Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

Still rather thrilled by his little discovery, he read the text of the dream—casually at first, and then more and more carefully. He couldn’t find any particular significance in it. But that didn’t worry him. A lot of dreams didn’t seem to have any meaning at first—they were like smooth cliffs where you couldn’t get a foothold—but a tiny flash of inspiration might reveal a clue. He’d manage to find the key to this dream as he had with others. After all, he had a certain amount of experience now. The wasteland covered with rubbish, the old bridge, the strange musical instrument, and the furious bull—these were all very significant symbols. But he couldn’t make out what it was that linked them together. And in the interpretation of a dream the relationship between the various symbols was usually more important than the symbols themselves.

Mark-Alem arranged them in pairs: the bridge with the bull, and the musical instrument with the patch of wasteland; then the bridge with the instrument, and the wasteland with the bull; and finally the bull with the musical instrument, and the bridge with the wasteland. The last arrangement seemed to yield a certain amount of meaning, but it wasn’t very logical: a bull (unbridled brute force), stirred by some music (treachery, secrecy, propaganda), is trying to destroy the old bridge. If, instead of a bridge, it had been a column or the wall of a citadel, or some other symbol representing the State, the dream might have had a certain amount of meaning; but a bridge didn’t stand for anything like that. Like fountains and roads, it was usually a symbol for something useful to man…. Just a minute though, thought Mark-Alem, suddenly finding himself short of breath. Wasn’t the bridge connected with his family’s own name?… Perhaps this was some sinister omen?

He reread the text and began to breathe more freely again. The bull wasn’t really attacking the bridge at all. It was just rushing around the piece of wasteground.

It’s a dream without any meaning, he thought. The pleasure of having come across it again was succeeded by a feeling of contempt. He remembered now that even when he’d seen it in Selection it had struck him as devoid of significance. He’d have done better to throw it in the wastepaper basket there and then! He dipped his pen in the inkwell and was about to mark the dream “Insoluble,” when his hand remained poised in suspense. What if he left it and came back to it again in the morning? What if he asked the supervisor for advice? Though of course, while you were allowed to ask for advice, they didn’t like you to do so too often. Mark-Alem started to get impatient. The best thing was to get on and have done with the file. He’d spent more than enough time on it already….

He took up the last dream, dealt with it briskly, then went back to the one he’d left in abeyance. He was just hesitating and wondering again whether to mark it “Insoluble,” file it away, and go home, when the head of Interpretation entered the room. He exchanged a few words in a low voice with the supervisor, looked around as if to count those who had stayed on, then whispered something else to the supervisor.

When he had gone:

“You and you,” said the voice of the supervisor.

Mark-Alem looked around.

“And you two over there. And you too, Mark-Alem—you’re all to stay on. The boss has just told me there’s an urgent file that has to be worked out this evening.”

No one said anything.

“While it’s on its way, go down and have something in the cafeteria. We may have to stay on late.”

They trailed out of the room one after the other. Out in the corridor they could hear the turning of keys and the shooting of bolts coming from various directions. The last stragglers were going home.

The cafeteria was particularly depressing at this late hour. The few remaining assistants, their faces drawn with fatigue; the tables pushed aside so that the floor could be swept—it all looked very melancholy. Mark-Alem asked for a salep and a roll, and went to stand at the farthest end of the counter. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He drank his salep calmly and nibbled mechanically at his roll, and when he’d finished he went slowly out again, looking neither left nor right.

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!