Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

“So the Palace of Dreams is no mere whim or fancy; it is one of the pillars of the State. It is here, better than in any surveys, statements, or reports compiled by inspectors, policemen, or governors of pashaliks, that the true state of the Empire may be assessed. For in the nocturnal realm of sleep are to be found both the light and the darkness of humanity, its honey and its poison, its greatness and its vulnerability. All that is murky and harmful, or that will become so in a few years or centuries, makes its first appearance in men’s dreams. Every passion or wicked thought, every affliction or crime, every rebellion or catastrophe necessarily casts its shadow before it long before it manifests itself in real life. It was for that reason that the Padishah decreed that no dream, not even one dreamed in the remotest part of the Empire on the most ordinary day by the most godforsaken creature, must fail to be examined by the Tabir Sarrail. And there’s another imperial order that is still more fundamental: The table drawn up after the dreams of every day, week, and month have been collected, classified, and studied must always be absolutely accurate. To this end not only is there an enormous amount of work to be done in processing the raw material, but it is also of the utmost importance that the Tabir Sarrail should be closed to all external influence. For we know there are forces outside the Palace which for various reasons would like to infiltrate the Tabir Sarrail with their own agents, so that their own plans, ideas, and opinions might be presented as divine omens scattered by Allah among sleeping human brains. And that is why letters of recommendation are not allowed in the Tabir Sarrail.”

Mark-Alem’s eyes involuntarily shifted to the burned paper now quivering on the embers.

“You’ll be working in the Selection department,” the official went on in the same tone as before. “You might have begun in one of the less important sections, as most new employees do, but you’re going to begin in Selection because you suit us.”

Mark-Alem glanced furtively at the quivering remains of the letter, as if to say, “Haven’t you gone yet?”

“And remember,” said the other, “that what’s expected of you above all is absolute secrecy. Never forget that the Tabir Sarrail is an institution totally closed to the outside world.”

One of his hands rose from the table and wagged a menacing forefinger.

“Many, both individuals and whole factions, have tried to infiltrate us, but the Tabir Sarrail has never fallen into the trap. It stands alone and apart from human turmoil, outside all competing opinions and struggles for power, impervious to everything and without contacts with anyone. You may forget everything else I’ve just told you, but there’s one thing, my boy, which, I repeat, you must always bear in mind. And that’s secrecy. This isn’t a piece of advice. It’s the order of orders in the Tabir Sarrail…. And now, get to work. Ask in the corridor where the Selection department is. The people you’re going to work with will have been told all about you before you get there. Good luck!”

Out in the corridor Mark-Alem was at a loss. There were no passersby from whom he might ask the way to Selection, so he started off at random. Scraps of what the senior official had said were still ringing in his ears. What’s happening to me? he thought, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. But instead of dispersing, the echoes of the words he’d just heard only clung to him all the more obstinately. He even had the impression that in this wilderness of corridors they ricocheted off the walls and colonnades, acquiring a resonance even more sinister than before: “You’ll be working in Selection, because you suit us….”

Without knowing why, Mark-Alem began to walk faster. “Selection.” He kept repeating the word in his mind, and now he was alone it struck him as sounding very odd. He caught a glimpse of a figure a long way away down the corridor, but couldn’t tell whether it was receding or approaching. He was tempted to call out to it, or at least wave, but it was much too far away. He walked faster still, almost ready to break into a run, shout, do anything so as to overtake the man who now seemed to him to represent his only chance of salvation in this endless corridor. As he hurried along he heard the sound of heavy footsteps somewhere to his left. He slowed down and listened. The footsteps, rhythmical and threatening, were coming from a side corridor opening into the main one. Mark-Alem turned and saw a group of men marching along silently, carrying large files. The covers of the files were the same color as the cupolas and the ushers’ uniforms—pale blue with a tinge of green.

As the group passed him, Mark-Alem asked timidly, “Please, could you tell me how to get to Selection?”

“Go back the way you came,” answered a hoarse voice. “I suppose you’re new here?”

Mark-Alem had to wait for the other to get over a fit of coughing to be told that the fourth corridor on the right would take him to the stairs leading up to the second floor, and that he should ask for further instructions there.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” replied the stranger.

As he moved on, Mark-Alem heard him still coughing desperately and finally gasping, “I think I must have caught a cold.”

It took Mark-Alem more than a quarter of an hour to find the Selection offices. The people there were waiting for him.

“I suppose you’re Mark-Alem,” said the first clerk he came across, before he’d had time to speak.

He nodded.

“Come with me,” said the other. “The boss is waiting for you.

Mark-Alem followed obediently. They went through a series of rooms where dozens of clerks sat at long tables, poring over open files. None of them showed the slightest interest in either him or his guide, whose shoes clattered on the floor as he walked.

Like the others, the boss sat at a table with a couple of files open in front of him. The man escorting Mark-Alem went up to his superior and whispered something in his ear. But Mark-Alem had a feeling the boss hadn’t heard. His eyes went on devouring the closely written pages in one of the files, yet Mark-Alem had a fleeting impression that on the edge of his glance there lurked, like a dying wave, the outer fringe of something fearful, though its epicenter was far away.

Mark-Alem hoped his escort would whisper to the boss again, but he showed no inclination to do so. He just stood there calmly, waiting for his superior to finish with the file.

He had to wait some time. It seemed to Mark-Alem as if the boss would never look up; as if he himself would be stuck there indefinitely, perhaps until office hours were over, or even longer. The whole room was plunged in silence. The only sound was the faint one made by the boss when he turned a page. At one point Mark-Alem noticed he’d stopped reading and was just staring vaguely at the file. He seemed to be thinking over what he’d just read. This went on for some time, perhaps for as long as the time he’d spent actually reading. Eventually the boss rubbed his eyes as if to remove one last mist from them, and looked up at Mark-Alem. The fearsome wave, which had already lost much of its force when Mark-Alem first saw it, had now completely disappeared.

“Are you the new one?”

Mark-Alem nodded. Without more ado the boss stood up and began to walk between the long tables. The other two followed. They went through several rooms which Mark- Alem sometimes did and sometimes didn’t think he’d been through before.

When he saw a table in the distance with an unoccupied chair behind it and an unopened file on top, he realized this must be his place. And sure enough, the boss stopped and pointed at a spot between the table and the empty chair.