Ismail Kadare - The Ghost Rider

“If I had him put to the torture again, it was because I doubted the truth of his tale.”

Silence still reigned, but Stres thought he felt what could have been a mild earthquake. Now! he said to himself, intoxicated, now! Bring it all down!

“He resisted the torture for a week. Then, on the eighth day, he confessed the truth at last. That is to say, he admitted that everything he had said until then had been nothing but lies.”

The earthquake, which he had been the first to sense, had now in fact begun: its roar was rising, a muffled thunder, out of phase, of course, like any earthquake, but powerful nonetheless. A lightning glance to his right showed all was still mute there. But those frozen faces in the grandstands had clouded over entirely.

“It was nothing but a tissue of lies from start to finish,” Stres continued, surprised that he hadn’t been interrupted. “The man had never met Doruntine, had never spoken to her, had neither travelled with her nor made love to her, any more than he had brought her back on the night of 11 October. He had been paid to perpetrate the hoax.”

Stres raised his head, waiting for something that he himself could not have defined.

“Yes,” he went on, “paid. He himself confessed as much; paid by persons whose names I shall not mention here.”

He paused briefly once again. The crowd now suddenly seemed very far away. Maybe people’s screams could no longer reach him. Or their spears. Or their nails.

“At first,” Stres went on, “when this impostor denied knowing Doruntine, he played his role to perfection, and he did equally well afterwards, when he affirmed that in fact he had brought her back. But just as great impostors often betray themselves in small details, so he gave himself away with a trifle. In his attempt to be persuasive, and especially by rejoicing too soon at having achieved his aim, he was led to supply irrelevant details. That his how he tore the mask from his own face. Thus this impostor, this imaginary companion of Doruntine—”

“Then who brought the woman back?” shouted the archbishop from his seat. “The dead man?”

Stres turned towards him.

“Who brought Doruntine back? I will answer you on that very point, for I was in charge of this case. Be patient, Your Eminence, be patient, noble sirs!”

Stres took a deep breath. So many hundreds of lungs swelled along with his that he felt as if all the air about them had been set in motion. Once again he glanced slowly across the packed courtyard to the stands, at the foot of which the guards stood with their arms akimbo.

“I expected that question,” said Stres, “and am therefore prepared to answer it.” He paused again. “Yes, I have prepared myself with the greatest care to answer it. The painstaking investigation I conducted is now closed, my file complete, my conviction unshakable. I am ready, noble sirs, to answer the question ‘Who brought Doruntine back?’”

Stres allowed yet another brief moment of silence, during which he glanced in all directions as if seeking to convey the truth with his eyes before expressing it with his voice.

“Doruntine,” he said, “was in fact brought back by Kostandin.”

Stres stiffened, expecting some sound — laughter, jeers, shouts, an uproar of some kind, even a challenging cry: “But for two months you’ve been trying to convince us of the contrary!” Nothing of the kind came from the crowd.

“Yes, Doruntine was brought back by Kostandin,” he repeated as if he feared that he had been misunderstood. But people’s stupefaction was evidence enough that his words had reached them. He thought that their silence was perhaps excessive, as it can be in response to fear.

“Just as I promised you, noble sirs, and you, honoured guests, I will explain everything. All I ask is that you have the patience to hear me out.”

At that moment Stres’s only concern was to keep his mind clear. For the time being he asked for nothing more.

“You have all heard,” he began, “some of you before setting out for this gathering, others on your way here or upon your arrival, of the strange marriage of Doruntine Vranaj, the marriage that lies at the root of this whole affair. You are all aware, I imagine, that this far-off marriage, the first to be consummated with a man from so distant a country, would never have taken place if Kostandin, one of the bride’s brothers, had not given his mother his word that he would bring Doruntine back to her whenever she desired her daughter’s presence, on occasions of joy or sorrow. You also know that not long after the wedding the Vranaj, like all of Albania, were stricken with unspeakable grief. Yet no one brought Doruntine back, for he who had promised to do so was dead. You are aware of the curse the Lady Mother uttered against her son for his violation of the besa , and you know that three weeks after that curse was spoken, Doruntine at last appeared at the family home. That is why I now affirm, and reaffirm, that it was none other than her brother Kostandin, in accordance with his oath, his besa , who brought Doruntine back. There is no other explanation for that journey, nor could there be. It matters little whether or not Kostandin returned from the grave to accomplish his mission, just as it matters little who was the horseman who set out on that dark night or what horse he saddled, whose hands held the reins, whose feet pressed against the stirrups, whose hair was matted with the highway dust. Each of us has a part in that journey, for it is here among us that Kostandin’s besa germinated, and that is what brought Doruntine back. Therefore, to be more exact I would have to say that it was all of us — you, me, our dead lying there in the graveyard close by the church — who, through Kostandin, brought Doruntine back.”

Stres swallowed.

“Aha!” the archbishop thundered from his seat, “at last you confess to your own part in this abomination!”

“All our parts …” Stres said, as he tried to make his meaning clear, but the archbishop’s voice overrode his own.

“Speak for yourself!” the prelate yelled. “And by the way, I would really like to know where you were between 30 September and 11 October. Where were you, exactly?”

Stres kept his composure but his face had turned as white as a sheet.

“Answer, Captain!” someone shouted.

“All right, I’ll tell you,” Stres responded. “During the period alluded to I was on a secret mission.”

“Aha! More mysteries!” the archbishop screamed. “So be it! But so we may know the truth of the matter, we would like you to tell us what the mission consisted of.”

“It was the kind of job that even we officers seek to forget once it is done. I have nothing to add.”

This time the rumbling of the crowd that echoed from the walls took longer to abate. Stres took a deep breath.

“Noble sirs, I have not yet finished. I would like to tell you — and most of all to tell our guests from distant lands — just what this sublime power is that is capable of bending the laws of death.”

Stres paused again. His throat felt dry and he found it hard to form his words. But he kept speaking just the same. He spoke of the besa , of its spread among the Albanians. As he spoke he saw someone in the crowd coming towards him, holding what seemed to be a heavy object, perhaps a stone. They’re already coming, he thought, and with his elbow he touched the pommel of his sword beneath his cloak. But as the man drew nearer, Stres saw that it was one of the Radhen boys, and that he carried not a stone to strike him with, but a small pitcher.

Stres smiled, took the pitcher and drank.

“And now,” he went on, “let me try to explain why this new moral law was born and is now spreading among us. The question is this: in these new conditions of the worsening of the general atmosphere in the world, in this time of crime and hateful treachery that could be called unbelief , who should the Albanian be? What face shall he show the world? Shall he espouse evil or stand against it? Shall he disfigure himself, changing his features to suit the masks of the age, seeking thus to assure his survival, or shall he keep his countenance unchanged … I am a servant of the state and have little interest in the personal aspects of Kostandin’s journey, if in fact there are any. Each of us, commoners and lords alike, be we Caesar or Christ, is the shroud of unfathomable mysteries. But, functionary that I am, I have spoken of the general point, the one that concerns Albania. Albania’s time of trial is near, the hour of choice between these two faces. And if the people of Albania, deep within themselves, have begun to fashion institutions as sublime as the besa , that shows us that Albania is making the right choice. Albania aims to keep its eternal image. That’s the main thing, to my mind. She will keep her face not by retreating from the world like a wild animal at bay, but by joining the world. It was to carry that message to Albania and to the world beyond that Kostandin rose from his grave.”