Hanging on to me, not to be pried off or shaken loose, was a chubby little man, his face round as a full moon, cheeks glistening as if they had been buttered.

He looked so glad to see me, I assumed he was selling something.

“Benevolent fate has led you to my door,” he said, smooth as oil mixed with honey. “The stars aligned to light your path. Or did someone recommend me?

“In any case,” he went on, “you have found your way to my shop. Welcome, dear friends. I, Khabib, stand ready and eager to provide what you require.”

What I required, I told him, was a ketab. I doubted that he had one.

“I have something more valuable,” he said. “My clients come from far and wide, seeking the benefit of my excellent services.

“Dreams,” he added. “As I am proud to call my establishment the Bazaar of All Dreams.”

“Hold on there a minute, Kaboob or whatever you call yourself.” Baksheesh cocked an eye at him. “Just because we’re strangers in town, don’t take us for a flock of gullible pigeons to be plucked. We’re not innocent simpletons—not all of us, at any rate. You pretend to sell dreams? What, like some sort of fig vendor?”

“Pretend?” returned Khabib. “Not in the least. Dreams are my stock in trade. Sell? No, I do not sell. I offer the opportunity to buy. And you, my friend—no offense, but you look as if you could use a few.”

Baksheesh snorted. “I get my dreams free.”

“Of course you do,” Khabib said, with kindly concern. “Only tell me this—we speak in all confidentiality—don’t you find them, uh, shall we say just a little threadbare? A bit shabby? Worn around the edges, as it were? The same tiresome stuff again and again? And not very durable?

“I daresay,” he continued, “they fall to shreds as soon as they’ve begun. I’ll wager they barely last you through the night. Am I correct?”

“Maybe,” Baksheesh grudgingly replied. “But that’s my business.”

“No, dear friend,” said Khabib. “My business.”

By now, he had nudged and prodded us a short way down the street. He stopped in front of a narrow-fronted, ramshackle building I hadn’t noticed before.

“Come, come.” He waved a pudgy hand at the door. “By good fortune—that is to say, your good fortune—I have no appointments at the moment. There are four of you? So much the better. As a special favor, because I like you, I offer a wholesale rate at a most attractive discount.”

The notion of a dream bazaar sparked my curiosity. The chubby little fellow was no doubt a faker, a charlatan, full of glittering promises more wind than substance—a combination irresistible to any natural-born chooch.

Baksheesh, however, squinted a suspicious eye on this peculiar merchant. “Assuming you’re not a complete liar, how do I know you won’t try to palm off shoddy goods?”

“My dear friend, I have a reputation to maintain,” replied Khabib. “You shall choose what you please. With every item, satisfaction is guaranteed.”

“I, for one, am very interested,” Salamon said, making no attempt to hide his eagerness. He was, in fact, bubbling over. “Whether he is a fraud or an honest dealer, the experience will be unique and surely noteworthy.”

To please him, we all put aside whatever doubts we had and followed Khabib into his dimly lit shop.

At home, I had often run errands to the pharmacist— Uncle Evariste suffered onslaughts of indigestion and fluxes, no doubt brought on by me. The tall jars, globes of colored liquid, bunches of dried herbs fascinated me. But, until now, never had I seen such an array of bottles, phials, jugs, and flasks of all shapes and sizes. They filled Khabib’s shelves and covered the walls from floor to ceiling.

“My inventory.” Khabib spread his arms. “Every dream registered and cataloged.”

“Mirza Khabib,” Salamon put in, “allow me to inquire. How do you conduct your business? You must have clients who come to sell as well as buy. By what method do you obtain your stock?”

Khabib winked and laid a finger on the side of his nose. “Trade secrets. Mysteries of the profession, so to speak. I assure you each item is certified to be in working condition.

“What it comes down to, as do most things in life, is the question of price. Some—I dislike the term secondhand, since hands have nothing to do with it—have been intensively used. Those are at the lower end of my range; but all excellent value for the money.”

He stepped over to a wall of pigeonholes and waved a hand. “These are the dreams of the dead,” he went on. “Acquired before their demise, of course. Highly colorful and entertaining; with surprising endings, as expected from those about to leave us. But, alas, not greatly in demand.

“And these, for a little more, are the dreams of an insomniac. Poor fellow, he suffered so much from sleeplessness, they have hardly been touched.

“And this—” He suddenly wrinkled his nose and pulled down a phial. “Pooah! What’s this nightmare doing here? A small oversight in shelving.”

He threw it into a corner. “And now, going to the very top of my line. My special, private reserve, of interest to the most discerning clients of exquisite taste and sensitivities.

“Strictly fresh, pristine condition, never dreamed before. I am proud to say these are available only from myself. If you are hesitant about the expense, I must point out: In my long experience, one gets what one pays for.”

“Don’t take any of his cheap dreams,” Baksheesh whispered to me. “Who knows where they’ve been?”

I told Khabib we wished the best he could provide. Yet, with so much variety, I had no idea where to begin or what to choose. I asked him to guide us with recommendations.

“It will be my pleasure,” he said. “I shall count it an honor of the highest degree if you trust me to pick the product most fitting to your needs.”

“I wouldn’t trust him to pick my nose,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “But since we’re this deep into it, let him do whatever he does.”

“One small detail.” Khabib turned to me. “A delicate matter, a subject I always find embarrassing. A little crass, a little vulgar, especially when dealing with clients of such refinement.”

He raised an apologetic hand. “Forgive me, but I must mention it. My firm policy: Cash in advance.”

“And my firm policy,” replied Baksheesh, while I produced the coins Khabib demanded, “I buy nothing blindfolded. A pig in a poke, as the ferenghis put it. I’ll just take a look at what you have in mind to foist off on me.”

“The procedure does not permit it.” Khabib snapped shut his cash box. “You can’t see until you’ve already seen, so to speak. You understand that, of course.”

“What if I don’t like it?” returned Baksheesh.

“Hardly possible,” Khabib assured him. “Such a thing has never happened. Dear friend, I stand behind my merchandise.

“Ask anyone. They’ll all tell you no one is more reliable. However, in the extremely unlikely event that you are not completely satisfied, I shall, of course, replace it. Naturally, there would be a modest fee for extraction, reconditioning, repacking, wear and tear on the product—”

“I knew there was a catch somewhere,” Baksheesh retorted. “One other thing. All said and done, bought and paid for, it’s mine. I get to keep it. No coming at me later and telling me the lease has run out, or some other sort of chicanery.”

“The transaction is permanent,” said Khabib. “You own it, exclusively yours in perpetuity. Do as you please, use it whenever it suits you, as often as you like. My merchandise is durable, it won’t wear out.

“Or, simply keep it in storage,” he added. “Summon it up from time to time; on a special occasion, perhaps. It stays fresh. It will, I assure you, last indefinitely.”

“So you say, so you say.” Baksheesh shrugged. “Well, it’s not my money being flung about. Go ahead, Kaboob. Get on with your business. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”