been the Ghuriya — as it was jammed with humanity on the birth-feast of Husayn. I caught sight of her making her way with difficulty down one of the winding lanes, and resolved to catch up with her — while the group of chanting celebrants fêted the martyred saint.

Just as quickly I returned to my seat on the boat, which had covered a great stretch of the river. I glanced at the bridge, and saw that the pilot was an elderly woman with a brooding face. I looked around and wondered about the absent young beauty — and saw nothing but empty seats.

So I began to query the old hag about the missing, lovely girl.