Ismail Kadare - The Ghost Rider

“So you have something else to tell me?” he said in a sceptical tone. “Well, let’s hear it.”

The watchman, still disconcerted by the coolness of his reception, watched Stres lift his hands from the papers spread out on his desk as if to say, “Well, you’ve taken me away from my work, are you satisfied? Now let’s hear your little story.”

“We are uneducated people, Mister Stres,” the man said timidly. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, please excuse me, but I thought that, well, who knows—”

Suddenly Stres felt sorry for the man and said in a milder tone, “Speak. I’m listening.”

What’s the matter with me? he wondered. Why do I take out on others the irritation I feel over this business?

“Speak,” he said again. “What is it you have to tell me?”

The watchman, somewhat reassured, took a deep breath and began.

“Everyone claims that one of the Lady Mother’s sons came back from the grave,” he said, staring straight at Stres. “You know more about all that than I do. Some people have even come over to the cemetery to see whether any stones have been moved, but that’s another story. What I wanted to say is about something else—”

“Go on,” said Stres.

“One Sunday, not last Sunday or the one before, but the one before that, the Lady Mother came to the cemetery, as is her custom, to light candles at the graves of each of her sons.”

“Three Sundays ago?” Stres asked.

“Yes, Mister Stres. She lit one candle for each of the other graves, but two for Kostandin’s. I was standing very near her at the time, and I heard what she said when she leaned towards the niche in the gravestone.”

The watchman paused briefly again, his eyes still fixed on the captain. Three Sundays ago; in other words, Stres thought to himself, not knowing quite why he made the calculation, a little more than two weeks ago.

“I have heard the lamentations of many a mother,” the watchman went on, “hers included. But never have I shuddered as I did at the words she spoke that day.”

Stres, who had raised his hand to his chin, listened avidly.

“These were not the usual tears and lamentations,” the watchman explained. “What she spoke was a curse.”

“A curse?”

The watchman took another deep breath, making no attempt to conceal his satisfaction at having finally captured the captain’s undivided attention.

“Yes, sir, a curse, and a frightful one.”

“Go on,” Stres said impatiently. “What kind of curse?”

“It is hard to remember the exact words, I was so shaken, but it went something like this: ‘Kostandin, have you forgotten your promise to bring Doruntine back to me whenever I longed for her?’ As you probably know, Mister Stres, I mean almost everybody does, Kostandin had given his mother his besa to—”

“I know, I know,” said Stres. “Go on.”

“Well, then she said: ‘Now I am left alone in the world, for you have broken your promise. May the earth never receive you!’ Those were her words, more or less.”

The watchman had been observing Stres’s face as he spoke, expecting the captain to be horrified by his terrible tale, but when he’d finished it seemed clear that Stres was thinking of other things. The watchman’s self-assurance vanished.

“I thought I ought to come and tell you, in case it was any use,” he said. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“No, not at all,” Stres hastened to answer. “On the contrary, you did well to come. Thank you very much.”

The watchman bowed respectfully and left, still wondering whether or not he had made a mistake in coming to tell his story.

Stres still seemed lost in thought. A moment later, he felt another presence in the room. He looked up and saw his deputy, but quickly dismissed him. How could we have been so stupid? he said to himself. Why in the world didn’t we talk to the mother? Though he had gone twice to the house, he had questioned only Doruntine. The mother might well have her own version of events. It was an unpardonable oversight not to have spoken to her.

Stres looked up. His deputy stood before him, waiting.

“We have committed an inexcusable blunder,” Stres said.

“About the grave? To tell you the truth, I did think of it, but—”

“What are you babbling about?” Stres interrupted. “It has nothing to do with the grave and all these ghost stories. The moment the watchman told me of the old woman’s curse, I said to myself, how can we account for our failure to talk to her? How could we have been such idiots?”

“That’s a point,” said the deputy guiltily. “You’re right.”

Stres stood up abruptly.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We must make amends at once.”

A moment later they were in the street. His deputy tried to match Stres’s long strides.

“It’s not only the curse,” Stres said. “We have to find out what the mother thinks of the affair. She might be able to shed new light on the mystery.”

“You’re right,” said the deputy, whose words, punctuated by his panting, seemed to float off with the wind and fog. “Something else struck me while I was reading those letters,” he went on. “Certain things can be gleaned from them — but I won’t be able to explain until later. I’m not quite sure of it yet, and since it’s so out of the ordinary—”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Please don’t ask me to say more about it just yet. I want to finish going through the correspondence. Then I’ll give you my conclusions.”

“For the time being, the main thing is to talk to the mother,” Stres said.

“Yes, of course.”

“Especially in view of the curse the cemetery watchman told us about. I don’t think he would have invented that.”

“Certainly not. He’s an honest, serious man. I know him well.”

“Yes, especially because of that curse,” Stres repeated. “For if we accept the fact that she uttered that curse, then there is no longer any reason to believe that when Doruntine said, from outside the house, ‘Mother, open the door, I’ve come back with Kostandin’ (assuming she really spoke those words), the mother believed what she said. Do you follow me?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“The trouble is, there’s another element here,” Stres went on without slowing his pace. “Did the mother rejoice to see that her son had obeyed her and had risen from the grave or was she sorry to have disturbed the dead? Or is it possible that neither of these suppositions is correct, that there was something even darker and more troubling?”

“That’s what I think,” said the deputy.

“That’s what I think too,” added Stres. “The fact that the old mother suffered so severe a shock suggests that she had just learned of a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes, just so,” said the aide. “That tallies with the suspicion I mentioned a moment ago …”

“Otherwise there’s no explanation for the mother’s collapse. Doruntine’s is understandable, for now she learns of the death of her nine brothers. The mother’s, on the other hand, is harder to understand. Wait a minute, what’s going on here?”

Stres stopped short.

“What’s going on?” he repeated. “I think I hear shouts—”

They weren’t far from the Vranaj residence and they peered at the old house.

“I think I do too,” said the aide.

“Oh my God,” said Stres, “I hope the old woman’s not dead! What a ghastly mistake we’ve made!”

He set off again, walking faster. He splashed through the puddles and the mud, trampling rotting leaves.

“What madness!” he muttered, “what madness!”

“Maybe it’s not her,” said the deputy. “It could be Doruntine.”