The Palace of Dreams (15 page)

“It’s no secret to anyone,” he said finally, “that a few years ago the Tabir Sarrail was under the influence of the banks and the owners of the copper mines, whereas more recently it has grown closer to the Sheikh-ul-Islam faction. What of it? perhaps you’re wondering. Well, it’s of the greatest importance! It’s not for nothing that one hears it said everywhere nowadays that whoever controls the Palace of Dreams possesses the keys of the State.”

Mark-Alem had indeed heard talk on this subject, but never anything as outspoken, and certainly not from the lips of so senior a government figure. He was taken aback, and as if all that wasn’t enough, the Vizier went on and asked him if he knew what became of the myriads of dreams that were examined in the Tabir Sarrail. Mark-Alem, red in the face, shrugged and said he didn’t know. He was so mortified he’d have liked to sink through the floor. As a matter of fact, he had occasionally asked himself the question, and had naively supposed that once the Master-Dream had been selected, like wheat from chaff, all the useless dreams were bundled up and sent down to the Archives. But as soon as the Vizier asked the question, he told himself it was absurd to think such a mountain of dreams, after having produced the rare flower of a Master-Dream, would just be discarded. Now the Vizier explained that while the choice of a Master-Dream was the main task of the section concerned, hence its name, it was not its only function. The Master-Dream officers were also required to write notes alerting the main institutions of the State to matters of interest, as well as reports and other secret studies on such subjects as the psychoses from which the various classes and races of the Empire suffered.

Mark-Alem drank in his uncle’s words. Naturally, the Vizier stressed, the Master-Dream was of prime importance, especially at times like this, and above all as regards their own family. He stared at his nephew for some time, as if to make sure he really understood that the Quprilis had never been concerned with ordinary dreams, but only, almost exclusively, with Master-Dreams.

“Do you see what I mean?” he said, his eyes veiling over, dark but glittering. “It’s toward the Master-Dream that they all converge … all the …”

Again his speech grew halting.

“There are a lot of rumors going around on this subject. I shan’t say whether they’re true or false, but what I do want to tell you is that a Master-Dream can bring about great changes in the life of the State… .”

A gleam of irony appeared briefly in his eye.

“It was a Master-Dream that suggested the idea for the great massacre of the Albanian leaders at Monastir. I suppose you’ve heard of it? And it was a Master-Dream that caused the change of policy toward Napoleon, and the fall of Grand Vizier Yussuf. There are countless examples… . It’s not for nothing that the power of your director, who seems quite modest and doesn’t have any title, is said to rival the influence wielded by us, the most influential of the viziers… .”

He gave a bitter smile.

“And if he can rival us,” he said slowly, “it’s because he has great power at his disposal, and power not founded on facts.”

Mark-Alem hung on his uncle’s lips. Great power not founded on facts … he marveled to himself as the Vizier went on, explaining that no directive ever had or ever could come from the Tabir, nor did the Tabir need it to. It launched ideas, and its own strange mechanism immediately endowed them with a sinister power, for they were drawn, according to him, from the immemorial depths of Ottoman civilization.

“As I was saying, we Quprilis have often had dealings with Master-Dreams… .’’he almost hissed. “They have often struck at us.”

Mark-Alem remembered the nights of whispers and anxiety. In his mind’s eye he saw Master-Dreams as vipers striking out with their forked tongues. The Vizier’s speech was becoming more and more confused. Every so often one of his preoccupations would emerge, but he hastily covered it up again.

“You should have gone into the Tabir Sarrail before,” he said, “but perhaps even now it’s not too late… .”

More interruptions and hesitations. Mark-Alem couldn’t understand what he was driving at. It was clear he didn’t want to reveal what he was really thinking. But I can see his point, thought Mark-Alem. He’s a statesman, and I’m only a humble clerk. Anyhow, he was leading him to understand—he was almost saying it explicitly—that he, Mark-Alem, hadn’t got his job in the Tabir by chance. And he must elbow his way in, try to find out all about the way it functioned, and above all keep his eyes open so that, when the time came …

But so that what? And what time? He almost asked, but didn’t dare. It was all so obscure… .

“We’ll talk about it again,” said the Vizier, but Mark-Alem could sense that he still couldn’t bring himself to be open with him. He would keep coming back to a point in the conversation that he’d left in suspense, shed a few rays of light on it, then hastily shroud everything in darkness again.

“I expect you’ve heard it said that at times of crisis the power of the Tabir Sarrail tends either to decline or to increase. This is one of those times, and unfortunately the power of the Tabir is growing.”

Mark-Alem didn’t dare ask what the crisis was. He seemed to have heard about some project for big reforms that had greatly annoyed the clergy and the army, but he didn’t really know much about it. Could the Quprilis be mixed up in that?

“This is a crucial time,” said the Vizier. “The Master-Dream may strike again… .”

Mark-Alem concentrated, so as not to miss a word. There was a long silence.

“The question is,” said the Vizier at last, “which of the two worlds dominates the other… .”

Off he goes again, groaned Mark-Alem to himself. Just as he seemed on the point of saying something!

“Some people,” the Vizier went on, “think it’s the world of anxieties and dreams
—your
world, in short—that governs this one. I myself think it’s from
this
world that everything is governed. I think it’s this world that chooses the dreams and anxieties and imaginings that ought to be brought to the surface, as a bucket draws water from a well. Do you see what I mean? It’s this world that selects what it wants from the abyss.”

The Vizier leaned closer to his nephew. His eyes now shone with a fearsome yellow light, the color of sulfur.

“They say the Master-Dream is sometimes a complete fabrication,” he whispered. “Has that ever occurred to you?”

Mark-Alem went cold with fright. A fabrication? The Master-Dream? He could never have imagined a human mind daring to think such a thing, let alone say it in so many words. Still, the Vizier went on telling him the things that were said about the Master-Dream. Every now and then Mark-Alem thought, My God, it’s obvious that that’s what he thinks himself! … He still hadn’t got over his amazement, and the Vizier’s voice reached him as through the roar of an avalanche. So people said some Master-Dreams were forgeries; that they were fabricated in the Tabir Sarrail by the employees themselves, in accordance with the interests of powerful rival political groups or with the mood of the Sovereign; that if not entirely, they were at least partly doctored.

Mark-Alem had an almost irresistible desire to fling himself at the Vizier’s feet and implore him:

“Get me out of there, Uncle! Save me!”

But he knew very well he could never do such a thing, even if he knew his work was going to lead him to the scaffold.

As he went home from the Vizier’s house that night he felt anguish still nagging at him. The carriage bowled along through now unlighted streets, and sitting there in that black landau with a Q marked on each side like a fatal brand, he felt as if he were some solitary night bird flying in limbo between two worlds, and no one knew which world governed the other… .

He had to keep his eyes open for when the time came … But how would he know
when
the time came? What angel or demon would come to warn him, how would he recognize them, and with whom should he get in touch through the mists of the Tabir Sarrail?

Mark-Alem remembered this
episode in the café, turning his empty cup round and round. Even now, several days later, his chest was constricted with the same apprehension. Then something made him turn toward the table occupied by the acrobat Ali’s admirers, who had stopped chatting and were all goggling at him.

Mark-Alem was vexed. Apparently the cafe owner had told them he was working in the Tabir Sarrail. Mark-Alem knew the fellow couldn’t hold his tongue, but even so … ! Still, he could go to the devil, he and the other busybodies with him! He probably wouldn’t come to the café again more than two or three times in the next few months. Perhaps not so often; perhaps not at all.

The place gradually emptied as lunchtime approached. The foreign diplomats left; so did the bank clerks. The acrobat’s admirers also got up and went, after one last astonished glance at Mark-Alem. Only the blind men didn’t move. They’d stopped talking some time ago, and now sat stiff-necked, the way people do when they are angry with all and sundry. Those silent faces seemed to be saying: “Well, are affairs of State going better now that our eyes, which were supposed to harm them, have been put out? From all we hear the world is still the same as it used to be, if not worse.”

At last Mark-Alem paid for his coffee, left, and began walking slowly home. After a while he was sorry he hadn’t taken a cab. When he turned into his own street he heard voices whispering: “He works in the Tabir Sarrail now… .” He pretended not to have heard, and walked on with his head held high. The chestnut seller and the policemen at the corner greeted him with special respect. They too must have found out where he worked, and in their eyes there was a kind of wonder, as if they could scarcely believe they were still seeing him in the flesh instead of in some immaterial form.

He noticed a shape beyond the panes of a window in the house opposite. He knew that two pretty sisters lived there. He usually liked to think of them, but today even the window that generally attracted him seemed empty.

So my first visit to the world of the living is nearly over, he thought as he opened the door into the courtyard. As he moved, there was a sound like the rustle of wings, as if breezes from the beyond still clung to his body. A few nights ago, at the Vizier’s house, he’d been shattered at the thought that he was risking death, but now the idea left him completely indifferent. The world was so dreary it wasn’t worth tormenting oneself at the thought of losing it.

He opened the house door and went in without looking around to see what he was leaving behind him. Tomorrow … he thought, conjuring up the cold rooms and the files on the desks that awaited him. Tomorrow he’d be back in that strange world where time, logic, and everything else obeyed quite different laws. And he told himself that if he was ever given another day off, he wouldn’t go into the town again.

*
Members of the Muslim clergy.

THE ARCHIVES

Directly after the morning
break Mark-Alem was told the supervisor wanted to see him. Walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb anyone, he made for his superior’s desk. From a few feet away he recognized, lying on top of it, the file he’d handed in to him earlier that day.