Doruntine (16 page)

“At first,” Stres went on, “when this impostor denied knowing Doruntine, he played his role to perfection, and he did equally well afterward, 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. 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 toward 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 steps of the stands at the foot of which stood the guards, their arms crossed.

“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 allows 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 Constantine.”

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 Constantine,” he repeated as if he feared that he had been misunderstood. But the silence continued and he thought that that silence was perhaps excessive. It is all so trying, he sighed in his confusion. But then he felt an inspiration so powerful that it pained his chest, and the words poured out.

“Just as I promised you, noble sirs, and you, honored 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 concluded with a man from so distant a country, would never have taken place if Constantine, 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
bessa
, 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 Constantine, in accordance with his oath, his
bessa
, who brought Doruntine back. There is no explanation for that journey, nor could there be. It matters little whether or not Constantine returned from the grave to accomplish his mission, just as it matters little who was the horseman who set out on that black 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 Constantine's
bessa
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 Constantine, brought Doruntine back.”

Stres swallowed.

“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
bessa
, of its spread among the Albanians. As he spoke he saw someone in the crowd coming toward him, holding what seemed to be a heavy object, perhaps a stone. Now it begins, he said to himself, his elbow brushing the pommel of his sword beneath his cloak. But when the man had come near, 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.”

He spoke briefly of the gravity of the world situation, of the troubled future, heavy with dark clouds, that now loomed because of the friction between great empires and religions; he spoke of the plots, the trickery, the faithlessness that flourished far and wide, and of Albania's position in the midst of that sea of storms and raging waves.

“Any people in danger,” he continued, “hones the tools of its defense and, what is more important, it forges new ones. It would be short-sighted indeed not to realize that Albania faces great upheavals. Sooner or later they will reach its borders, if they have not already done so. So the question is this: in these new conditions of the worsening of the general atmosphere in the world, in this time of
trial, of crime and hateful treachery, who should the Albanian be? What face shall he show the world? Shall he espouse the 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 at the risk of bringing upon himself the wrath of the age? 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
bessa
, that shows us that Albania is making its choice. It was to carry that message to Albania and to the world beyond that Constantine rose from his grave.”

Once more Stres's glance embraced the numberless crowd that stretched before him, then the stands to his right and left.

“But it is not easy to accept this message,” he went on. “It will require great sacrifices by successive generations. Its burden will be heavier than the cross of Christ. And now that I have come to the end of what I had to tell you”—and here Stres turned to the stands where the envoys of the prince were seated—”I would like to add that, since my words are at variance with my duties, or at least are at variance with them
for the moment
, I now resign my post.”

He raised his right hand to the white-antler insignia sewn to the left side of his cloak and, pulling sharply, ripped it off and let it fall to the ground.

Without another word he descended the wooden stairway and, his head high, walked through the crowd, which parted at his passing with a mixture of respect, fear, and dread.

From that day forward, Stres was never seen again. No one, neither his deputies nor his family, not even his wife, knew where he was—or at least no one would say.

At the Old Monastery the wooden grandstands and platform were dismantled, workmen carried off the planks and beams, and in the inner courtyard there was no longer any trace of the assembly. But no one forgot a word that Stres had spoken there. His words passed from mouth to mouth, from village to village, with unbelievable speed. The rumor that Stres had been arrested in the wake of his speech soon proved unfounded. It was said that he had been seen somewhere, or at least that someone had heard the trot of his horse. Others insisted they had caught a glimpse of him on the northern highway. They were sure they had recognized him, despite the dusk and the first layer of dust that covered his hair. Who can say? people mused, who can say? How much, O Lord, must our poor minds take in! And then someone said, his voice trembling as if shivering with cold:

“Sometimes I wonder if he didn't bring Doruntine back himself.”

“How dare you say such a thing?”

“What would be so surprising?” the man answered. “As for myself, I have not been surprised by anything since the day she returned.”

During this time people began to talk more than ever of the harm caused by far-off marriages. Though no one would admit it, everyone felt a vague nostalgia for local marriages, an echo of an even more secret longing—for marriages within the clan itself. Those days were gone, but people missed them. Was it not repentance that had raised Constantine from his grave?

That's what people said. And it was just then that something happened which would have seemed only too natural at any other time: a young village bride set off to join her husband in a far-off land. Everyone was astounded to hear of this new Doruntine at a time when it was thought that the very idea of distant marriages had suffered its
coup de grâce
. After everything that had just happened, it was expected that the bride's family would break the engagement, or at least postpone the marriage. But no. The wedding took place on the scheduled date, the groom's relatives arrived from their country, which some said lay six days distant, others eight, and after much eating, drinking, and song, they led the young bride away. Nearly all the village accompanied her from the church, as once they had walked with the unfortunate Doruntine, and as they gazed upon the young bride so beautiful and misty in her white veil, there were many who must
have wondered whether a ghost would carry her home some moonless night. But she, mounted on a white horse, showed not the slightest apprehension about her fate. And the people, following her with their eyes, shook their heads and said, “Good God, maybe young brides today like this sort of thing. Perhaps they like to ride by night, clasping a shadow, through the gloom and the void. . . .”

Tirana, October 1979