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Authors: Ismaíl Kadaré
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exactly, was the wedding itself, turned upside down. After her bridal journey, Doruntine had simply gone on another outing, one that was macabre … with a dead man, or … an unidentified … Well, whoever it was, it was a most unusual journey … or rather, an unnatural one … and what’s more, with a corpse … or worse still, with a … But let’s drop all that, it’s a sin to speak of such things. May God forgive the sinners that we are, and may the earth lie lightly upon her!
And people cut short their discussions, tacitly agreeing that a few days hence, perhaps even on the morrow, once the dead were buried and tranquillity restored, they wouldspeak of this again, perhaps less guardedly, and surely with greater malice.
Which is exactly what happened. Once the burial was over and the whole story seemed at an end, a great clamour arose, the like of which had rarely been heard. It spread in waves through the surrounding countryside and rolled on farther, sweeping to the frontiers of the principality, spilling over its borders and cascading through neighbouring principalities and counties. It was as if many of the people who had attended the burial had carried bits of it away to sow throughout the land.
There were some folk who had prayed for Doruntine on Sunday at the funeral, asking over and over again that the dust and mud treat her kindly and not weigh too heavily on her breast. But now it didn’t occur to them that the calumnies they were putting about were more crushing than any amount of earth or stone.
Passing from ear to ear by word of mouth, the rumour was borne by every breath of air and certainly conveyed many a reproach, of the sort that everyone refrains from expressing directly but is prepared, in such circumstances, to evoke in roundabout ways. And as it grew more distant it began to dilate and change its shape like a wandering cloud, though its essence remained immutable: a dead man had come back from the grave to keep the promise he had made to his mother: to bring his married sister back to her from far away whenever she so wished.
Barely a week had gone by since the burial of the two women when Stres was urgently summoned to the Monastery of the Three Crosses. The archbishop of the principalityawaited him there, having come expressly on a matter of the greatest importance.
Expressly on a matter of the greatest importance, Stres repeated to himself again and again as he crossed the plain on horseback. What could the archbishop possibly want of him? The prelate did not leave his archiepiscopal seat very often, especially to travel in such awful weather.
A chill wind blew over the frosty, autumnal plain. On either side of the road, as far as the eye could see, despondent hayricks looked as if they were slowly collapsing on themselves. Stres pulled up the collar of his riding cape. What if it had to do with the Doruntine story, he wondered. But he rejected that possibility out of hand. Ridiculous! What did the archbishop have to do with it? He had enough thorny problems of his own, especially since tension in the Albanian territories between the Catholic Church of Rome and the Orthodox Church had reached fever pitch. Some years before, when the spheres of influence of Catholicism and Orthodoxy had become more or less defined, the principality remaining under the sway of the Byzantine Church, Stres had thought that this endless quarrel was at last drawing to a close. Not at all. The two churches had once more taken up their struggle for the allegiance of individual Albanian princes and counts. Information regularly reaching Stres from the inns and relay posts suggested that in recent times Catholic missionaries had intensified their activities in the principalities. Perhaps that was the reason for the archbishop’s visit – but then Stres himself was not involved in those matters. It was not he who issued safe conduct passes. No, Stres said to himself, I have nothing to do with that. It must
And people cut short their discussions, tacitly agreeing that a few days hence, perhaps even on the morrow, once the dead were buried and tranquillity restored, they wouldspeak of this again, perhaps less guardedly, and surely with greater malice.
Which is exactly what happened. Once the burial was over and the whole story seemed at an end, a great clamour arose, the like of which had rarely been heard. It spread in waves through the surrounding countryside and rolled on farther, sweeping to the frontiers of the principality, spilling over its borders and cascading through neighbouring principalities and counties. It was as if many of the people who had attended the burial had carried bits of it away to sow throughout the land.
There were some folk who had prayed for Doruntine on Sunday at the funeral, asking over and over again that the dust and mud treat her kindly and not weigh too heavily on her breast. But now it didn’t occur to them that the calumnies they were putting about were more crushing than any amount of earth or stone.
Passing from ear to ear by word of mouth, the rumour was borne by every breath of air and certainly conveyed many a reproach, of the sort that everyone refrains from expressing directly but is prepared, in such circumstances, to evoke in roundabout ways. And as it grew more distant it began to dilate and change its shape like a wandering cloud, though its essence remained immutable: a dead man had come back from the grave to keep the promise he had made to his mother: to bring his married sister back to her from far away whenever she so wished.
Barely a week had gone by since the burial of the two women when Stres was urgently summoned to the Monastery of the Three Crosses. The archbishop of the principalityawaited him there, having come expressly on a matter of the greatest importance.
Expressly on a matter of the greatest importance, Stres repeated to himself again and again as he crossed the plain on horseback. What could the archbishop possibly want of him? The prelate did not leave his archiepiscopal seat very often, especially to travel in such awful weather.
A chill wind blew over the frosty, autumnal plain. On either side of the road, as far as the eye could see, despondent hayricks looked as if they were slowly collapsing on themselves. Stres pulled up the collar of his riding cape. What if it had to do with the Doruntine story, he wondered. But he rejected that possibility out of hand. Ridiculous! What did the archbishop have to do with it? He had enough thorny problems of his own, especially since tension in the Albanian territories between the Catholic Church of Rome and the Orthodox Church had reached fever pitch. Some years before, when the spheres of influence of Catholicism and Orthodoxy had become more or less defined, the principality remaining under the sway of the Byzantine Church, Stres had thought that this endless quarrel was at last drawing to a close. Not at all. The two churches had once more taken up their struggle for the allegiance of individual Albanian princes and counts. Information regularly reaching Stres from the inns and relay posts suggested that in recent times Catholic missionaries had intensified their activities in the principalities. Perhaps that was the reason for the archbishop’s visit – but then Stres himself was not involved in those matters. It was not he who issued safe conduct passes. No, Stres said to himself, I have nothing to do with that. It must
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