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Me, Revealed To Myself

“Once, I dreamt that I was dead. Somebody had shot me down in the street. Why kill me?! He killed so many other souls before. He was probably used to killing me in his dreams and now he is invading my own dream to kill me. Perhaps, if I had carried on my dream after my death, up till the end, I would have entered some world where there would be no death.

That stranger’s bullet crossed my body. I do not know him; he does not know me either. There are no mutual feelings of animosity between us… However, even in the dream, I never could go further than the doorstep of Death. There always comes the morning to steal me away from that wish. Why can I not live my own death in my own dream? Is eternity an attribute related exclusively to dreams? Is eternity a mere dream?”

He passes by so swiftly that I cannot distinguish his features. He leaves no trace behind. I think of setting a trap for him. I start to take note of the time when he passes by, but he continues to escape from me, sneering at my traps, laughing so loudly that the entire place echoes his sarcasm.

I notice strange writings on the back of his jacket that remain hung in the air and clearly drawn in my mind’s eye. Actually, the writings on his back were so strange both in colour and shape, written in a language that I have never heard of. A language not in use, I dare say. Last night, I dreamt of an angel teaching me that very language. I am in fact accustomed to postponing to my dreams at night all of my day-time problems. This way, puzzling questions die away, leaving space for spiritual solutions.

In my dream, I am haunted by such an intense desire to learn that strange language that I find myself speaking it with the fluency of a native speaker.

I am happy, I tell this shadow: « Just wait until tomorrow and I will show you…» but, that morning, he does not appear to me, nor does he the day after that.

Has he read my dream?

Or maybe he has an unbelievable intuition.

What if he is the angel who visits me in my dreams, clad differently, pretending to teach me that language?

That would be an irony.

Is he making fun of me?

Has he taught me a different language to confuse me?

Does he not want me to get to know him?

Does he appear only to me?

Does he appear to other people elsewhere?

Has he any message for me?

For several days, he has been away and my questions remained postponed and conditioned by his reappearance. He may be preparing new surprises. Actually, I have never felt afraid of what he may be preparing for me. I just guess that he might be taking delight in making me expectant and anxious.

I hardly leave the place where he usually appears to me. No sign precedes his emergence. Can he be, at this moment, here behind me or above me or beneath me, watching me while I am blind to his presence?

I am extremely anxious now. If anyone knew of my anxiety and the reason for it, I would be accused of hallucination or folly.

Again, he appears, passing by swiftly and discreetly, with new writings on his back in a newer language.

I take refuge in my dream again to learn his new language. I play back the last phrases that I saw on his back, and I see that the letters are joined together to show… my name!

What is going on?

Why is my name on his back?

My anxiety grows. I find myself, early every morning, at the appointed hour, waiting for him, long before my time to wake up at sun-rise.

Then he appears again. This time, the ritual of his passage is changed; he walks by so very slowly. All swiftness is gone. Probably, he has understood that I will never know his secrets, his timing, his occasion.

I follow him with my eyes. All the times before, I could not see his face because he appeared, and was gone, so quickly. This time it is different: he begins, as always, with his back to me. I see his upper body is bare, with no numbers, no words in a new language. For a reason I cannot explain, I call out my own name. I call him by my name. I see him turn around. I am sure I will finally see his face. This time, I am sure his secret will be revealed to me…

The luminous halo surrounding his face slowly fades until it disappears completely, and I see my own face there. All along it was me. I was the one passing by myself, leaving no trace or shadow behind…

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Najib Kaaouachi is a Moroccan short-story writer, born in 1968 in Figuig, in the east of Morocco. He is preparing a collection of short stories for publication, called “Unrealizable Things”.

Mohamed Saïd Raïhani is a Moroccan translator, scholar & short-story writer, born on December 23rd 1968 in Ksar El Kébir. His works in Arabic include "The Singularity Will " (Semiotic Study on First-names) 2001, "Waiting For the Morning" (Short stories) 2003, "Thus Spoke Santa Lugar-Verde" (Short stories) 2005, "The Season Of Migration to Anywhere" (Short stories) 2006. He is preparing for two books , “Beyond Writing & Reading” (testimonies) and "Kais & Juliet" (an e-Love Novel) for publication.

“Me, Revealed To Myself" is the fifteenth narrative text in the "The Moroccan Dream", Anthology of Moroccan new short story directed by Mohamed Saïd Raïhani.