Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

“He’s got reason to worry. Interpretation deserves congratulations more than anyone. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless its interpretation had turned out to be wrong.”

“But in that case, how would it have been corrected? There’s no other section that deals with deciphering after Interpretation. The Master-Dream officials deal only with the choice of dreams, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said the other, somewhat surprised to see Mark-Alem reviving slightly. “It’s hard to puzzle it out. But we still don’t know why the congratulations are late….”

They both plunged back briefly into their files. But neither could read the lines in front of them. What if he knows about my connection with the Quprilis? thought Mark-Alem. But he’d find out about it sooner or later anyway. And the boss must know already, even if he was for the moment concealing the fact that the Quprilis’ downfall was the event of the day. But perhaps the boss had troubles of his own? Come what might, Mark-Alem was sure everyone would soon be looking askance at him, if he wasn’t simply dismissed outright.

“They’ve just sent for the boss again,” whispered his neighbor. “He’s as white as a sheet; have you noticed?”

“Yes, yes…”

“I told you—this delay’s a bad sign. It’s clear there won’t be any congratulations now. Let’s hope there aren’t any…”

“Any what?” asked Mark-Alem in a choked voice.

“Punishments.”

“But why… why should there be any punishments?”

He felt a faint stirring of hope revive deep down inside him. But his face was ashen, and he looked as if he might faint.

“How should I know?” answered the other. “It’s completely beyond me.”

The fellow was getting more and more edgy. The idea that something was going on that he didn’t know about was more than he could bear. He kept looking impatiently either at the inner door, or at the one through which their boss had disappeared, or at the one that opened on to the corridor.

“There’s something going on….’’he muttered. “No doubt about it. It’s awful, awful….”

He was showing his exasperation quite openly now, but it was impossible to tell whether what was awful was what was happening or the fact that he couldn’t find out anything about it.

Mark-Alem had never wished so fervently that his neighbor’s words might be true. He who until now had shuddered at the news that something was going on now prayed with all his heart that something really might be happening. If the congratulations for the wretched dream still hadn’t arrived, and they really were expecting to be reprimanded, this might mean the situation had been reversed at the last minute.

… Out of superstition he dismissed such optimistic conjectures, in case merely thinking of them prevented them from coming true. It certainly would be a miracle….

“It’s as plain as a pikestaff—you’d have to be blind not to see it….” his neighbor hissed angrily, as if it were Mark-Alem who was preventing his theories from proving correct.

Here and there at their desks the clerks were whispering among themselves. Those who were near the windows craned their necks to see outside. Apparently repercussions of what was going on had managed to reach as far as there.

Mark-Alem thought of the carriages with the letter Q on them driving about wildly through the darkness, and for the first time he was really sure something further must have happened since last night. The Vizier wouldn’t have just stood there doing nothing. The way he had controlled his fury when he left the fatal room; the way he had gone upstairs like a sleepwalker—all this suggested he might hit back. And what about the carriage that had driven off into the night, and those his mother and he had seen in the darkness without knowing where they were going to or where they were coming from… ? God, if only it was true!

“I can’t stand it any longer,” said his neighbor. “I’m off to find out what’s what. If anyone asks for me, say I’ve gone down to the Archives.”

He slipped out as quietly as a shadow. As he watched him, Mark-Alem felt a surge of relief. At least he was going to find out something now.

He sat for some time staring at his file, unable to make out a word. He was anxious to hear the latest news, but if his neighbor didn’t come back at once, it must be because he was collecting lots of information. But Mark-Alem made superhuman efforts to stifle unfounded hopes. He knew that another disappointment would finish him off.

Now not only those near the windows kept looking out, but—and this had never happened before—other clerks from nearby tables crowded around to look out, too. There was no denying it; something out of the ordinary was in the air. Mark-Alem looked alternately at the windows, and at the door through which he expected his neighbor to reappear. Could the Sovereign have sent back the Master-Dream as if it were a young bride who turned out not to be a virgin?

He didn’t want to be too hopeful, but what was happening now was simply inconceivable. All the clerks, not only those in the middle of the room but also those on the far side, were crowding around the windows. He saw people get up and go over to look out who had never stirred from their places before, who had seemed to be riveted to their desks, and who not only had never dreamed of going and looking out of the windows, but had probably never even realized that the room they worked in actually had windows.

Mark-Alem was consumed with impatience. He waited and waited, and then did what an hour before would have struck him as ridiculous. He crossed the room and joined the others at one of the windows.

His heart couldn’t have beaten faster if he’d been standing on the brink of an abyss. As a matter of fact, that was what the darkness outside suggested. Various clerks leaned on the window ledges, peering out.

“What’s happening?” whispered Mark-Alem.

Someone turned around and looked at him in amazement.

“Can’t you see what’s going on down in the courtyard?”

Mark-Alem looked where the other was looking. For the first time he realized that these windows looked out on one of the inner courtyards of the Palace of Dreams. The courtyard was swarming with soldiers. From above they looked foreshortened and thin, but their helmets glinted dangerously.

“I can see some soldiers,” said Mark-Alem.

The other didn’t answer.

“But what are they there for?” asked Mark-Alem.

But the other had disappeared.

Mark-Alem glanced down again at the armed men, who looked as if they were made of lead. He was dazed, and thought confusedly of the carriages with the letter Q carved on the doors, which for some reason always made him think of night birds. Because of this confusion he found himself thinking of them sometimes as vehicles and sometimes as owls winging through the dark.

“What’s the matter?” said a voice nearby, in a brief respite between asthmatic wheezings.

“Can’t you see—down in the courtyard?” Mark-Alem answered.

The other man’s breath was making the icy windowpanes mist over. Mark-Alem’s mind seemed to drift away for a moment; then the cold cleared the glass again, and Mark-Alem’s thoughts too. He went slowly back to his desk. His neighbor had returned.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked Mark-Alem. “I’ve been waiting ages for you.”

Mark-Alem nodded toward the window.

“Nonsense! How can you find anything out from up here? But wait till you hear my news. Sensational! They say some of the staff of Interpretation are going to be arrested. Starting with the head of the section.”

Mark-Alem swallowed painfully.