Free The Mirage by Naguib Mahfouz Page A

companion, and my erstwhile placid waters were roiled by a troubled conscience. That didn’t keep me from persevering in the habit, however. Rather, I would spend my solitude in wild, but short-lived sensual delight followed by lingering misery.
    Those monotonous days of ours would be brightened every now and then by visits from families who were either neighbors or relatives. These would include married women and girls of marriageable age, and on occasion one of the women might lightheartedly introduce her daughter, saying, “Here’s Kamil’s bride!”
    My mother would receive such banter with a notable lack of enthusiasm that was lost neither on the woman addressing her, nor on me. Consequently, I felt increasingly timid, estranged, and fearful, especially toward women. Add to this the fact that once the lady visitors had departed, my mother would never fail to criticize their scandalous, decadent remarks. Meanwhile, I went on with my forlorn, friendless life, feeling restive under its constant pressure, yet doing nothing to change it. I would seize upon its covert pleasures in a state of disquiet and despair, then have nothing to show for them but a bitter sense of guilt. Trapped inan isolation that distanced me from life’s other spheres, I wondered in anguish how I would ever break free. At the same time, I was vaguely aware that there was a wider world beyond my narrow horizon. I would overhear snatches of other students’ conversations about politics, the cinema, sports, and girls as though I were listening to inhabitants of some other planet. How I wished I had a share of their expressiveness and
joie de vivre
. How I wished I could penetrate the solid, thick wall that barred me from their world. I would gaze at them in dejection, like a prisoner looking out through the bars of his cell at those who enjoy their freedom. Yet not once did I try to break out of my prison. After all, I wasn’t unaware of the cruelty and humiliation that awaited me in the world of freedom. Indeed, even when I was safely behind bars, as it were, I was vulnerable to a certain degree of harassment, mockery, and aggression. I said to myself: This is my prison, so let me be content with it. Here was where I found my pleasure and my pain, and here was where I found safety from fear. It was a prison with an open door, but there was no way to cross its threshold. The only release I found, I found in dreams. As I sat in class, I’d be absent from everything around me while my imagination worked miracles: warring, slaying, and vanquishing, mounting the backs of steeds, flying airplanes, storming fortresses, whisking beautiful women away, and inflicting the most grisly, humiliating punishments on the other students. There would even be times when such daydreams would betray themselves in the movements of my head and contortions in my face, while reflections of those phantoms would cause my head to rise smugly, crease my brow in a merciless glare, or evoke a menacing wave of my hand.
    My dreams weren’t confined to the realm of humanity, but ascended to the realm of the Creator as well. Primal and firmly rooted, my faith filled my heart and spirit with the love and fear of God. I’d begun performing the rites of my religion from an early age in imitation of my mother. Given the unaccustomed sense of guilt produced by my secret pleasures, my religious sensibilities intensified, and along with my faith I experienced a powerful longing for God and His mercy. Never once would I finish a prayer without lifting my palms heavenward and seeking God’s forgiveness. My longings knew no bounds and were transformed into an aspiration to know God. I wished with all my heart that God had made it possible for His servants to see Him, beholding the ubiquitous divine majesty that surrounds all things.
    One day I asked my mother, “Where is God?”
    “He’s everywhere,” she replied in astonishment.
    Casting her an uncertain look, I asked fearfully, “In