Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

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.

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.

Hurrying on, he knocked no more, but with a spitefulness he scarcely understood himself, he twisted every doorknob as he went along. He had a wild desire to give those silent doors a good bashing. He would certainly have set about doing so if a door hadn’t suddenly opened when he least expected it. He’d given it such a shove he almost shot into the room. His hand mechanically grabbed for the knob to try to close the door again, but it was too late. The door was now wide open, and as if that weren’t enough, a pair of eyes, amazed at the sudden irruption of this wild-looking individual, were staring at him coldly.

“What’s going on?” said a voice from the other side of the room.

The cold eyes continued to scrutinize Mark-Alem.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, recoiling. “I do apologize…” His brow was covered in perspiration. “Please forgive me!”

“What is going on, Aga Shahin?” said the voice again.

“Nothing of any importance,” the other answered. His eyes still fixed on the intruder, he asked: “What do you want?”

Half dead with embarrassment, Mark-Alem opened his mouth to speak, though he wasn’t very clear what he was going to say. Fortunately, his hand went to his pocket and encountered the piece of paper with the dream on it.