The Palace of Dreams

by Ismail Kadare

  He stood as if stunned for a moment when he reached the endless corridor on the ground floor. It wasn’t dark yet, but the shadows were gradually enfolding everything. The last vestiges of daylight came in through a window a long way up from the floor. There was no reason for him to hurry. He could just stroll about rather than go and shut himself up between the repulsive walls of the office before he had to. The corridor was completely deserted, and he suddenly felt quite pleased to be able to walk up and down alone in this vast empty space, with the big window at one end letting in a light that had faded to gray even before it passed through the dust on the windowpanes.

  Mark-Alem, having just reached the stretch of corridor below the window, looked up at the rectangle of light as though from the bottom of an abyss. He was just about to go around the corner when suddenly, in this universe of the deaf and dumb, he thought he heard a noise. He stopped and listened. It sounded like footsteps approaching. Perhaps it’s the caretakers checking that the doors are shut, he thought. He was about to go on when more sounds rooted him to the spot. This time they were nearer, and seemed to come from another passage that crossed the main corridor. Mark-Alem flattened himself against the wall and waited. My God, he exclaimed inwardly when he saw a group of people coming out of the side passage carrying on their shoulders a black coffin. They didn’t notice him, and disappeared down a continuation of the passage from which they had come. It must be that dreamer from the provinces, he thought, as the sound of footsteps faded in the distance. He looked about him. He was just where he’d been the day he saw the sentry outside the solitary rooms. My God, he thought again—it must be him!

  As he went up the stairs he was filled with ever-increasing anguish. He’d often thought of the unfortunate dreamer, but he’d never thought he’d end up like this! Sometimes he’d even looked for the copyist in the cafeteria to ask what had become of the prisoner—whether he’d been finally freed or was still there. But apparently the poor wretch hadn’t been able to forget his dream completely. Or was it decreed in advance that whoever was summoned to the Tabir Sarrail must meet with a similar end? Monstrous! he thought, surprised at his own sudden indignation. You’re not satisfied with all the rest that you destroy—you have to devour human beings as well!

  When he got back to his desk he found a new file on it, which the supervisor had put there while he was away. He looked through it almost with hatred, and found it contained no more than five or six pages. He would have to study all of them that evening. The lamps had already been lighted in the room. It was colder than before; no one had put any coal on the stoves since noon. He started to read the description of the first dream, and after a few lines realized it took up the whole page and, which was very rare, seemed to be continued on the next.

  Mark-Alem turned over the page, and saw that the description of the dream didn’t end even there. Nor did it end on the next page. In short, to his amazement, the whole file was devoted to a single dream. He’d never come across such a long account. This must be a very special dream, he thought, and started to skim through it without stopping to look at the name and address of its author. He was going to have to spend the whole night struggling with this lengthy farrago, which was bound to turn out to be indecipherable. What a prospect!

  And the dream did indeed prove to be a farrago. Such frenzied stuff was usually given to the most brilliant of the interpreters. It was even said that a long time ago a special file had been opened for this kind of thing both in Selection and in Interpretation. It was called the Frenzy File. But afterward, for reasons never quite satisfactorily explained (the real explanation was said to be the tendency to regard this file as the last straw), the practice was abandoned and such ramblings were allocated to the usual groups of dreams, according to their content. But still the supervisors in the various offices were careful to give such material to the most skillful members of staff. Mark-Alem didn’t know how to take the fact that he’d been allocated a file of this kind. Was it an exaggerated mark of confidence in his abilities on the part of the bosses in Interpretation, or was it some kind of a trick?

  Meanwhile, he went on studying the description of the dream more and more feverishly. It really was extraordinary. It started with a gang of scarecrows roving over a treeless plain which was reeking with plague generated by tiger corpses dating from the eleventh century. The whole of the first page was devoted to a description of the progress of these vagabonds, who apparently cursed a volcano called Kartoh, Karetoh, Kartokret, or something of the sort. (Its name crumbled as fast as its west face collapsed.) Meanwhile a fantastic star was shining over the plain. Then the delirious dreamer, who happened to be nearby, tried to sink into the ground, and while doing so came upon a fragment of light, like a diamond buried in the matrix of an ordinary day in universal time—an indissoluble, unbreakable fragment which even fire couldn’t destroy. The brightness of the fragment of light emerging from the mud had dazzled the dreamer. And so, blinded, he had come to in hell.

  What an idiot, thought Mark-Alem. He must certainly be out of his mind! But he went on reading. The other part of the text was a description of hell, but a different hell from the one people usually imagine, a hell inhabited not by human beings but by dead States, their bodies stretched out sprawling side by side: empires, emirates, republics, constitutional monarchies, confederations… . Hmmm, thought Mark-Alem. Well, well … Apart from everything else, the dream he’d thought so inoffensive at first sight was dangerous. He turned back the page to see the name of the bold fellow who’d sent it in, and read: Dreamed in the second half of the night of December 18 by guest X—at the Inn of the Two Roberts (pashalik of central Albania).

  The wily fellow, he thought with some relief, he cleared out! (For a second he saw in his mind’s eye a coffin covered in black material, now undoubtedly heading for the capital’s main cemetery.) This one saw the danger at the last moment and skedaddled… . Mark-Alem settled down on his chair and went on reading. The States that were dead and gone to hell didn’t suffer the punishments generally thought to be inflicted on men. What’s more, an unusual feature of this particular hell was that its inmates could escape and come back to earth. Thus one fine day some States that had been dead for a long time and reduced to skeletons might slowly arise and reappear in the world. Only, like actors making up for another part in the same play, they had to make a few adjustments: They changed their names, emblems, and flags, though basically they remained exactly the same as before.

  Well, well, thought Mark-Alem again. Accustomed as he’d always been from childhood to conversations about the State and about government affairs, he soon guessed the so-called dreamer’s purpose. It was clear to him that apart from the earlier part of it, the dream was a fabrication. He found it strange that it had got through Selection. Or perhaps, because of its provocative aspect, it had been let through for ulterior reasons. But what were they? And why had the dream been sent to him in particular? Especially in this way, as a matter of urgency, to be dealt with after office hours. A chill ran down his spine. Meanwhile, his eyes went on scanning the text: I saw the State of Tamburlaine being painted so as to cover up the bloodstains, for it was getting ready to revive; and farther on I saw the State of Herod, where the same process was under way. That State was said to be returning to earth for the third time, and it would go on reviving again and again indefinitely after seeming to collapse….

  Mark-Alem straightened the papers with trembling fingers. The provocation was obvious. But he wasn’t going to fall into the trap. He would show them what he was made of. He would pick up his pen and annotate the dream: “Invented as a provocation against the State for such and such a purpose, and involving the following insinuations.” Yes, that’s what he’d say! According to the person who’d sent in the dream, all modern States, including the Ottoman Empire, were merely old, bloodthirsty institutions buried by time, only to return to earth as specters.

  Mark-Alem liked this way of putting it, and was just about to
commit it to paper when he was suddenly assailed by doubt. Suppose someone said: “How is it you’re so well informed about such things, Mark-Alem?” He put down his pen. He simply mustn’t expose himself like that. He’d better rephrase his comments in a more restrained fashion. Something like: “Invented, with a suggestion of provocation, its suspect character reinforced by the fact that no name or address is supplied.”

  Yes, that’s what he’d put. But anyhow, there was no sense in rushing things. All the clerks who’d been kept on late were still there. Mark-Alem looked round. The pallid light made the room, with its thin scattering of clerks, look even more dismal than usual. It was getting colder and colder. He shouldn’t have taken off his overcoat. How much longer would they have to stay? He noticed that only two of the clerks were writing; the rest, like him, had buried their heads in their hands and were thinking. Had they been given normal dreams, or wild imaginings, like the one assigned to him? Perhaps his was the only one like that? The wild ones were fairly rare, like sharks caught in a net among ordinary fish. Anyhow, it was possible that the other dreams were like his. Think of the sudden irruption of the head of the section, and so late—almost at the end of the usual working day. Something must have happened. Mark-Alem shivered again.

  One of the other clerks got up at last, handed in his file to the supervisor, and went out. Mark-Alem picked up his pen, but reminded himself he still had plenty of time, and put it down again. It wouldn’t take him more than a quarter of an hour to write his comment. He could still put it off for a while. His head was full of gloomy thoughts.

  Half an hour later, another clerk left. Mark-Alem’s feet were frozen. It occurred to him that if he sat there much longer his hands would get too cold to write, and this finally shook him out of his lethargy. He began his comment. At one point he heard another clerk get up and leave, but he didn’t look up to see who it was. When he’d finished, there were three other people left in the room beside himself and the supervisor. I’ll wait for one more to go, he told himself, and then I’ll get up. For some strange reason he thought of the strangely named Inn of the Two Roberts, where the dream had originated or been fabricated. He tried to imagine the swarthy-faced traveler departing at the crack of dawn with a diabolical grin on his face, having left the sealed envelope in the letter box fixed to the inn door.

  His musings were interrupted by the creak of a chair. Another clerk had gone. Now there were only two left besides himself, and he decided it would be best if he, as a newcomer to the section, left last or at least next to last. He waited for one of the others to go. Now I’ll get up, he thought. Perhaps the supervisor was hoping the two who were left would get a move on.

  Mark-Alem straightened up and shut his file. It must be very late. To judge by his drawn features, the supervisor was as exhausted as the rest. Mark-Alem went over and handed him his file.

  “Good night!” he whispered.

  “Good night,” answered the other. “Do you know the way out? It’s late, and all the doors of the Tabir are shut.”

  “Really?” It was the first he’d heard of it. “How do we get out then?”

  “Through Reception, and then through the courtyard at the back,” said the supervisor. “You won’t have been there before, but you can’t miss it. At this hour only the lights in the corridors leading that way are still on. All you have to do is follow them.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Mark-Alem got out in the corridor he saw that the supervisor was right; the lamps were lighted on only one side. He made off as instructed, listening to his own footsteps as he went; they sounded different in all that solitude. What if I get lost? he thought two or three times. Perhaps it would have been better if I’d left at the same time as one of the others who know the way. The farther he went the more nervous he felt. Still following the lights, he turned off the main corridor into a side passage, then came out again into another corridor so long he could scarcely see the end of it. The whole place was deserted. The faint glow of the lights faded into the distance. He went down two or three steps into another, very narrow passage with a vaulted ceiling. Here the lights were fewer and even more dim. How long is this going to last? he wondered. At one point he almost expected to see the men carrying the coffin appear around a corner, still wandering through the endless corridors of the vast building. If I keep on walking like this I’ll go crazy, he thought. Perhaps if he just stopped and waited, someone would turn up and show him the way out. Or would it be better to go back to Interpretation and start out afresh with the other two? This last course seemed the wisest, but here again there was a problem. What if he couldn’t find the way back? The devil alone knew if these feeble lights would really lead him there.

  Mark-Alem pressed on, his mouth dry despite his attempts to reassure himself. After all, what did it really matter if he did get lost? He wasn’t on some vast plain or in a forest. He was merely inside the Palace. But still the thought of getting lost terrified him. How would he get through the night amid all these walls, these rooms, these cellars full of dreams and wild imaginings? He’d rather be on a frozen plain or in a forest infested with wolves. Yes, a thousand times rather!

  He hurried on faster. How long had he been walking now? Suddenly he thought he heard a noise in the distance. Perhaps it’s only an illusion, he told himself. Then, after a little while, the sound of voices burst out again, more clearly this time, though he still couldn’t tell what direction it came from.

  Still following the row of lights, he went down another two or three steps and found himself in another corridor, which he deduced must be on the ground floor. The sound of voices faded for a few moments, then returned, nearer. Straining his ears, Mark-Alem walked on as fast as he could for fear of losing what now seemed to him his only hope. But the sound kept coming and going, without ever fading away completely. At one point it seemed close by, but a moment later it was far away again. Mark-Alem was practically running by now, his eyes fixed on the end of the corridor, where a faint square of light came in from outside. Please, God, let it be the back door! he prayed.

  And it was. As he approached a little nearer he could see it was a door. He took a deep breath, and his whole body relaxed so suddenly he could scarcely stay upright. He tottered a few more steps in the direction of the door, which channeled into the corridor not only cold air but also the noise he’d heard intermittently before.

  When he reached the threshold an extraordinary sight met his eyes. The rear courtyard of the Palace was filled with light from lamps very different from those inside—a murky brightness dimmed by fog in some places, while in others patches of wet glittered on the flagstones. The place was full of men, horses, and wagons, some with their lights on, some with them off, all rushing to and fro in nightmarish confusion. The lurid glow of the lights, together with the whinnying of the horses careering through the mist, produced an almost supernatural spectacle.

  Mark-Alem stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe his eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked a passerby who was carrying an armful of brooms.

  The other turned and looked at him in surprise, but noticing that Mark-Alem wore the badge of the Tabir on his overcoat, answered amiably enough:

  “It’s the carriers of dreams, aga—can’t you see?”

  Was it really them? Why hadn’t he thought of it? There they were, rushing about in their leather tunics and muddy boots. The wagons, their wheels, too, covered with mud, all had the emblem of the Tabir at the back.

  His eye lighted on a lean-to shed to the right of the courtyard; there were lights on inside, and the carriers of dreams were going in and out. That must be Reception, where the staff was said to go on working all around the clock. Mark-Alem started to walk across the slippery flagstones amid the clamor of men and vehicles, some of which were trying to find a place to draw up. He headed without thinking for the Reception shed, meaning to take refuge there. But the uproar inside was even worse than that out in the courtyard. Dozens of dr
eam-carriers stood by the long counters. Some had already completed their business at the delivery windows, while others awaited their turn. Some were drinking coffee or salep, some were eating rolls and delicious-smelling meatballs.

  Mark-Alem found himself being jostled by the hefty shoulders of men in leather tunics who gave way casually to let him by, chewing, laughing, and uttering loud oaths.

  So these were the famous dream-carriers, whom ever since he was a child he’d imagined as almost divine couriers driving back and forth along the roads of the Empire in their blue wagons. Some were bespattered with mud not only on their boots but almost all over; perhaps they’d had to right an overturned wagon or get a fallen horse to its feet. Their faces showed signs of anxiety, sleeplessness, and physical exhaustion. Their speech, like everything else about them, was as different as it could be from that of the sedentary staff of the Tabir. It was coarse, arrogant, and peppered with vulgar expressions. Mark-Alem, though completely lost in the midst of such an uproar, began to catch a phrase or two here and there. News from all over the Empire was to be heard here. The messengers told about the ups and downs of their journeys, their quarrels with the dim-witted clerks they had to deal with in the provinces, with drunken innkeepers, and with sentries at the roadblocks set up in troubled pashaliks.

  A hoarse voice attracted Mark-Alem’s attention. Without turning to look at its owner, he tried to make out what he was saying.

  “My horses refused to go on,” said the man. “They whinnied and snorted, but they wouldn’t budge an inch. I was all alone on the steppe on the way out of Yenisehir, a remote little town where I’d collected a few dreams—five in all for a whole month, so you can tell what a dead-and-alive hole it was. So there were my horses, stuck. No matter how I lashed out with the whip they stood rooted to the spot, as they usually do when there’s a death in their path. I looked around. There was nothing there but the empty steppe: no graves, not a sign of any tomb anywhere. I was just wondering what to do when I suddenly thought of the file of dreams I’d picked up in Yenisehir. It struck me it might be because of them the horses were petrified. Aren’t sleep and death close neighbors? So I opened my bag as fast as I could, took out the Yenisehir file, then got down and went and dumped it some distance away on the plain. When I climbed back on the wagon and urged the horses forward, they started up straightaway. Blow me down, I thought, so that was it! I stopped again and went back and collected the file, but as soon as I put it back in the cart the horses started acting up again just as before. What could I do? I’ve transported thousands of dreams, but I’d never had a thing like that happen to me before. So I decided to go back to Yenisehir without the file, which I left out there in the middle of the steppe.