Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

When he got outside the building he extricated himself from the crowd, and the farther away he got from them, the more absurd his apprehensions seemed. It’s that madman that got me down, he thought. The scene between the two of them was really comical.

He looked for a cab, to get home more quickly. He didn’t want to be late for that dinner. He put his hand up two or three times, but either because they didn’t notice him or because they were engaged, the drivers didn’t stop. Mark- Alem wasn’t the sort of person to stand on the curb and shout, “Hey, cabby!” He preferred to walk, even if it was raining or snowing, rather than call attention to himself. Luckily there weren’t as many pedestrians as usual, so he got along quite fast. If it was like this all the way home he’d have time to change and perhaps have a bath before dinner.

Lost in thought, he had almost forgotten his recent fears when something—he didn’t realize exactly what it was at first—a gasp of surprise, a rapid footfall, a whisper?—made him look up and glance toward the crossroads. Two patrols were stationed in the middle, looking at the passersby suspiciously. What was going on? Before he had time to hazard a guess, he caught sight of another patrol a little farther on, and then another. There were soldiers everywhere. The anguish he thought he’d left behind at the door of the Palace of Dreams now swept over him again. The other people in the streets were also peering unobtrusively at the patrols. Some turned around for a last look as they walked away.

After he’d gone on for a while without seeing any more uniforms, Mark-Alem thought, Perhaps it’s only a coincidence? People were going in and out of the little taverns scattered along the street, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of alarm anywhere. And there was the cafe called The Nights of Ramadan, with music coming out of it as usual. Yes, he said to himself for the umpteenth time, it must be a coincidence. Anyhow, hadn’t he seen patrols there before? He could even remember they’d been there then to check people’s identity. Yes, obviously a coincidence. The Central Bank was close by; who knows, perhaps they were expecting an attempt at armed robbery and were taking precautions.

It seemed to Mark-Alem there were more sentries than usual outside the Ministry of Finance, but he didn’t have the heart to look and make sure. The streetlamps shed a sinister light. He mumbled, “To the devil with all of them!”—not sure whom he meant. The trembling he’d tried to repress had returned. By the time he reached the Palace of the Sheikh-ul-Islam he was sure this unusual activity owed nothing to chance, and something really was going on. A large group of soldiers and policemen, almost half a battalion, was massed outside the wrought-iron railings. “There’s something going on,” he muttered. Something… But what? A plot? An attempted coup d’état? A siege? He wanted to hasten on, but couldn’t. His legs felt like cotton. Hurry up, he told himself, but he knew all effort was useless. He thought of the dinner, and of the old custom, which was even mentioned in the epic, that decreed that a Quprili never canceled a dinner party.

On the Crescent Bridge he saw more helmeted soldiers, but he was now in such a state that nothing could affect him either way. At last he reached his own street with its somber chestnut trees, and saw lights on the second floor of his house. He could make out the shape of a vehicle outside the gate and, as he drew near, saw the letter Q carved on the carriage door. He heaved a sigh of relief and went in.

At first, so as not to worry his mother, Mark-Alem didn’t mention his doubts, but an hour later, as they were getting into the carriage to go to the Vizier’s, he couldn’t help saying:

“There was a certain amount of agitation at the Palace today.”

“What!” she said, gripping his hand. “Agitation? Why?”

“I couldn’t find out anything definite. But on the way home I passed a lot of patrols.”

He felt his mother’s hand tremble against his own, and was sorry he’d spoken.

“But perhaps it’s nothing at all,” he reassured her. “Perhaps they’re just rumors.”

“But what did you hear?” she asked in a choked voice.

“Oh, silly things!” he said, trying to sound casual. “It seems the Sovereign sent back yesterday’s Master-Dream. But perhaps the story’s not true. There could be quite a different explanation for the unusual activity.”

The noise of the carriage wheels breaking the silence was unbearable.

“If the Sovereign really did send the Master-Dream back, that’s not unimportant,” said Mark-Alem’s mother.

“But there really may be nothing to it.”

“That only makes it worse. It means that what’s going on is more disturbing still.”

I shouldn’t have told her anything, though Mark-Alem.

“But what could it be that’s more disturbing?”

His mother sighed.

“How can we tell? I don’t know much about what you do in that place. You’ve mentioned the possibility of mistaken interpretations and sudden inspections. Mark, tell me the truth—you haven’t got mixed up in anything wrong, have you?”

He tried to laugh.

“Me? I really don’t know anything about all this, I swear. I spent the whole of today down in the Archives. It was only when I came back upstairs that I heard that something was going on.”

Through the noise of the wheels he heard his mother fetch another deep sigh, then murmur, “God help us!”

He could just see, through the carriage windows and in the pallid light of the streetlamps, the dark buildings to the right and the left of the road, and here and there a few pedestrians. What if the dinner has been put off? thought Mark-Alem. The closer they got to the Vizier’s palace, the more the thought obsessed him. But he comforted himself with the reflection that this was all the more unlikely because the occasion was connected with the family epic, and thus with the very foundations of the Quprili dynasty. No, it couldn’t possibly have been put off. To tell the truth, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted it to be canceled or not. Anyhow, when he saw the lights by the palace gate and the guests’ carriages drawn up along the pavement, he felt relieved. It seemed to him his mother sighed too, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. There were the Vizier’s guards standing by the gates as usual, and everything else as it always was on such occasions: lighted torches lining the path from the gate to the steps leading up to the front door; the majordomo standing in the entrance; the hall filled with a pleasant smell of mint. You felt it was impossible for the anxieties of the day just ending to pass through the gates of the palace.

Mark-Alem and his mother went into the main drawing room. From two silver braziers in the middle of the room came a comfortable warmth that consorted well with the dark red of the carpets and the gentle hum of conversation.

The guests included a few close cousins, all in high positions, several old family friends, the Austrian consul’s son—a tall fair youth to whom Kurt was talking in French—and two or three other people whom Mark-Alem hadn’t met before. He heard his mother quietly ask a footman where the Vizier was, and the man said he was upstairs but would be down soon. Mark-Alem felt calmer now. The icy dread that had gripped him all the evening like some dank and baneful mist was fading away.