The Palace of Dreams by Ismaíl Kadaré, Barbara Bray Page A

depicted in a trite and metaphysical manner, would really take place. Weren’t dreams, after all, messages sent from the dead as harbingers? The immemorial appeal of the dead, their supplication, their lamentation, their protest—whatever you cared to call it—would one day be answered in this way.
    Others shared this point of view, but provided it with a completely different explanation. When dreams emerged into the harsh climate of our universe, this argument ran, they would sicken and die. And so the living would break with the anguish of the dead, and thereby with the past as well, and while some might see this as a bad thing, others would see it as a liberation, the advent of a genuinely new world.
    Mark-Alem was sick and tired of all this hairsplitting. But what he found still more trying were the long insipid days when no one said anything, nothing happened, and all he had to do was crouch over his file and pass from one sleep to another. It was like being in a fog that every so often seemed about to lift but most of the time remained as thick and gloomy as ever.
    It was Friday. They must be quite excited in the Master-Dream officers’ room. The Master-Dream would already have been chosen, and they’d be getting ready to send it off to the Sovereign’s palace. A carriage emblazoned with the imperial arms had been waiting outside for some time, surrounded by guards. The Master-Dream was about to go, but even afterward the section would be in a commotion; the previous tension would persist, or at least people would be curious to know how the dream would be received at the Sultan’s palace. They usually had some account by the following day: The Padishah had been pleased; or the Padishah hadn’t said anything; or, sometimes, the Padishah was dissatisfied. But that happened only rarely; very rarely.
    Anyhow, it was livelier in that section than in the others; the days had some pattern to them. The week went by more quickly, looking forward to Friday. In all the other sections there was nothing but boredom, monotony, and dullness.
    And yet, thought Mark-Alem, everyone dreamed of working in Interpretation. If they only knew how long the hours seemed here! And as if that weren’t enough, a permanent cloud of apprehension hung over everything. (Ever since the stoves had been lighted, it seemed to Mark-Alem that this constant anxiety gave off a smell of coal.)
    He bent over his file and started to read again. By now he was comparatively familiar with the work and had less difficulty in finding meanings for the dreams. In a few days’ time he would have finished off his first file. There were only a few pages left. He read a few boring dreams about such things as black stagnant water, an ailing cockerel stuck in a peat bog, and a case where one of the guests was cured of rheumatism at a dinner attended by giaours. * What stuff! he thought, laying down his pen. It’s as if they’d saved the worst till the last. He thought of the rooms of the Master-Dream officers as someone in particularly depressing circumstances might think about a house where there was going to be a wedding. He’d never seen these rooms, and didn’t even know what part of the Palace they were in. But he was sure that unlike the other offices, they must have tall windows that reached up to the ceiling, letting in a solemn light that ennobled everyone and everything.
    “Ah well …” he sighed, taking up his pen again. He made himself work without stopping until the bell rang to announce the end of the day. There were two pages still left unexamined in his file. He might as well read them now and have done.
    All around him arose the racket made by the other clerks as they left their desks and made for the door. But after a little while silence was restored, and the only people left in the room were the people who’d decided to stay on late. Mark-Alem felt oppressed by the emptiness left by the departure of most of his colleagues. He’d felt the