Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

Then suddenly he heard himself being spoken to. His hand groped nervously inside his coat and brought out the letter of recommendation. But he immediately had the impression that he’d done the wrong thing and changed the atmosphere for the worse. For a split second he thought he must have misheard, but just as he was about to put the letter back in his pocket the midget reached out for the envelope. Mark-Alem, reassured, held it out nearer, but his relief was premature, for the other, as before, drew back and wouldn’t touch the letter. Instead, he waved his hand in the air as if to indicate its proper destination. Mark-Alem, somewhat taken aback, realized he was supposed to hand the letter directly to the other official, who was no doubt superior in rank to his escort.

Rather to Mark-Alem’s surprise, the senior civil servant actually took the letter. Even more amazingly, for the visitor had begun to think he would never take his eyes off the door, he opened the envelope and began to investigate its contents. Mark-Alem scrutinized him all the time he was reading in the hope of finding some clue in his face. But instead, something happened that he found really terrifying, filling him with the kind of faint but rapidly mounting panic that is often produced by an earthquake. And what Mark-Alem was feeling was indeed caused by a kind of upheaval. For as he read the letter, the official with the morose expression had slowly risen from his chair. The movement was so slow and so smooth it seemed to Mark-Alem that it would never end, and that the formidable official on whom his fate depended was going to turn into a monster of some kind before his very eyes. He was on the point of yelling, “Never mind! I don’t want the job. Give me back my letter. I can’t bear to watch you uncoiling like that!, ’ when he saw that the process of standing was now over and the official was finally upright.

Mark-Alem was astonished, after all this, to find his host was of merely average height. He drew a deep breath, but once more his relief was premature. Now that he was standing, the official began to walk away from his desk at a pace as deliberate as before. He was making for the middle of the room. But the man who’d brought Mark-Alem here seemed unsurprised, and moved aside to let his superior pass. Now Mark-Alem felt quite reassured. The man must just be stretching his legs after sitting down for too long, or perhaps he suffered from piles, or gout. And to think, Mark-Alem said to himself, I nearly let out a howl of terror! My nerves really have been in a terrible state recently!

For the first time that morning he was able to face his interlocutor with his usual self-assurance. The official still had the letter of recommendation in his hand. Mark-Alem was expecting him to say, “Yes, I know all about it—the job’s yours,” or at least to give him some hope, make him some promise for the next few weeks or months. His many cousins wouldn’t have exerted themselves for nothing, moving heaven and earth for over two months to arrange this appointment. And perhaps it was more important for this functionary, by whom he’d been so unnecessarily terrified, to remain on good terms with Mark-Alem’s influential family than it was for Mark-Alem himself to get on the right side of him. As he watched him Mark-Alem was now so much at ease that for a moment he felt his face might break into a smile. And he’d have allowed it to do so if he hadn’t suddenly been shattered by a new and horribly unexpected development. The official carefully folded up the letter of recommendation, and just as Mark-Alem was expecting some kindly comment, tore it across, twice. Mark-Alem shuddered. His lips moved as if to ask a question or perhaps just to get some air, but the official, as if he hadn’t done enough already, went over and threw the pieces into the brazier. A mischievous flame spurted from the ash-choked embers, then died away leaving scraps of blackened paper.

“We don’t accept recommendations at the Tabir Sarrail,” said the official in a voice that reminded Mark-Alem of a clock chiming through the dark.

He was petrified. He didn’t know what he ought to do— stay there, decamp without more ado, protest, or apologize. As if he had read his thoughts, the man who had brought him here silently left the room, leaving him alone with the official. They were now face-to-face, separated by the brazier. But this didn’t last long. With the same interminable movement as before, the official moved back to his place behind the desk. But he didn’t sit down, He merely cleared his throat as if preparing to deliver a speech, then, glancing back and forth between the door and Mark-Alem, said:

“We don’t accept recommendations at the Tabir Sarrail. It’s completely contrary to the spirit of this institution.”

Mark-Alem didn’t understand.

“The fundamental principle of the Tabir Sarrail resides not in being open to outside influences but in remaining closed to them. Not in openness but in isolation. And so, not in recommendation but in its opposite. Nevertheless, from today you’re appointed to work here.”

What’s happening to me? thought Mark-Alem. His eyes, as if to make sure again of what had taken place, took in the remains of the letter, lying in ashes on the sleeping embers.

“Yes, from this moment on you work here,” said the official again, having apparently noticed Mark-Alem’s appalled expression.

He drew a deep breath, spread his hands out over the desk (which Mark-Alem now noticed was covered with files), and went on:

“The Tabir Sarrail or Palace of Dreams, as it’s called in the language of today, is one of our great imperial State’s most important institutions….”

He was silent for a moment, scrutinizing Mark-Alem as if to assess how far he was capable of taking in the meaning of his words. Then he went on:

“The world has long recognized the importance of dreams, and the role they play in anticipating the fates of countries and of the people who govern them. You have certainly heard of the Oracle of Delphi in ancient Greece, and of the famous soothsayers of Rome, Assyria, Persia, Mongolia, and so on. Old books tell sometimes of the beneficial effects of the seers’ predictions, sometimes of the penalties incurred by those who rejected them or accepted them too late. In short, books record all the events that have ever been told of in advance, whether or not they were actually affected by the forecast. Now this long tradition undoubtedly has its own importance, but it pales into insignificance beside the operations of the Tabir Sarrail. Our imperial State is the first in the history of the whole world to have institutionalized the interpretation of dreams, and so to have brought it to such a high degree of perfection.”

Mark-Alem listened in bewilderment. He still hadn’t quite got over the previous emotions of the morning, and this matter-of-fact flood of abstruse phrases crowned all!

“The task of our Palace of Dreams, which was created directly by the reigning Sultan, is to classify and examine not the isolated dreams of certain individuals—such as those who in the past were for one reason or another granted the privilege, and who in practice enjoyed the monopoly, of prediction through interpretation of divine omens—but the ‘Tabir’ as a whole: in other words, all the dreams of all citizens without exception. This is a vast enterprise, beside which the oracles of Delphi and the predictions of all the hordes of prophets and magicians in the past are derisory. The idea behind the Sovereign’s creation of the Tabir is that Allah looses a forewarning dream on the world as casually as He unleashes a flash of lightning or draws a rainbow or suddenly sends a comet close to us, drawn from the mysterious depths of the Universe. He dispatches a signal to the earth without bothering about where it will land; He is too far away to be concerned with such details. It is up to us to find out where the dream has come to earth—to flush it out from among millions, billions of others, as one might look for a pearl lost in the desert. For the interpretation of that dream, fallen like a stray spark into the brain of one out of millions of sleepers, may help to save the country or its Sovereign from disaster; may help to avert war or plague or to create new ideas.