The Seventh Heaven

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.

“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.