Ismail Kadarе - The Palace of Dreams

Out in the corridor he had no need to ask the way. Everybody was going in the same direction. Those in the main corridor were joined by an endless stream of others from the side corridors. Mark-Alem mingled in the human tide, now advancing shoulder to shoulder. He was impressed by the number of people employed in the Tabir Sarrail. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, especially on the stairs. After descending one flight they went down a long straight corridor, then down another lot of stairs. Mark-Alem noticed that the windows grew narrower on every landing. It seemed to him they must be heading for some kind of basement. By now all the people were crowded together in one mass. He could make out the separate scents of coffee and salep even before they got to the refreshment room. It reminded him of breakfast in their own big house. He was filled with another wave of delight. In the distance he could see long counters with dozens of assistants handing out steaming bowls of salep and cups of coffee. He let himself be swept toward the counters. Amid the general hubbub you could hear people sipping their coffee or herb tea, brief bursts of coughing, the clink of coins. A lot of these people seemed to have colds, unless after being silent for hours on end they needed to clear their throats before starting to speak.

After being pressed into a queue, Mark-Alem found himself stuck near a counter, unable to move either forward or back. He realized other people were pushing in front of him, reaching over his head to take cups or pay for them, but he was determined not to let it bother him. Anyhow, he didn’t really want anything to eat or drink. He stayed where he was, shunted back and forth by the crowd, his only concern to do the same as everyone else.

“If you don’t move yourself you won’t get anything to drink!” said a voice behind him. “You might let me through, at any rate!”

Mark-Alem made way at once. The person who’d spoken, apparently surprised by his eagerness to oblige, looked round curiously. He had a long ruddy face with nice round cheeks. He stared at Mark-Alem for a moment.

“Have you just been taken on?”

Mark-Alem nodded.

“Yes, that’s obvious.”

He took another couple of steps toward the counter, then turned and said, “What’ll you have? Coffee or salep?”

Mark-Alem was tempted to say, “Nothing, thanks,” but that might have seemed odd. And wasn’t he supposed to be trying to be like everyone else and not draw attention to himself?

“A coffee,” he whispered, but moving his lips enough for the other to understand what he was saying.

He felt in his pocket for some change, but meanwhile his new acquaintance had turned around again and reached the counter. Mark-Alem, waiting, couldn’t help hearing snatches of the conversations going on around him. They were like fragments being ground up by some great millstone. But now and then a few audible words or even whole sentences would escape briefly, no doubt to be crushed at the next turn of the wheel. Mark-Alem strained his ears to listen and was astonished at what he heard. These people weren’t talking about the Tabir Sarrail at all, but about the most trivial and ordinary things, such as the cold weather, the quality of the coffee, the races, the national lottery, the flu epidemic in the capital. Not a single word about what went on in this building. You’d have thought they were officials in the Land Office or some ordinary ministry, not that they worked in the famous Palace of Dreams, the most mysterious institution in the whole Empire.

Mark-Alem saw his new friend emerging from the crush, a cup of coffee balanced precariously in either hand.

“This queueing—what a bore!” he said, still holding on to both cups as he tried to steer a way to a table that was free among the scores or even hundreds scattered around the room. No chairs were provided, and the tabletops were bare. They served merely as ledges to lean on, and a place to leave empty cups.

The other man finally found a free table and set down the coffees. Mark-Alem shyly offered the coins he’d been holding in his hand. The other waved them away.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Thank you!”

Mark-Alem picked up a cup of coffee, still clutching the money in his other hand.

“When did you start?” asked his companion.

“Today.”

“Really? Congratulations! Well, you’re right to…” He let the sentence trail off and took a sip of coffee. “What section are you in?”

“Selection.”

“Selection?” the other exclaimed, as if surprised. He smiled. “Well, you’ve certainly made a good start. People usually begin their career in Reception, or even lower down, in the copying section.”

Mark-Alem suddenly wanted to find out more about the Tabir Sarrail. A small chink had appeared in his former reticence.

“So Selection’s an important department, is it?” he asked.

The other stared at him.

“Yes, very important. Especially for a young recruit…”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean especially for someone who’s just been appointed?

“And what about in general? Not just for someone young, but in general?”

“Yes, of course. In general it’s regarded as a crucial department. Of the utmost significance.”

Now it was Mark-Alem’s turn to stare.

“Naturally there are sections that are more important still….”

“Interpretation, for instance?”

The other lowered his cup.

“Well, well—you’re not such a novice as you seem,” he said with a smile. “You’ve learned quite a lot already, considering it’s your first day!”

Mark-Alem was tempted to smile back, but realized it was too soon to make so bold. The icy carapace that seemed to cover his face this extraordinary morning hadn’t quite melted yet.

“Of course, Interpretation is the very essence of the Tabir Sarrail,” the other went on. “Its nerve center, its brain, so to speak, for it’s there that the preliminaries carried out in the other sections take on their real significance….”

Mark-Alem listened feverishly.

“And the people who work there are known as the aristocrats of the Tabir?”

His companion pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

“Yes. Something like that. Although of course…”

“What?”

“Don’t go thinking there aren’t any others above them.”

“And who are they?” asked Mark-Alem, surprised at his own audacity.

The other looked back at him calmly.

“The Tabir Sarrail is always bigger than it seems,” he said.

Mark-Alem would have liked to ask him what he meant, but was afraid of presuming too far.

“In addition to the ordinary Tabir,” went on the other, “there’s the secret Tabir. The dreams that are analyzed there are not sent in by people themselves—they’re obtained by the State through methods and means of its own. You’ll appreciate that that’s a section no less important than Interpretation!”

“Of course,” replied Mark-Alem, “although…”

“Although what?”

“Don’t all the dreams, whether they’re sent in spontaneously or collected by the secret Tabir, end up in Interpretation?”

“As a matter of fact, all the sections but one are duplicated—they all have offices both in the ordinary Tabir and in the secret one. Only the Interpretation department is a single service common to both. However, that doesn’t mean it’s superior in the hierarchy to the secret Tabir as such.”

“But perhaps it’s not inferior either?”

“Perhaps. There’s a certain amount of rivalry between them.”

“In short, both those sections constitute the aristocracy of the Tabir.”