The Palace of Dreams

by Ismail Kadare

  The assistant on duty offered Mark-Alem a small table and put the file he wanted in front of him. With trembling fingers Mark-Alem started turning the ancient pages; they were made of a heavy kind of paper that had long ago fallen into disuse. Most had stains all over them, and the ink was so faded that many words were almost illegible. Mark-Alem felt a sudden pain in the head, as if someone had hit him with an ax. He had spots before his eyes. He shut them for a moment to rest them, then opened them again. Then he started to read, but very slowly, unable to concentrate. Something seemed to be keeping the meaning of the text at a distance from his brain, making it vibrate like the echo of the archivist’s voice in the vaulted corridors. But he forced himself to persevere. The language was ancient, and many of the words were incomprehensible. Above all, the order of the words in the sentences seemed very unnatural—a real jumble. But he had to make do with what he’d got. This was the first time he’d ever consulted texts as old as this, dating from some five centuries ago. Gradually, encouraged by deciphering a bit of meaning here and there, he found himself progressing more easily. Most of the dreams were described very briefly, in two or three lines, some in just one, and this made the going less difficult than he’d thought it would be at first. If it hadn’t been for the interpretations underneath the texts, he could have read the whole file in a few hours.

  Mark-Alem felt his fatigue disappear. His eyes were gradually getting used to the outmoded characters, and he was beginning to find the strange syntax amusing. Little by little the skimpy, mutilated lines drew him into their own universe. His imagination was filled with a vision of the plain of Kosovo in northern Albania, where he had never set foot: a dreamlike and confused vision, the combined product of several hundred drowsy brains. And as if this weren’t enough, these vague and meaningless visions were accompanied by interpretations which made them even more difficult to grasp. Yet, perhaps because of the common anxiety felt by all the dreamers on the brink of that fatal day, and perhaps because this anguish was shared by those appointed to scribble them down, the motley collection of individual dreams possessed a curious unity. Before dawn, when the plain was still wet only with dew, in the minds of the sleeping soldiers it had filled with pools of blood which grew thicker and darker as night fell. Into the earlier pools flowed new streams of blood, soon to grow gradually darker, but never dark enough to be indistinguishable from the old. Then, at dusk, the end of the fighting, with the defeat of the Balkan allies and the murder of the Sultan just as he was rejoicing in victory. Then came the Sultan’s tent, where his body was taken, his death kept hidden from the army; the secret meeting of the Viziers; the dispatch of a messenger to fetch Jakub Tchelebi, one of the Sultan’s two sons. “Come, your glorious father has sent for you. …” The prince entering the tent, thinking his father had really summoned him, and then his own murder, hacked to death in cold blood by the Viziers to avoid a power struggle between the two brothers …

  Mark-Alem rubbed his eyes as if there were a mist veiling his sight. What was the truth, then? Could it ever be found when its very roots were in dream? What’s more, there was no clear frontier between the dream and the reality. Everything to do with the battle on the plain—the lie of the land, the bad weather, the different incidents, the eyewitness accounts—all was confused and tangled. The white souls of three hundred thousand Balkan soldiers in their last agonies formed a vast blizzard swirling over the earth. Why was the Great Sultan running wildly through the flying snowflakes as if to flee with them? “Where are you going, Padishah? Pull yourself together!” Selim the janissary had cried out in his sleep, and on waking had hastened to tell of his dream. Further on, Prince Jakub Tchelebi, drenched in blood, ran across the plain in the form of a maneless horse. And here again were pools of blood, summer, winter, the seasons intermingled, with the plain covered simultaneously with rain and sunshine, snow and greenery, flowers and icy desolation. It would have to rain for weeks, months, to wash away all that blood. And the snow would have to come and turn everything white for all that suffering to seem to be covered over. But next spring, when little streams began to trickle through the spotless drifts, they would carry little clots of blood along with them, as if the snow itself had been wounded. And that is why, O Allah, in any kind of weather, winter or summer, in wind or silent rain, that plain there in northern Albania …

  Mark-Alem suddenly remembered that he and his mother were invited to the Vizier’s house that evening. It was the night of the traditional dinner party when they listened to the Balkan bards. This time, as well as the Bosnians, there’d undoubtedly be the Albanese rhapsodists Kurt had invited.

  Mark-Alem shut the files and stood up. His head ached from reading too much, or perhaps because of the coal fumes, which were worse in the basement than on the higher floors. He nodded at the assistants on duty and left. His footsteps echoed along the corridor. What time could it be? He had no idea. At ground level it could easily be lunchtime, or the middle of the afternoon, or perhaps evening. For a moment he felt quite anxious: What if he was late for dinner? But he soon stopped worrying. The time couldn’t have gone by as fast as that. The dinner seemed to belong to a different universe somewhere up above, almost in the clouds, while down here, to right and left of him, behind the blank walls of the corridors, in thousands upon thousand of files, lay the sleep of the whole world. He could feel his eyelids drooping. What’s happening? he thought. What was this somnolence that was creeping over him? For a moment he was terrified, but then he told himself it must be the effect of the coal fumes…. “What are you doing here all on your own? Why don’t you come and join us? Most of us are over here… .”

  Mark-Alem mended his pace so as to get to the circular corridor as fast as possible, but it still didn’t appear. The farther he went the more lost he felt. What if he collapsed and lost consciousness in these empty corridors? Again he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Why on earth did I ever come down here? he asked himself. He began to walk so fast he was almost running. The sound of his own footsteps, multiplied by the echo, increased his terror. I will not go to sleep! he told himself. No, I won’t fall into your trap!

  Heaven knows how long he would have rushed along like that if a man hadn’t suddenly appeared in front of him at an intersection.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the stranger anxiously.

  “Nothing,” said Mark-Alem. “Where’s the way out?”

  “But you look so pale—have you heard what happened?”

  “What? I’m just looking for the way out… .”

  “I wondered if you’d heard anything. You’re as white as a sheet… .”

  “Perhaps it’s the fumes… .”

  “I just thought… .”

  “How can I get out of here?”

  “This way,” said the other.

  Mark-Alem was tempted to say, “But you look pale too—why are you so upset about me?” But he didn’t want to lingèr even for a moment. Let me get out of this hole as soon as possible, he groaned inwardly.

  At last he spied the stairs, and sped up them three if not four at a time. As he paused on the ground floor, out of breath, he thought he heard a sound. When he turned around he was astonished to see a group of men in long capes vanishing in the distance down the corridor.

  On the second floor he passed another group, a bunch of gloomy-looking individuals. The sound of footsteps came from the other corridors. What were all these comings and goings? he wondered, and he thought again of the man he’d met in the corridor down by the Archives. Something must be going on in the Palace. He hurried on, eager to get back to Interpretation. From the dreariness beyond the window-panes he could tell that daylight was fading.

  “Where’ve you been all day?” asked his neighbor, back in the office.

  “I was down in the Archives.”

  The other stared. It was only a week since he’d been put to work next to Mark-Alem, but that was long enough to show him that the newcomer was addicted to gossip, especially whispere
d political gossip, clandestine and dangerous—the more dangerous the better. It was strange he hadn’t yet found out that Mark-Alem was a Quprili.

  “There’s something going on,” said this fellow, leaning over close to Mark-Alem. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Mark-Alem shrugged.

  “I noticed some stir in the corridors. But that’s all I know,” he answered shortly.

  “The head of the section was sent for three times, and each time he came back looking terrified. They’ve just sent for him again, but he isn’t back yet.”

  “What can it be about?”

  “Who can say? It might be anything.”

  Mark-Alem almost told him about the frightened-looking man he’d seen in the basement, but that would only have unleashed a flood of whispering. He remembered what the archivist had said about the Master-Dream officers working all night in the Archives. Yes, there was definitely something going on.

  “It might be anything,” whispered his neighbor. To avoid attracting attention he kept his head still and spoke out of the comer of his mouth. “Anything, from the sacking of some officials to the closing down of the Palace itself.”

  “The closing down of the Tabir Sarrail?”

  “Why not? With all this upset … these strange comings and goings in the corridors … I’ve worked here for years; I know the ways of the place by now. And I don’t like the look of what’s been going on today. After that, anything can happen… .”

  “Has the Tabir ever been closed?” quavered Mark-Alem.

  “What a question!” muttered the other. “Woe betide us if that happens! … As a matter of fact, I have known certain dark periods when the Sovereign issued a special decree suspending the analysis of dreams. But that happens only rarely, very rarely, you know. When it does, the only dreams that are studied are those of the Sovereign. Then it’s as if the Tabir Sarrail had gone into mourning. You’d think it was some sort of ruin, with the staff roaming round the corridors like souls in torment. Everything seems on the point of giving up the ghost. Everyone just waits, chilled to the bone, for the day to end. And from that state of affairs to the closing down of the Tabir, it’s only a stone’s throw… .”

  Mark-Alem could feel a lump creeping up from his stomach to his throat. He vaguely remembered what the Vizier had said. Wasn’t this the eventuality he’d hinted at, without wanting to put it into words? His neighbor droned on, but Mark-Alem had stopped listening. His head was thudding fit to burst, his thoughts were inextricably confused… . In the course of his endless conversations with the Vizier, not to mention their last interview, he’d got the idea that the worse things were for the Palace of Dreams, the better they would be for the Quprilis. So the unluckier today proved to be for the Tabir, the more reason he himself ought to have to rejoice. But it wasn’t like that at all. The uncertainty all around him, far from giving him pleasure, only made him more afraid.

  He listened to his neighbor’s mumblings, but could scarcely make out a word. The other man seemed to be talking to himself. Mark-Alem remembered asking his grandmother one day: “Grandma, why do you talk to yourself?” And she answered: “To pretend there’s two of us, dear. So as not to feel lonely… .” Mark-Alem felt like heaving a sigh, as his grandmother had done then. They were all so lonely, sitting totally cut off from one another at cold desks strewn with crazy visions conjured up by the minds of strangers… .

  “But why?” said Mark-Alem faintly, interrupting the other’s babble. “Why is it happening?”

  “Why is it happening?” The twisted lips of his neighbor seemed to aim at Mark-Alem not words but an icy grin. “My God, how can anyone ever ask ‘Why?’ in this place? Can you ever find out the reason for anything here?”

  Mark-Alem sighed. The windowpanes were quite dark now. Night had fallen. The light from the lamps cast a feeble glow on the brows bent over their desks.

  “Hey, here comes the boss,” said his neighbor. “Back at last.”

  Mark-Alem glanced where the other was pointing.

  “He doesn’t look as upset as all that to me,” he whispered.

  “Doesn’t he?” Then, after a pause: “No, you’re right. He looks better to me too. Let’s hope there’s good news.”

  Mark-Alem felt a pang of anxiety.

  “He looks quite pleased, actually.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that. But he doesn’t look as worried as he did.”

  “Roll on the end of the day!” said Mark-Alem, gazing at his boss. He thought he saw a feverish gleam in his eye. “God help us!”

  “The day will end all right,” said his neighbor. “But shall we be able to go home?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On a day like this we might well have to stay here all night.”

  Mark-Alem remembered he was supposed to be going to the Vizier’s that evening, and was about to mention the fact to his neighbor. Anyhow, he thought, I can ask permission to go. Surely they wouldn’t dare prevent him from going to dinner with his influential uncle? He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. What if all this were just imagination? After all, they were only talking about suppositions with no foundation yet in fact. The people in the corridor, the changing expressions of the head of the section—that wasn’t much to go on! That neighbor of his was crazy. Mark-Alem didn’t know how he could have let himself get carried away by his maunderings.

  The bell for the end of work made him start. Mark-Alem’s eyes met those of his neighbor, and he almost shouted, “You see, you idiot—you got me all worked up for nothing! It’s just a day like any other—there’s the bell ringing at the usual time. What did you want to go and frighten me like that for?”

  The other was the first to close his file; then he hurried out with a glance at Mark-Alem that seemed to say, “You get off too while you’ve got the chance!”

  Mark-Alem followed. The corridors and stairs were swarming with people, and the thud of anonymous footsteps seemed to shake the building to its foundations. He added his own to the rest, with the relief of a frightened man hiding himself in a crowd. Two or three times he got the feeling that it was just an ordinary end to a day, but immediately afterward he felt the opposite. He looked at the other people out of the corner of his eye, and thought he could see a flush on their cheeks reflecting some deep inner fever. Not just ordinary excitement, but a seething impatience at the prospect of the unknown. Rubbish, he told himself. There’s nothing of the kind in those faces drawn with fatigue and worn out by the ravings of dreams. It’s my own nerves that are to blame… .

  When he got outside the building he extricated himself from the crowd, and the farther away he got from them, the more absurd his apprehensions seemed. It’s that madman that got me down, he thought. The scene between the two of them was really comical.

  He looked for a cab, to get home more quickly. He didn’t want to be late for that dinner. He put his hand up two or three times, but either because they didn’t notice him or because they were engaged, the drivers didn’t stop. Mark- Alem wasn’t the sort of person to stand on the curb and shout, “Hey, cabby!” He preferred to walk, even if it was raining or snowing, rather than call attention to himself. Luckily there weren’t as many pedestrians as usual, so he got along quite fast. If it was like this all the way home he’d have time to change and perhaps have a bath before dinner.

  Lost in thought, he had almost forgotten his recent fears when something—he didn’t realize exactly what it was at first—a gasp of surprise, a rapid footfall, a whisper?—made him look up and glance toward the crossroads. Two patrols were stationed in the middle, looking at the passersby suspiciously. What was going on? Before he had time to hazard a guess, he caught sight of another patrol a little farther on, and then another. There were soldiers everywhere. The anguish he thought he’d left behind at the door of the Palace of Dreams now swept over him again. The other people in the streets were also peering unobtrusively at the patrols. Some turned around for a last look as they walked away.<
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  After he’d gone on for a while without seeing any more uniforms, Mark-Alem thought, Perhaps it’s only a coincidence? People were going in and out of the little taverns scattered along the street, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of alarm anywhere. And there was the cafe called The Nights of Ramadan, with music coming out of it as usual. Yes, he said to himself for the umpteenth time, it must be a coincidence. Anyhow, hadn’t he seen patrols there before? He could even remember they’d been there then to check people’s identity. Yes, obviously a coincidence. The Central Bank was close by; who knows, perhaps they were expecting an attempt at armed robbery and were taking precautions.

  It seemed to Mark-Alem there were more sentries than usual outside the Ministry of Finance, but he didn’t have the heart to look and make sure. The streetlamps shed a sinister light. He mumbled, “To the devil with all of them!”—not sure whom he meant. The trembling he’d tried to repress had returned. By the time he reached the Palace of the Sheikh-ul-Islam he was sure this unusual activity owed nothing to chance, and something really was going on. A large group of soldiers and policemen, almost half a battalion, was massed outside the wrought-iron railings. “There’s something going on,” he muttered. Something … But what? A plot? An attempted coup d’état? A siege? He wanted to hasten on, but couldn’t. His legs felt like cotton. Hurry up, he told himself, but he knew all effort was useless. He thought of the dinner, and of the old custom, which was even mentioned in the epic, that decreed that a Quprili never canceled a dinner party.

  On the Crescent Bridge he saw more helmeted soldiers, but he was now in such a state that nothing could affect him either way. At last he reached his own street with its somber chestnut trees, and saw lights on the second floor of his house. He could make out the shape of a vehicle outside the gate and, as he drew near, saw the letter Q carved on the carriage door. He heaved a sigh of relief and went in.

  THE DINNER

  vi