Free Doruntine by Ismaíl Kadaré Page B

to understand.
    â€œWhat language are you speaking?” Stres asked the monk.
    â€œI’ll try another,” he said without answering the question.
    He spoke to them again. The two strangers leaned forward with the pained expression of men straining to understand what is being said to them. One of them spoke a few words, and this time it was the monk whose face took on the troubled expression. These exchanges of words and grimaces continued for some time until finally the monk spoke several long sentences to which the strangers now listened with a nod of great satisfaction.
    â€œFinally found it,” said the monk. “They speak a German dialect mixed with Slavonic. I think we’ll be able to understand one another.”
    Stres spoke immediately.
    â€œYou have come just in time,” he said. “I believe you have heard what happened to your cousin’s wife. We are all dismayed.”
    The strangers’ faces darkened.
    â€œWhen you arrived I had already sent someone to your country to find out the circumstances of her leaving there,” Stres went on. “I hope that we may be able to learn something from you, as you may learn something from us. I believe that all of us have an equal interest in finding out the truth.”
    The two strangers nodded in agreement.
    â€œWhen we left,” said one of them, “we knew nothing save that our cousin’s wife had gone off suddenly, under rather strange circumstances, with her brother Constantine.”
    He stopped and waited for the monk, who kept his light-colored eyes fixed upon him, to translate his words.
    â€œWhile en route,” the stranger continued, “when we were still far from your country, we learned that our cousin’s wife had indeed arrived at her parents’ home, but that her brother Constantine, with whom she said she had left, had departed this life three years ago.”
    â€œYes,” said Stres, “that is correct.”
    â€œOn the way we also learned of the old woman’s death, news that grieved us deeply.”
    The stranger lowered his eyes. A silence followed, during which Stres motioned to the innkeeper and two or three onlookers to go away.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have a room where we could talk, would you?” Stres asked the owner.
    â€œYes, of course, Captain. There is a quiet place just over there. Come.”
    They filed into a small room. Stres invited them to sit on carved wooden chairs.
    â€œWe had but one goal when we set out,” one of the two strangers continued, “and that was to satisfy ourselves about her flight. In other words, first of all to make sure that she had really gotten to her own family, and second to learn the reason for her flight, to find out whether or not she meant to come back, among other things that go without saying in incidents of this kind.”
    As the monk translated, the stranger stared at Stres as if trying to guess whether the captain grasped the full meaning of his words.
    â€œFor an escapade of this kind, as I’m sure you must realize, arouses. . . .”
    â€œNaturally,” said Stres. “I quite understand.”
    â€œNow, however,” the visitor continued, “another matter has arisen: this question of the dead brother. Our cousin, Doruntine’s husband, knows nothing of this, and you may well imagine that this development gives rise to yet another mystery. If Doruntine’s brother has been dead for three years, then who was the man who brought her here?”
    â€œJust so,” Stres replied. “I have been asking myself that question for several days now, and many others have asked it too.”
    He opened his mouth to continue, but suddenly lost his train of thought. In his mind, he knew not why, he saw in a flash the white bones of the horse lying on the plain that afternoon, as if they had tumbled there from some troubled dream.
    â€œDid anyone see the horseman?” he