Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

He shrugged and didn’t answer.

“I was worried about you,” she whispered. “What misfortune has befallen us now?”

He could see that most of the guests had now moved into this room. Every so often a voice could be heard asking, “What’s going on in there? How much longer is this going to last?”

“Have they taken Kurt away?” asked Mark-Alem’s mother.

“I think so.”

She’s keeping herself under control, he thought. She’s not a Quprili for nothing. But he noticed she was as white as a sheet.

All of a sudden, through the communicating doors between the two drawing rooms, they could hear piercing cries, followed by a scuffle and a groan.

Mark-Alem made to join those of the guests who were rushing toward the doors, but his mother held him back.

From the other room came more cries, then the sound of a body falling to the floor.

“Was ist los?” said the Austrian.

“The doors are locked.”

Every face was pale with fear.

Mark-Alem felt his mother’s fingers gripping his arm like a vise. From beyond the door came another heartrending cry, cut off short.

“Who was that?” someone asked. “That voice…”

“It wasn’t the Vizier.”

They heard the sound of a body falling heavily, and a terrifying “Ah!”

“My God, what’s going on?”

For a few moments everyone was silent. Then, through the silence, a voice said:

“They’re murdering the rhapsodists.”

Mark-Alem buried his face in his hands. From the other room came the clatter of boots receding in the distance. Someone started twisting the door handles.

“Open up, for the love of God!”

The door into the main drawing room was still locked. But another one opened, onto an inner corridor, and a voice shouted: “This way!”

The guests filed out like shadows, except one who had fainted and slumped onto a chair. The corridor was feebly lighted and full of the sound of footsteps. “Have they killed Kurt?” asked someone. “No—but they took him away.” “This way, ladies and gentlemen,” said a valet. “You can get out this way.” “Wo ist Kurt?”

The little procession of guests came out into the main corridor by the larger drawing room, in which some vague figures could be seen through the frosted glass in the doors. Mark-Alem wrenched free from his mother’s grasp and went over to find out what was happening. One of the doors was ajar, and through the gap he could see part of the drawing room. Everything was turned upside down. Then he caught sight of the lifeless bodies of two rhapsodists stretched out close together on the floor. A third corpse lay a little way farther off, near an overturned brazier; its face was half covered with ashes.

The policemen had gone. Only the footmen were left, walking silently over a carpet strewn with broken glass. Mark-Alem caught a glimpse of a motionless image of the Vizier hanging on the wall, and by pushing the door a bit farther open he could see the Vizier himself, still in the same rigid attitude as before. My God, it all happened in front of his very eyes! thought Mark-Alem. And it seemed to him the Vizier’s eyes had something in common with the splinters of glass scattered all over the floor.

Suddenly he felt his mother’s hand seize him and pull him resolutely toward her. He hadn’t the strength to resist. He felt like vomiting.

The hall was almost empty. Through the open front door he could see the lights of the carriages driving away one after the other.

“Everyone else has gone,” breathed his mother almost inaudibly. “What are we going to do?”

He didn’t answer.

One of the footmen put out the center lights. Beyond the doors of the main drawing room, still the same silent coming and going. After a few minutes the footmen brought out the corpses of the rhapsodists, carrying them by their arms and legs. The face of the third, the one that was half covered with ashes, looked particularly horrible. Mark-Alem’s mother turned her head away. He himself was hard put to it not to vomit, but despite everything, he felt he couldn’t leave. The last footman came out with the musical instruments. Soon afterward all the servants went back into the drawing room.

“What shall we do?” whispered Mark-Alem’s mother.

He didn’t know what to answer.

The drawing-room doors were now wide open, and they could see the footmen rolling up the bloodstained carpet.

“I can’t go on looking at this much longer,” she said. “It’s too much for me.”

They were putting out the lights in the drawing room, too, now. Mark-Alem looked around, incapable of making any decision. The other guests must all be gone by now. Perhaps he and his mother would do well to leave too? But perhaps they ought to stay, as near relatives usually do when there’s a misfortune in the family. Even if they wanted to go home they couldn’t have done so. They lived a long way away—too far to walk, especially on a night like this. As for finding a cab, there was no point in even thinking about it.

Most of the lights were out now. Just a few lamps were left burning here and there on the stairs and in the corridors. The huge house grew full of whispers. A few flunkeys came and went like shadows, carrying candlesticks which cast yellow gleams along the passages.

Mark-Alem’s mother groaned from time to time. “My God—what was that ghastly business?”

After a while a door creaked and the Vizier emerged out of the shadows of the drawing room. Moving slowly, like a sleepwalker, he went straight up the darkened staircase.

Mark-Alem’s mother touched his hand.

“The Vizier! Did you see him?”

A few moments later a footman hurtled down the stairs and out of the front door. Almost at once they heard the sound of a carriage driving rapidly away.

Mark-Alem and his mother stayed for some time in the semidarkness, watching the little flames of candles being carried hither and thither. No one bothered about them. In silence they went out of the front door, which had been left ajar, and made their way to the tall iron gate. The sentries were still on duty. Mark-Alem didn’t have a very clear idea of the way home. His mother remembered even less, having always made the journey in a closed carriage.

After an hour they were still walking, and beginning to wonder if they were lost. Soon they heard the sound of carriage wheels approaching fast. They flattened themselves against the wall to let the vehicle pass, and as it did so Mark-Alem thought he saw a Q carved on one of its doors.

“I believe that was the Vizier’s carriage,” he whispered. “Perhaps the same one that set out a little while ago.”

His mother didn’t answer. She was shivering in the cold and damp.

A short time later another carriage brushed by them equally impetuously, and although there were no street lights, Mark-Alem thought he saw the letter Q again. Despite the darkness he even waved his arms in the hope that the carriage would stop and drive them home. But it galloped off into the mist. Mark-Alem concluded it was foolish to expect help from anyone tonight, this night of anguish full of capital Qs swooping by like birds of ill omen.

It was long past midnight when they reached home at last. Loke, who’d had a presentiment that something was wrong, was still up. They gave her a brief account of what had happened and asked her to make some coffee to warm them up. There were still some embers left in the brazier, covered with ashes so that Loke could use them to start the fire up again in the morning. But the embers weren’t enough to warm their shivering limbs.

Mark-Alem lost no time going up to bed; but he couldn’t get to sleep.