Mahmood Farra's Crossed Dreams

Crossed Dreams is a translation from Arabic.

The view is gray. People pass beside me and I can’t recognize them. I don’t try to check their faces. They have no features. However, I just have a strong sense that I know them. The neighborhood still exists. They said that it was demolished, the houses everything. But its still here, as it was. Our house up to the left is still standing.

I open its door, and enter. I am overwhelmed by feelings of joy. The courtyard is empty. But the fountain in the centre still exists. It’s strange. It is really our old house. The family house, with my father, mother, brothers and sisters. I stand at the entrance. The floor is wet. My sister has swept and is washing it now with water. I look at her with amazement. “I remember the house being demolished,” I say wondering.

My sister thinks a little and then says: “You must have been dreaming. I also dreamed that! I woke up now,” she said, putting it together, “Just now… You must still be half asleep,” she decides.

The rooms surround the courtyard. The door of the opposite room is half opened. I hear the sound of laughter coming from inside. I recognize my mother’s voice. I can’t believe it. I glance to my sister, "But mother is dead," I say to my sister. She looks at me in a strange way and says, “You’re still asleep.”

I go into the semi- dark room. My mother is there, with my aunts, and they are all sitting on the carpet, leaning on the pillows, whispering and laughing. Their wavy hair, their bright red lipsticks. Their dresses make one think of the fifties. They don’t care about me coming in. They continue their conversation. I sit beside my mother. In a spontaneous gesture she throws and arm around my waist, without even looking at me. She‘s listening to my aunts with deep interest. The happiness overwhelms  me, and I feel  a chill.

I go out of the house and continue walking in the narrow street. It’s empty. The houses are silent. In the last one lives a lonely woman who always sits by the door. I pass close to her but she doesn’t pay me any attention. She‘s preoccupied with something. I don’t know what it is…

Here, the neighborhood ends.

After the neighborhood, there are fruit groves, wild trees, a sparkling stream. I know this place, very well. I’ve seen it in my dreams. I have this enduring feeling that I’ve come here before, that I walked on the grass between the trees and on to the edge of the stream. But even while dreaming, I have had the sensation that there’s no such place in reality.

“What’s there beyond the groves?” I think for a while. I feel I know. I concentrate, but I can’t think of what there might be. I’ve simply forgotten. Anyway, I understand, there’s a chance now to find out, to discover what it is.

I walk among the poplar trees. Everything around me is quiet and silent. I reach an old two-storey house, surrounded by  a fenced garden. I have a feeling that this house is familiar to me. I look carefully. Yes. It is Zainab’s house. Zainab, my girlfriend from university. I wonder how can this house be here? Houses don’t move.

I enter the garden, and walk through the pathway that leads to the front entrance. There‘s a big old tree. Its leaves rustle in the breeze as I approach. I recognize the tree immediately. I can’t be wrong about Zainab’s house. I stop to get some clarity: I’m in Damascus right now, but this house should be in Beirut, somewhere between Rawsha Street and Hamra Street. The last time I visited this house I was  just twenty years-old, a student. But now I’m married. Is it possible that I’m still dreaming? It has been a long time.

Suddenly, the front door opens. A woman appears.  Her features show that she’s around fifty. Her face is well known to me. She’s Zainab.  She is wearing a long loose dress, and a straw hat similar to the one she wore the first time we met. I am astonished, standing at the door, happy and afraid at the same time. I broke up with her during the civil war, then left Lebanon. I never came back. I haven't seen her since. All this time, I’ve dreamed of her.

She comes close and gives me her hand with that warm smile. "You’re here?" She asks happily. ”…You’re back."

"I don’t know," I say carefully. But I’m delighted by her joy of seeing me. It makes my heart jump with happiness.

"It has been a long time since you left the country". She says with a vague smile on her lips.

"I’ve been feeling guilty ever since. I know I’ve been cruel with you,” I say, “but not seeing you was also hard on me."

"It doesn’t matter,” she says, looping her arm through mine, “You’re back now."

"I see that you’re happy with my return. I was afraid that might not still want me."

"I knew you would come someday. I was looking forward to it."

I look at her, contemplate her face

"You haven’t changed". I say, "Same smile, same cynical look. As if it’s only yesterday that we parted. Just a little gray in your hair".

"You too", she says, staring at my face.

"I didn’t know that your house was so close," I say. "Can you imagine that? A grove only separates our houses," I refer with my hand to the grove behind the house. "How come nobody knew about that? The end of the neighborhood in Damascus leads to your house in Beirut near Hamra Street. Why did we take the trouble to travel through mountains and borders? …I just can’t believe it".

"Come with me," she says smiling, taking my hand in hers.

She guides me inside the house. I remember it. I’ve been here once before, along time  ago. It’s exactly the same as I remember it.

 There‘s the living room in the centre, and at the back a stairway leading to the upper floor.

Her mother is sitting on the couch as before, hiding her hair with a white cover, and weaving something in her hands. She turns and looks at us while we‘re going up the brightly-lit stairs. I don’t know if she smiles or not. I can’t see the expression on her face. The room is dim.

We get into her room. It‘s dark. She hurries and opens the door to the balcony. "Here’s the sea,"  she says. The balcony overlooks the Raoushe rock. The gray sea and the dark sky extend to the horizon. I feel the chill when the sea breeze caresses my face. I stand silent and try to gather my thoughts. "What’s wrong?" she asks, her fingers slip gently through my hair.

I look at her, feeling uneasy. I say "My sister said I was sleeping and dreaming and that I have already woken up. But I think it’s the opposite. I think that I’m still dreaming, and all of this is just a dream. This can’t be real. I’m trying to be logical. Things, here, don’t seem logical."

She smiles and says, "If you’re being logical, then doesn’t that mean we’re in reality and not a dream?"

"It’s true, I’m thinking logically," I answer, "but things around me aren’t logical. I mean you, me and the sea behind the grove in Damascus. Nothing is logical. I’m sure that I’m dreaming and that I’m seeing you now in the dream."

She smiles but doesn’t comment. After a moment of silence and asks gently, "What made you dream of me?"

I think deeply then say, "I watched a movie that reminded me of you! It’s (le grand Meaulnes )"

"What do you mean?" she asks.

“It’s the book that you gave me. Le grand Meaulnes. Don’t you remember? I still have it. And I saw the movie two days ago. That’s why you appeared in my dream.

She looks sadly at the sea and says: then we will be separated again, when you wake up.

 We sat silent at the edge of the bed.

"Touch me," I say.

She puts her hand on my face and starts caressing my cheeks.

"Do you feel me?" She asked

"Yes, as if you‘re real and I’m awake. But I know that I’m dreaming… If I doubt whether I’m asleep, or awake, I must be dreaming. This only happens to me while I’m dreaming. I’ve never doubted reality when I’m awake.”

“She sits beside me, holds my hand with both of hers. She leans her head on my shoulder. "Don’t go,” she says. "I feel sadness in my heart. I’m so happy to be with you after all these years. I’ll be very unhappy if you leave me again."

I embrace her with my arm and feel the warmth of her body against mine. "It’s a wonderful dream," I say. "I don’t know if I can retrieve it again. And I can’t be sure I’ll dream again of you either."

"I know that", she says with great sorrow, "I also know that you will forget this dream the moment you wake up. You won’t even wonder what you dreamed of."

I look in her eyes and say, "There must be a way that I can keep you with me when I wake up. You know what? I’ll hold your hand very tight and won’t let it go until I wake."

I take her hand in mine and say, “I’ll try to wake up now". I then try to open wide my eyes. I try very hard, but nothing happens. I don’t wake up.

"You know it’s useless,” says Zainab,  "E if you wake up, you’ll wake up  alone, I won’t be beside  you".

"I feel I  can take you with me, out of this dream with me. I feel it strongly.” I suddenly feel confident. “Let's try to do something else, something that would make us wake up. But don’t ever let go of my hand".

"What shall we do?" she asks.

"We will jump from the balcony".

Slowly, carefully, Zainab looks down over the balcony railing. She turns back to me worried, “It’s high…"

"It’s only a dream,” I say, "Don’t be afraid. We won’t get hurt. We will only wake up, then we’ll be together. Trust me, just close your eyes."

I squeeze her hand in mine. I close my eyes and pull her with me off the balcony. When I realize that we have hit the ground I open them.

I‘m in my bed in Al-Ain. I squeeze my hand without looking. I feel the warmth of a hand. I turn my head and here beside me is Zainab, her hand in my hand.

"We did it," I say with disbelief. "We succeeded. I brought you with me from the dream.”

Zainab sits up and look around her.

“This is your room?”

“Yes.”

Beside the bed there‘s a saxophone and a book. She takes the book. She reads the title to out loud, “Le Grand Meaulnes.”

“See? Didn’t’ I tell you? It’s the book that reminded me of you.”

Zainab puts down the book and picks up the saxophone. It’s clearly heavey in her hands. She looks at it with admiration, “You always dreamed of playing the saxophone.”

I smile and take it from her with perhaps too much display of confidence. I put it to my mouth. I blow into it, and it sings. I see she‘s astonished by my skill, by the ease with which my fingers move and the sweetness of the melody that comes out.

I am too. After a while, I stop playing and lose myself in a thought. She watches me.

“What’s wrong? She asks, anxious.

I look at her then the saxophone in my hands, “I just remembered that I‘ve never learned to play the saxophone. I don’t even have one….”

Edited by Alistair Vogan