Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

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.