Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

“I’ve come to consult the files… in the usual way… about a dream,” he faltered. “But I think I may have come to the wrong door. I’m sorry—it’s the first time…”

“No, you didn’t come to the wrong door.”

This was the other voice. At first it had come from behind some shelves, and now Mark-Alem located it for the first time. A familiar face, with bright, smiling eyes, now showed itself.

“You!” murmured Mark-Alem, recalling his first morning and the cafeteria where they’d met. “Do you work here?”

“Yes. So you remember me?” said the other kindly.

“Of course. But I’ve never seen you again since that first time.”

“I saw you once when everyone was going home, but you didn’t notice me.”

“Really? I must have been preoccupied—I’d have liked to…”

“You did look rather worried. How’s the work going?”

“Quite well.”

“Still in Selection?”

“No, I’ve been transferred to Interpretation.”

“Really?” said the other, surprised. “You soon got promoted. Congratulations! I’m really glad.”

“Thanks. Is this the Archives?”

“Yes. Did you come to look something up?”

Mark-Alem nodded.

“I’ll help you.”

The archivist whispered a few words to his colleague, whose hitherto cold eyes now showed a lively curiosity.

“What sector do you want to look in?” asked the archivist. Mark-Alem shrugged.

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve been down here.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“I’d be very grateful.”

The archivist led the way out of the room.

“I thought I’d meet you again one day,” he said as they went along the passage.

“I couldn’t find you in the cafeteria.”

“No wonder, in all that crowd…”

Their footsteps kept time as they walked.

“Do the Archives really take up all this room?” said Mark-Alem, nodding toward the network of passages.

“Yes. It’s a real labyrinth. You can easily get lost in it.”

“Thank goodness I met you—I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.”

“Somebody else would have helped you,” replied the archivist.

He walked on in front, while Mark-Alem fretted at not being able to express his gratitude properly.

“Yes, there’d certainly have been somebody else who’d have helped you,” said the other. “But I’m going to show you all around the Archives.”

“Really?” said Mark-Alem, overwhelmed. “But perhaps you’ve got things to do—I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Not at all! I’m only too glad to be able to do a little favor for a friend.”

Mark-Alem was embarrassed, and didn’t know what to say.

“If the Tabir Sarrail is like sleep in comparison with real life,” went on the archivist, opening a door, “the Archives are like a deeper sleep still inside the sleep of the Tabir.”

Mark-Alem followed him into an oval-shaped room with walls covered with shelves up to the ceiling.

“There are dozens of rooms like this,” said the archivist, pointing to the shelves. “You see these files? There are thousands of them. Tens of thousands.”

“And are they all full?”

“Of course,” answered the other, leading the way out again. “But we’ll go to all the rooms and you can see for yourself.”

They were now walking along a narrow passage that seemed to Mark-Alem to slope slightly downward. It was faintly illumined by the light coming from other passages or from the circular corridor.

“Everything is here,” said the archivist, slowing down. “What I mean is: If the world were to end—if the earth collided with a comet, say, and were smashed to pieces; or if it evaporated, or disappeared into the abyss—if the globe just vanished leaving no trace but this cellar full of files, that would be enough to show what it used to be like.”

The archivist turned around, as if to see what effect his words had had on his companion.

“Do you see what I mean? No history book, no encyclopedia, not all the holy tomes and suchlike put together, nor any school or university or library could supply the truth about our world in so concise and complete a form as these Archives.”

“But isn’t that truth rather distorted?” Mark-Alem ventured to ask.

The archivist’s smile looked even more ironic in profile than it would have done seen full face.

“Who can say it’s not what we see with our eyes open that is distorted, and that what’s described here isn’t the true essence of things?” He slowed down outside a door. “Haven’t you ever heard old men sigh that life’s a dream?”

He opened the door, and Mark-Alem followed him in. It was an extremely long room, and as in the previous one the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with shelves full of files. One pile was stacked on the floor, apparently for lack of space. Two men were bustling around by the shelves at the far end of the room.

“What’s your dream about?” asked the archivist. Mark-Alem touched the sheet of paper folded away in his pocket.

“It predicts much loss of life in war.”

“Oh, one of those dreamed just before great slaughter. They’re kept in another section, but don’t worry—we’ll find them. These dreams”—the archivist pointed to the shelves on the left—“are those of the dark people, and the dreams opposite are those of the bright people .”

Mark-Alem would have liked to ask him what he meant, but didn’t like to. He followed him in and out of the narrow passages between the shelves. The other stopped in front of a shelf that was sagging under the weight of all the files on it.

“This is where they keep the dreams about the end of the world according to the inhabitants of places where the winters are very windy.”

He made as if to straighten up the shelf.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the people who come down here are very conceited and objectionable. But I like you—you’re nice, and it’s really a pleasure to show you round.”

“Thank you.”

A low door led off into an adjoining room. The smell of old paper grew more and more pungent, and Mark-Alem was beginning to find it rather difficult to breathe.

“The Resurrection of the Dead…” said the archivist. “Allah, the horrors there are here!… Well, let’s go on a bit. This is Chaos, on all these shelves here—Earth and Heaven all mixed up together. Life-in-death or death-in- life—take your pick. Female life projects. Male life projects… Let’s go on a bit farther. Erotic dreams—all this room and the adjoining ones are full of them. Economic crises, depreciations, income from land, banks, bankruptcies—all that kind of thing is here. And here are conspiracies, too. Coups d’état nipped in the bud. Government intrigues…”

The archivist’s voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther away. Sometimes, especially when the two men were in the corridors leading from one room to another, Mark-Alem could scarcely hear what he was saying. The vaulted ceiling sent back a quavering echo.

“And now… ow… ow… we’re going to see… ee… ee ? the dreams about imprisonment ?

Every time a door creaked, Mark-Alem shuddered. “Dreams of the first period of captivity…” said the archivist, indicating the relevant shelves, “or as they’re also called, dreams of early captivity, to distinguish them from the later ones, the dreams of deep imprisonment. The two kinds are very different. In the same way as first loves are different from later ones. And from here to the end of the room are the files containing the really wild imaginings.”

Really wild imaginings…Mark-Alem couldn’t take his eyes off the shelves. How long would he go on wandering through this inferno?