The Palace of Dreams

by Ismail Kadare

  The door of the café opened, admitting some officials from the foreign consulate opposite. They still come and have coffee here, thought Mark-Alem. The acrobat’s table fell silent for a moment. In the old days Mark-Alem, too, used to be rather thrilled when foreigners came into a place where he was, and used secretly to admire their European dress. But now, strangely, he found even foreigners devoid of mystery.

  This was the time of the morning when the café was at its most crowded. Mark-Alem recognized some of the staff of the Vakoufs’* Bank, which was no more than a stone’s throw away. Then the policeman who’d just got off traffic duty came in. The next customers were people Mark-Alem didn’t know. Stifled laughter arose from the acrobat’s table. Laugh away, he thought. For frivolous fellows like you, the world is a bed of roses.

  But then, suddenly, like a dark cloud, there came back to him the dinner party two days before at the house of his powerful uncle, the Vizier. Mark-Alem hadn’t seen him for nearly a year, and he’d trembled, as always, when he got home from work and saw his carriage with the Q on the doors waiting outside the house. But he’d been even more shaken to learn from his mother that the Vizier had sent the carriage to fetch him, and was waiting to see him.

  Although the Vizier had greeted him warmly, Mark-Alem thought he looked tired and morose. His eyes were dull, as if he’d slept badly. As for his speech, it was full of pauses, and he seemed to be swallowing most of what he had to say. The worries inherent in power, thought Mark-Alem. His uncle asked him about his work, and he, at first with some awkwardness and then more and more freely, started to describe its various aspects. But the Vizier listened absently, and seemed to be thinking of something else. Soon, when Mark-Alem thought he’d just told him something interesting, he blushed to realize that not only was his uncle aware of everything that went on in the Tabir Sarrail, but he knew much more about it than all the people who worked there. The Vizier then talked to him about it, speaking in a slow voice, with many pauses, and leaving many things unexplained. Nevertheless, Mark-Alem learned much more about the Tabir Sarrail in those few minutes than in all the time he’d worked there.

  They were alone—something that had never happened before—each with a cup of coffee in front of him, and Mark-Alem still didn’t know why his uncle had sent for him. He was still talking in a low voice, every so often poking at the coals in the brazier, which appeared to interest him rather more than Mark-Alem did. The Vizier spoke about the Quprili family’s relations with the Palace of Dreams. As his nephew might have heard, these relations had been extremely confused for some hundreds of years. It looked as if he was about to add something, perhaps about the Quprilis’ feverish efforts to abolish the Palace of Dreams, but apparently he changed his mind, for he sat silent for some time, clutching the poker nervously and prodding at the coals.

  “It’s no secret to anyone,” he said finally, “that a few years ago the Tabir Sarrail was under the influence of the banks and the owners of the copper mines, whereas more recently it has grown closer to the Sheikh-ul-Islam faction. What of it? perhaps you’re wondering. Well, it’s of the greatest importance! It’s not for nothing that one hears it said everywhere nowadays that whoever controls the Palace of Dreams possesses the keys of the State.”

  Mark-Alem had indeed heard talk on this subject, but never anything as outspoken, and certainly not from the lips of so senior a government figure. He was taken aback, and as if all that wasn’t enough, the Vizier went on and asked him if he knew what became of the myriads of dreams that were examined in the Tabir Sarrail. Mark-Alem, red in the face, shrugged and said he didn’t know. He was so mortified he’d have liked to sink through the floor. As a matter of fact, he had occasionally asked himself the question, and had naively supposed that once the Master-Dream had been selected, like wheat from chaff, all the useless dreams were bundled up and sent down to the Archives. But as soon as the Vizier asked the question, he told himself it was absurd to think such a mountain of dreams, after having produced the rare flower of a Master-Dream, would just be discarded. Now the Vizier explained that while the choice of a Master-Dream was the main task of the section concerned, hence its name, it was not its only function. The Master-Dream officers were also required to write notes alerting the main institutions of the State to matters of interest, as well as reports and other secret studies on such subjects as the psychoses from which the various classes and races of the Empire suffered.

  Mark-Alem drank in his uncle’s words. Naturally, the Vizier stressed, the Master-Dream was of prime importance, especially at times like this, and above all as regards their own family. He stared at his nephew for some time, as if to make sure he really understood that the Quprilis had never been concerned with ordinary dreams, but only, almost exclusively, with Master-Dreams.

  “Do you see what I mean?” he said, his eyes veiling over, dark but glittering. “It’s toward the Master-Dream that they all converge … all the …”

  Again his speech grew halting.

  “There are a lot of rumors going around on this subject. I shan’t say whether they’re true or false, but what I do want to tell you is that a Master-Dream can bring about great changes in the life of the State… .”

  A gleam of irony appeared briefly in his eye.

  “It was a Master-Dream that suggested the idea for the great massacre of the Albanian leaders at Monastir. I suppose you’ve heard of it? And it was a Master-Dream that caused the change of policy toward Napoleon, and the fall of Grand Vizier Yussuf. There are countless examples… . It’s not for nothing that the power of your director, who seems quite modest and doesn’t have any title, is said to rival the influence wielded by us, the most influential of the viziers… .”

  He gave a bitter smile.

  “And if he can rival us,” he said slowly, “it’s because he has great power at his disposal, and power not founded on facts.”

  Mark-Alem hung on his uncle’s lips. Great power not founded on facts … he marveled to himself as the Vizier went on, explaining that no directive ever had or ever could come from the Tabir, nor did the Tabir need it to. It launched ideas, and its own strange mechanism immediately endowed them with a sinister power, for they were drawn, according to him, from the immemorial depths of Ottoman civilization.

  “As I was saying, we Quprilis have often had dealings with Master-Dreams… .’’he almost hissed. “They have often struck at us.”

  Mark-Alem remembered the nights of whispers and anxiety. In his mind’s eye he saw Master-Dreams as vipers striking out with their forked tongues. The Vizier’s speech was becoming more and more confused. Every so often one of his preoccupations would emerge, but he hastily covered it up again.

  “You should have gone into the Tabir Sarrail before,” he said, “but perhaps even now it’s not too late… .”

  More interruptions and hesitations. Mark-Alem couldn’t understand what he was driving at. It was clear he didn’t want to reveal what he was really thinking. But I can see his point, thought Mark-Alem. He’s a statesman, and I’m only a humble clerk. Anyhow, he was leading him to understand—he was almost saying it explicitly—that he, Mark-Alem, hadn’t got his job in the Tabir by chance. And he must elbow his way in, try to find out all about the way it functioned, and above all keep his eyes open so that, when the time came …

  But so that what? And what time? He almost asked, but didn’t dare. It was all so obscure… .

  “We’ll talk about it again,” said the Vizier, but Mark-Alem could sense that he still couldn’t bring himself to be open with him. He would keep coming back to a point in the conversation that he’d left in suspense, shed a few rays of light on it, then hastily shroud everything in darkness again.

  “I expect you’ve heard it said that at times of crisis the power of the Tabir Sarrail tends either to decline or to increase. This is one of those times, and unfortunately the power of the Tabir is growing.”

  Mark-Alem didn’t dare ask what the crisis was. He seemed to hav
e heard about some project for big reforms that had greatly annoyed the clergy and the army, but he didn’t really know much about it. Could the Quprilis be mixed up in that?

  “This is a crucial time,” said the Vizier. “The Master-Dream may strike again… .”

  Mark-Alem concentrated, so as not to miss a word. There was a long silence.

  “The question is,” said the Vizier at last, “which of the two worlds dominates the other… .”

  Off he goes again, groaned Mark-Alem to himself. Just as he seemed on the point of saying something!

  “Some people,” the Vizier went on, “think it’s the world of anxieties and dreams—your world, in short—that governs this one. I myself think it’s from this world that everything is governed. I think it’s this world that chooses the dreams and anxieties and imaginings that ought to be brought to the surface, as a bucket draws water from a well. Do you see what I mean? It’s this world that selects what it wants from the abyss.”

  The Vizier leaned closer to his nephew. His eyes now shone with a fearsome yellow light, the color of sulfur.

  “They say the Master-Dream is sometimes a complete fabrication,” he whispered. “Has that ever occurred to you?”

  Mark-Alem went cold with fright. A fabrication? The Master-Dream? He could never have imagined a human mind daring to think such a thing, let alone say it in so many words. Still, the Vizier went on telling him the things that were said about the Master-Dream. Every now and then Mark-Alem thought, My God, it’s obvious that that’s what he thinks himself! … He still hadn’t got over his amazement, and the Vizier’s voice reached him as through the roar of an avalanche. So people said some Master-Dreams were forgeries; that they were fabricated in the Tabir Sarrail by the employees themselves, in accordance with the interests of powerful rival political groups or with the mood of the Sovereign; that if not entirely, they were at least partly doctored.

  Mark-Alem had an almost irresistible desire to fling himself at the Vizier’s feet and implore him:

  “Get me out of there, Uncle! Save me!”

  But he knew very well he could never do such a thing, even if he knew his work was going to lead him to the scaffold.

  As he went home from the Vizier’s house that night he felt anguish still nagging at him. The carriage bowled along through now unlighted streets, and sitting there in that black landau with a Q marked on each side like a fatal brand, he felt as if he were some solitary night bird flying in limbo between two worlds, and no one knew which world governed the other… .

  He had to keep his eyes open for when the time came … But how would he know when the time came? What angel or demon would come to warn him, how would he recognize them, and with whom should he get in touch through the mists of the Tabir Sarrail?

  Mark-Alem remembered this episode in the café, turning his empty cup round and round. Even now, several days later, his chest was constricted with the same apprehension. Then something made him turn toward the table occupied by the acrobat Ali’s admirers, who had stopped chatting and were all goggling at him.

  Mark-Alem was vexed. Apparently the cafe owner had told them he was working in the Tabir Sarrail. Mark-Alem knew the fellow couldn’t hold his tongue, but even so … ! Still, he could go to the devil, he and the other busybodies with him! He probably wouldn’t come to the café again more than two or three times in the next few months. Perhaps not so often; perhaps not at all.

  The place gradually emptied as lunchtime approached. The foreign diplomats left; so did the bank clerks. The acrobat’s admirers also got up and went, after one last astonished glance at Mark-Alem. Only the blind men didn’t move. They’d stopped talking some time ago, and now sat stiff-necked, the way people do when they are angry with all and sundry. Those silent faces seemed to be saying: “Well, are affairs of State going better now that our eyes, which were supposed to harm them, have been put out? From all we hear the world is still the same as it used to be, if not worse.”

  At last Mark-Alem paid for his coffee, left, and began walking slowly home. After a while he was sorry he hadn’t taken a cab. When he turned into his own street he heard voices whispering: “He works in the Tabir Sarrail now… .” He pretended not to have heard, and walked on with his head held high. The chestnut seller and the policemen at the corner greeted him with special respect. They too must have found out where he worked, and in their eyes there was a kind of wonder, as if they could scarcely believe they were still seeing him in the flesh instead of in some immaterial form.

  He noticed a shape beyond the panes of a window in the house opposite. He knew that two pretty sisters lived there. He usually liked to think of them, but today even the window that generally attracted him seemed empty.

  So my first visit to the world of the living is nearly over, he thought as he opened the door into the courtyard. As he moved, there was a sound like the rustle of wings, as if breezes from the beyond still clung to his body. A few nights ago, at the Vizier’s house, he’d been shattered at the thought that he was risking death, but now the idea left him completely indifferent. The world was so dreary it wasn’t worth tormenting oneself at the thought of losing it.

  He opened the house door and went in without looking around to see what he was leaving behind him. Tomorrow … he thought, conjuring up the cold rooms and the files on the desks that awaited him. Tomorrow he’d be back in that strange world where time, logic, and everything else obeyed quite different laws. And he told himself that if he was ever given another day off, he wouldn’t go into the town again.

  * Members of the Muslim clergy.

  THE ARCHIVES

  Directly after the morning break Mark-Alem was told the supervisor wanted to see him. Walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb anyone, he made for his superior’s desk. From a few feet away he recognized, lying on top of it, the file he’d handed in to him earlier that day.

  “Mark-Alem,” said the supervisor, “I think it might be a good thing if for one of these dreams”—he flicked rapidly through the file—“here, this is the one… .I think for one of these dreams, this one, to be precise”—he plucked out the relevant page—“it might be a good idea if you went down to the Archives and looked up the interpretation previously given to this kind of thing… .”

  For a moment Mark-Alem looked at the page, with his own explanation of the dream written at the bottom. Then he looked back at the supervisor.

  “Please yourself,” said the other, “but I think you should take my advice. I have a feeling this dream is important, and in such cases it’s usually wise to refer to past experience.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But…”

  “Haven’t you ever been to the Archives?” the supervisor interrupted.

  Mark-Alem shook his head. The supervisor smiled.

  “It’s very easy,” he said. “There are people there specially to help. You have only to tell them what kind of dream you want to consult them about. This is a particularly easy example: Dreams dreamed just before deadly confrontations are all kept together. I’m sure that if you glance at a few of them it’ll help you to solve this one better”—tapping the sheet of paper he was holding.

  “Of course,” said Mark-Alem, holding his hand out for it.

  “The Archives are downstairs in the basement,” said the supervisor. “You’re bound to meet someone in the corridors who’ll tell you the way.”

  Mark-Alem walked steadily out of the room. Out in the corridor he took a deep breath before making up his mind which way to go. Then he remembered he had to go down to the ground floor first and start inquiring there.

  He did this, and it took him nearly half an hour to get to the basement. Now what? he wondered when he found himself alone in a long vaulted passage feebly lighted by lamps attached to the walls on either side. Thinking he could hear footsteps not far off, he hurried along to join the unknown person making them; but the footsteps hurried too. He stopped; the other did the same. Then he realized that the footsteps were his own.
God, he thought, it’s always the same in this wretched Palace! How much would it have cost to put up a few notices showing the way to the various departments? By now he’d come to suspect that this corridor was circular. Every so often he still thought he could hear distant footsteps, but they could just as easily have been the echo of his own, or those of people on other floors. But strangely enough, he now felt quite peaceful. Whatever happened he was bound to find his way out, as he had done the other times. He was used to this kind of misadventure now. As he walked along he discovered that the circular passage was crossed by others of varying widths, but he didn’t dare go along any of them for fear of getting lost. After half an hour it seemed to him he was back where he started from. I’m just going around in a circle like a horse on a threshing floor, he thought.

  He stopped for a moment, breathed deeply, then resolutely advanced again. This time he turned into the first side passage he came to. He soon had reason to congratulate himself, for after he’d gone a few steps he saw a door in one wall. There was another door farther along. This must be where the confounded Archives are, he thought with relief, though he couldn’t decide which of the two doors to knock at. He went on, and more doors appeared on either side. He went up to one of them, but still didn’t knock. I’ll try the next one, he promised himself, but once again his resolution evaporated. How could he just burst in, not even knowing where he was? Perhaps it would be better to wait until a door opened of its own accord and someone came out that he could ask. He halted, undecided. But what if someone came along, saw him standing there like a sentry, and asked him: “Hey, you—what do you think you’re doing here? …” What a bore, he thought, and started walking again. He felt as though he’d done nothing else since he came to work in the Palace but wander round the corridors without ever finding what he was looking for. Oh, to hell with hesitations! Here goes! he said to himself, and banged loudly on the next door he came to. His hand sprang back at once, and if he could he would have tried to take back his knocks, but alas, they had irrevocably thundered out inside. He waited a few seconds; no voice was to be heard from within. He made up his mind and knocked again, then turned the door handle. But the door didn’t open. It must be locked, he thought, and all my dithering was pointless. He walked on a bit and knocked at another door. This one was locked too. He tried others. They were all shut. Where am I then? he wondered. This can’t be the Archives.