Free The Ghost Rider by Ismaíl Kadaré

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 impostoror 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 tonguescut out, simply because they dared think they could amend this or that tenet of the Church. Perhaps