Doruntine Read Free Page B

for a messenger. When the man had gone, Stres stood for a long moment looking out the window, feeling his headache worsen. A crowd of theories jostled one another to enter his head as if through a narrow door. He rubbed his forehead as though to stem the flood. Why would an unknown traveler have done it? And if it was not some imposter, the question was even more delicate: What was Doruntine hiding? He paced back and forth in his office; when he came near the window he could see the messenger’s back, shrinkingsteadily as he threaded his way through the bare poplars. And what if neither of these suppositions was correct, he suddenly said to himself. What if something else had happened, something the mind cannot easily comprehend?
    He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on one particular spot on the floor, then suddenly he made for the door, hurried down the stairs, hailed his deputy on the way down the hallway, and went out into the street.
    â€œLet’s go to the church,” he said to his deputy when he heard the man’s footsteps, then his panting, at his back. “Let’s have a look at Constantine’s grave.”
    â€œA good idea. When all is said and done, the story makes sense only if someone came back from the grave.”
    â€œI’m not thinking of anything so insane. I have something else in mind.”
    His stride lengthened as he said to himself, why am I taking this business so much to heart? After all, there had been no murder, no serious crime, nor indeed any offense of the kind he was expected to investigate in his capacity as regional captain. A few moments ago, as he was drafting his report, this thought had come to him several times: Am I not being too hasty in troubling the Prince’s chancellery about a matter of no importance? But some inner voice told him he was not. That same voice told him that something outrageous had occurred,something that went beyond mere murder or any other crime, something that made assassination and similar heinous acts seem mere trifles.
    The little church, with its freshly repaired bell tower, was now very near, but Stres suddenly veered off and went straight into the cemetery, not through the iron grille, but through an inconspicuous wooden gate. He had not been in the cemetery for a long time, and he had trouble getting his bearings.
    â€œThis way,” said his deputy as he strode along, “the graves of the Vranaj sons must be over here.”
    Stres fell in step beside him. The ground was soft in places. Small icons, half-blackened where candle wax had dripped, exuded quiet sadness. Some of the graves were overgrown with moss. It must be very cool here in summer, Stres thought.
    The deputy, who had gone on ahead of him, was walking among the graves, looking this way and that. Stres stooped to right an overturned cross, but it was heavy and he had to leave it. He walked on. He saw his deputy beckon in the distance: he had found them at last.
    Stres approached him. The graves, neatly aligned and covered with slabs of black stone, were identical. Their shape was reminiscent of a cross, a sword, or a man standing with his arms stretched out. At the head of each grave was a small niche for an icon and candles. Under it the dead man’s name was carved.
    â€œThere’s his grave,” said the deputy, his voice hushed. Stres looked up and saw that the man had gone pale.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    His deputy pointed at the grave.
    â€œTake a good look,” he said. “The stones have been moved.”
    â€œWhat?” Stres leaned forward to see what his aide was pointing to. For a long moment he examined the spot carefully, then stood up straight. “Yes, it’s true. Something’s been disturbed here.”
    â€œJust as I told you,” said the deputy, his satisfaction in seeing that his chief shared his view mixed with a new surge of fear.
    â€œBut after all, that doesn’t mean much,”