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A Dream to Remember, and: Face-to-Face

With a long, exhausted yawn, Hindis threw the blanket off his body. His arms resting on his legs, he sat on his bed, bowed under the weight of anxiety that showed on his wide, full face. He caught sight of his wife standing in the middle of the room, gathering her untidy hair under a coffee-colored headscarf. “A strange dream,” he said to her sleepily. “A good one, God willing,” she replied, turning toward him with interest. “All night long with Hasuna al-Tarabishi.” A vacant look showed in the woman’s eye. He regarded her with the eyes of a falcon bursting out of a visage engraved with the traces of old knife wounds and other ancient scars. “Hasuna al-Tarabishi!” he exclaimed. “Have you forgotten the man who one day aspired to be a charmer?” A sigh escaped her. “Yes . . . what a long time ago.” “About fifteen years,” he affirmed. “What did you dream?” “I saw him,” he answered, “that last night on the Street of the Tentmakers. He was stretched out at my feet, blood all over his mouth, his beard and his robe.” “I seek refuge in God,” she blurted. “And he uttered his last words: ‘I will kill you, Hindis, while I’m in the grave.’” “I seek refuge in God,” she repeated. “After that, I saw myself sitting with him in a place without any landmarks. We laughed out loud the way we used to before hatred split