Ismail Kadare - The Ghost Rider

The Monastery of the Three Crosses was still some distance away. Along that stretch of road, Stres kept turning the same ideas over in his mind, but in a different order now. He brought himself up short more than once: nonsense, ridiculous, not possible. But though he resolved repeatedly not to think about it for the rest of the journey, he couldn’t stop wondering why the archbishop had summoned him.

It was the first time Stres had ever met the archbishop in person. Without the chasuble in which Stres had seen him standing in the nave of the church in the capital, the archbishop seemed thin, slender, his skin so pale, so diaphanous, that you almost felt you could see what was happening inside that nearly translucent body if you looked hard enough. But Stres lost that impression completely the moment the archbishop started to speak. His voice did not match his physique. On the contrary, it seemed more closely related to the chasuble and mitre which he had set aside, and which he would no doubt have kept by his side if he had not had such a strangely powerful voice.

The archbishop came straight to the point. He told Stres that he had been informed of an alleged resurrection said to have occurred two weeks before in this part of the country. Stres took a deep breath. So that was it after all! The most improbable of all his guesses had been correct. What had happened, the archbishop went on, was evil, more evil and far-reaching than it might seem at first sight. He raised his voice. Only frivolous minds, he said, could take things of this kind lightly. Stres felt himself blush and was about to protest that no one could accuse him of having taken the matter lightly, that on the contrary he had informed the prince’s chancellery at once, while doing his utmost to throw light on the mystery. But the archbishop, as if reading his mind, broke in.

“I was informed of all this from the outset and issued express instructions that the whole affair be buried. I must admit that I never expected the story to spread so far.”

“It is true that it has spread beyond all reason,” said Stres, opening his mouth for the first time.

Since the archbishop himself admitted that he had not foreseen these developments, Stres thought it superfluous to seek to justify his own attitude.

“I undertook this difficult journey,” the archbishop went on, “in order to gauge the scope of the repercussions for myself. Unfortunately, I am now convinced that they are catastrophic.”

Stres nodded in agreement.

“Nothing less would have induced me to take to the highway in this detestable weather,” the prelate continued, his penetrating eyes still fixed on Stres. “Now, do you understand the importance the Holy Church attaches to this incident?”

“Yes, Monsignor,” said Stres. “Tell me what I must do.”

The archbishop, who apparently hadn’t expected this question so early on, sat motionless for a moment, as if choking down an explanation that had suddenly proved unnecessary. Stres sensed he was on edge.

“This affair must be buried,” he said evenly. “Or rather, one aspect of it, the one that is at variance with the truth and damaging to the Church. Do you understand me, Captain? We must deny the story of this man’s resurrection, reject it, unmask it, prevent its spread at all costs.”

“I understand, Monsignor.”

“Will it be difficult?”

“Most certainly,” said Stres. “I can prevent an impostor or slanderer from speaking, but how, Monsignor, can I stop such a widespread rumour from spreading further? That is beyond my power.”

A cold flame glimmered in the archbishop’s eyes.

“I cannot prevent the mourners from singing their laments,” Stres went on, “and as for gossip—”

“Find a way to make the mourners stop their songs themselves,” the prelate said sharply. “As for rumour, what you must do is change its course.”

“And how can I do that?” Stres asked evenly.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Captain,” the archbishop finally said, “do you yourself believe that the dead man rose from his grave?”

“No, Monsignor.”

Stres imagined that the archbishop had given a sigh of relief. How could the man have dreamed that I was naive enough to credit such insanity, he wondered.

“Then you think that someone else must have brought back the young woman in question?”

“Without the slightest doubt, Monsignor.”

“Well then, try to prove it,” said the archbishop, “and you will find that the mourners will suspend their songs mid-verse and rumour will change of itself.”

“I have sought to do just that, Monsignor,” Stres said. “I have done my utmost.”

“With no result?”

“Very nearly. Of course there are people who do not believe in this resurrection, but they are in a minority. Most are convinced.”

“Then you must see to it that this minority becomes the majority.”

“I have done all I can, Monsignor.”

“You must do even more, Captain. And there is only one way to manage it: you must find the man who brought the young woman back. Find the impostor, the lover, the adventurer, whatever he is. Track him down relentlessly, wherever he may be. Move heaven and earth until you find him. And if you do not find him, then you will have to create him.”

“Create him?”

A flash of cold lightning seemed to pass between them.

“In other words,” said the archbishop, the first to avert his eyes, “it would be advisable to bear witness to his existence. Many things seem impossible at first that are crowned with success in the end.”

The archbishop’s voice had lost its ring of confidence.

“I shall do my best, Monsignor,” said Stres.

A silence of the most uncomfortable kind settled over the room. The archbishop, head lowered, sat deep in thought. When he next spoke, his voice had changed so completely that Stres looked up sharply, intrigued. His tone, as polite, gentle, and persuasive as the man himself, now matched his physical appearance perfectly.

“Listen, Captain,” said the archbishop, “let us speak frankly.”

He took a deep breath.

“Yes, let us speak plainly. I think you are aware of the importance attached to these matters at the Centre. Many things may be forgiven in Constantinople, but there is no indulgence whatever for any question touching on the basic principles of the Holy Church. I have seen emperors slaughtered, roped to wild horses, eyes gouged, their tongues cut out, simply because they dared think they could amend this or that tenet of the Church. Perhaps you remember that two years ago, after the heated controversy about the sex of angels, the capital came close to being the arena of a civil war that would have certainly led to wholesale carnage.”

Stres did recall some disturbances, but he had never paid much attention to the sort of collective hysteria which erupted periodically in the Empire’s capital.

“Today more than ever,” the archbishop went on, “when relations between our Church and the Catholic Church have worsened … Nowadays your life is at stake in matters like these. Do I make myself clear, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Stres uncertainly. “But I would like to know what all this has to do with the incident we were discussing.”

“Quite,” said the archbishop, his voice growing stronger now, recovering its deep resonance. “Of course.”

Stres kept his eyes fixed upon him.

“Here we have an alleged return from the grave,” the prelate continued, “and therefore a resurrection. Do you see what that means, Captain?”

“A return from the grave,” Stres repeated. “An idiotic rumour.”

“It’s not that simple,” interrupted the archbishop. “It is a ghastly heresy. An arch-heresy.”