Ali al-Tayyib woke up from a coma that had lasted several years and transformed him into an ugly old man whose back was bent and whose skin was baggy, one who walked wearily leaning on his cane with a shaky hand and skinny fingers. When he came home from the hospital he had entered as a young man powerful as thunder, he welcomed many of his relatives, who had rushed to his house to congratulate him on having been saved from a very baffling illness. He made sure to ask them insistently and in detail about their personal circumstances until he knew what had befallen them during his absence. Then he asked many questions that had nothing to do with their lives, and their answers were quick and to the point.
The sun still rose every morning, and one full day was still a day and a night. Summer was still long and hot and winter long and cold.
The President of the Republic still held his position. He had not been replaced, nor had he changed. He had become increasingly more healthy and youthful, and had resolved to walk in the funeral processions of all his citizens as well as those of their children and grandchildren.
The Prime Minister had not been replaced, and he had not changed. He still jogged ten miles every day.
The Speaker of the Parliament had not been replaced, and he had not changed. He had recently divorced his three wives and replaced them with someone not yet twenty.
The Foreign Minister had not been replaced, and he had not changed. He remained the most esteemed minister.
The Minister of Defense had not been replaced, and he had not changed. He was now in a position to buy several banks.
The Minister of Trade had not been replaced, and he had not changed. His hobby was still to own precious rugs without having to pay.
The Minister of Information had not been replaced, and he had not changed. He still talked day and night.
The Minister of Culture had not been replaced, and he had not changed. Before it died, culture had granted him everything it owned.
The Minister of Health had not been replaced, and he had not changed. His health was just fine, and he might catch a cold every ten years.
The Minister of Education had not been replaced, and he had not changed. But there were serious rumors to the effect that he would be replaced in a hundred years.
The Minister of the Interior had not been replaced, and he had not changed. How could he change when the sun itself did not change?
Ali al-Tayyib then asked his relatives about a coffee house he used to frequent and was told it had been torn down and was now part of a broad avenue that was teeming with speeding cars. He asked about a journalist whose daring he held in high regard and was told he had opened a shoe repair shop. He asked about his favorite actress and was told she had died of cancer. He asked about a dancer he admired and was told she had gotten old and had taken to wearing a headscarf. He asked about a singer whose music used to move him and was told he was now devoting himself to commercial advertisements. He asked about a poet whose poetry he used to memorize and was told he had committed suicide. He asked about a river and was told it had dried up. Ali al-Tayyib then closed his eyes and tried to get back into his coma, but his efforts were not successful.