The Historian (77 page)

―To my amazement, Helen seemed completely acquiescent with this plan. ‗Could this be arranged, Mr. Ranov?‘ she asked. ‗Perhaps Professor Stoichev would like to accompany us, as well.‘

―‗Oh, I am afraid I must return to my home,‘ Stoichev said regretfully. ‗I have much work to do. I wish I could be there to help you at Bachkovo, but I can send a letter of introduction with you for the abbot. Mr. Ranov can be your interpreter, and the abbot will help you with any translations of manuscripts you wish to make. He is a fine scholar of the history of the monastery.‘

―‗Very well.‘ Ranov looked pleased to hear that Stoichev would be leaving us. There was nothing we could say about this terrible situation, I thought; we had to simply go through with a pretense at research at another monastery, and decide along the way what to do next. Romania? The image of Rossi‘s door at the university rose up before me once more: it was closed, locked. Rossi would never open it again. I followed numbly as Stoichev put the manuscripts back in their box and shut the lid. Helen carried it to a shelf for him and helped him out the door. Ranov trailed us in silence—a silence I took to contain some gloating. Whatever we‘d actually come to find was beyond us now, and we would be left alone with our guide again. Then he could get us to finish up our research and leave Bulgaria as soon as possible.

―Irina had apparently been in the church; she drifted toward us across the hot courtyard as we emerged, and at the sight of her Ranov turned aside to smoke in one of the galleries, then strolled toward the main gate and disappeared through it. I thought I saw him walk a little faster as he reached the gate; perhaps he needed a break from us, too. Stoichev sat heavily down on a wooden bench near the gate, with Irina‘s protective hand on his shoulder. ‗Look here,‘ he said very quietly, smiling up at us as if we were just chatting.

‗We must talk quickly while our friend cannot hear us. I did not mean to frighten you.

There is no document about a pilgrimage back to Wallachia with some relics. I am sorry to say that I was lying. Vlad Dracula is certainly buried at Sveti Georgi, wherever that is, and I have found something very important. In the ‖Chronicle,― Stefan said Sveti Georgi was close to Bachkovo. I could not see any relationship between the Bachkovo area and the maps you have, but there is a letter here from the abbot of Bachkovo to the abbot of Rila, from the early sixteenth century. I did not dare to show it to you in front of our companion. This letter states that the abbot of Bachkovo no longer needs assistance from the abbot of Rila or any other clerics in suppressing the heresy at Sveti Georgi, because the monastery has been burned and its monks scattered. He warns the abbot of Rila to keep a close watch for any monks from there, or any monks who might spread the idea that the dragon has slain Sveti Georgi—Saint George—because this is the sign of their heresy.‘

―‗The dragon has slain—wait,‘ I said. ‗You mean that line about the monster and the saint? Kiril said they were looking for a monastery with a sign that the saint and the monster were equal.‘

―‗Saint George is one of our most important figures in Bulgarian iconography,‘ Stoichev said quietly. ‗It would be a strange reversal indeed for the dragon to overcome Saint George. But you remember that the Wallachian monks were looking for a monastery that already had that sign, because that would be the correct place to bring Dracula‘s body to reunite it with his head. Now I am beginning to wonder if there was a larger heresy we do not know about—one that might have been known in Constantinople, or Wallachia, or even by Dracula himself. Did the Order of the Dragon have its own spiritual beliefs, outside the order of the Church? Could it have created a heresy somehow? I have never thought of such a possibility before today.‘ He shook his head. ‗You must go to Bachkovo and ask the abbot there if he knows anything about this equality or reversal of monster and saint. You must ask him in secret. My letter to him—which your guide will take from you and read—will imply only that you wish to do research about pilgrimage routes, but you must find a way to talk with him in secret. Also, there is a monk there who used to be a scholar, a noted investigator of the history of Sveti Georgi. He worked with Atanas Angelov and was the second person to see the ‖Chronicle― of Zacharias. His name was Pondev when I knew him, but I do not know what it is now that he is a monk.

The abbot can help you identify him. There is something else. I do not have here a map of the area near Bachkovo, but I believe that to the northeast of the monastery somewhere there is a long, winding valley that probably once contained a river. I remember seeing this once and speaking with the monks about it when I visited the region, although I do not remember now what they called it. Could this be our dragon‘s tail? But what, then, would be the wings of the dragon? Perhaps the mountains? You must look for them, also.‘

―I wanted to kneel before Stoichev and kiss his foot. ‗But won‘t you come with us?‘

―‗I would defy even my niece to do that,‘ he replied, smiling up at her, ‗but I fear it would only raise more suspicion. If your guide thinks that I am still interested in this research, he will be even more attentive. Come to see me as soon as you return to Sofia, if you can. I will think of you all the time and wish for your safe journey and the discovery of what you seek. Here—you must take this.‘ He put into Helen‘s hand a little object, but she closed her fingers quickly over it, and I didn‘t see what it was or where she‘d put it.

―‗Mr. Ranov has been gone a long time, for him,‘ she observed softly.

―I looked quickly at her. ‗Shall I go check on him?‘ I had learned to trust Helen‘s instincts, and I walked to the main gate without waiting for an answer.

―Just outside the great complex, I saw Ranov standing with another man near a long blue car. The other fellow was tall and graceful in his summer suit and hat, and something about him made me stop short in the shadow of the gate. They were in the middle of an earnest discussion, which broke off suddenly. The handsome man gave Ranov a slap on the back and swung into the seat of the car. I felt the jolt of that friendly cuff, myself—I knew that gesture—it had landed on my own shoulder once. Surely, incredible as it seemed, the man now driving swiftly out of the dusty parking area was Géza József. I shrank back into the courtyard and returned to Helen and Stoichev as quickly as I could.

Helen eyed me keenly; perhaps she was learning to trust my instincts, too. I drew her aside for a moment, and Stoichev, although he looked puzzled, was too polite to question me. ‗I think József is here,‘ I whispered quickly. ‗I didn‘t see his face, but someone who looked like him was talking with Ranov just now.‘

―‗Shit,‘ Helen said softly. I think that was the first and last time I ever heard her swear.

―A moment later, Ranov came hurrying up. ‗It is time for supper,‘ he said flatly, and I wondered if he was regretting having left us alone with Stoichev for a few minutes. I felt sure from his tone that he hadn‘t seen me outside. ‗Come with me. We will eat.‘

―The silent monastery supper was delicious, a homemade meal served by two monks. A handful of tourists was apparently staying in the hostel with us, and I noted that some of them spoke languages other than Bulgarian. The German-speakers must be on vacation from East Germany, I thought, and perhaps that other sound was Czech. We ate greedily, sitting at a long wooden table, with the monks lined up at another table nearby, and I anticipated with pleasure the narrow cots that awaited us. Helen and I had no moment alone, but I knew she must be thinking about József‘s presence. What did he want with Ranov? Or, rather, what did he want from us? I remembered Helen‘s warning that we were being followed. Who had told him where we were?

It had been an exhausting day, but I was so anxious to get to Bachkovo that I would gladly have set out on foot if that could have gotten me there faster. Instead we would sleep, to prepare for the next day‘s travel. Mingled with the snores from East Berlin and Prague, I would hear Rossi‘s voice musing over some controversial point in our work, and Helen saying, half amused at my lack of perspicacity, ‗Of course I will marry you.‘―

My beloved daughter:

We are wealthy, you know, because of some terrible things that happened to me and your father. I left most of that money with your father, for your care, but I have enough to last me through a long search, a siege. I exchanged some of it in Zurich almost two years ago, and opened a bank account there under a name I will never tell anyone. My bank account is deep. I draw from that money once a month, to pay for the rented rooms, the archival fees, the meals in restaurants. I spend as little as possible so that one day I can give to you everything that remains, my little one, when you are a woman.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

June 1962

My beloved daughter:

Today was one of the bad days. (I will never send this card. If I ever send any of them, it will not be this one.) Today was one of the days when I cannot remember if I am seeking this devil or simply running from him. I stand before the mirror, an old mirror in my room at the Hotel d‘Este; the glass has spots like moss, creeping up its curved surface. I pull off my scarf, I stand here and finger the scar on my neck, a redness that never fully heals. I wonder if you will find me before I can find him. I wonder if he will find me before I can find him. I wonder why he has not found me already. I wonder if I will ever see you again.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

August 1962

My beloved daughter:

When you were born, your hair was black and stuck to your slimy head in curls. After they washed and dried you, it became a soft down around your face, dark hair like mine, but also coppery like your father‘s. I lay in a pool of morphine, and held you and watched the lights in your newborn hair change from Gypsy dark to bright, and then back to dark.

Everything about you was polished and shone; I had shaped and polished you inside me without knowing what I was doing. Your fingers were golden, your cheek was rose, your eyelashes and eyebrows were the feathers of the baby crow. My happiness overflowed even the morphine.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

―Iwoke early in my cot in the men‘s dormitory at Rila; sunshine was just beginning to come through the small windows, which looked out on the courtyard, and some of the other tourists were still sound asleep on the other cots. I‘d heard the earliest call of the church bell, in the dark, and now that bell was tolling again. My first thought on waking this time was that Helen had said she would marry me. I wanted to see her again, to see her as soon as possible, to find a moment to ask her if yesterday had been a dream. The sunshine that filled the courtyard outside was an echo of my sudden happiness, and the morning air seemed to me unbelievably fresh, full of centuries of freshness.

―But Helen was not at breakfast. Ranov was there, sullen as ever, smoking, until a monk asked him gently to go outside with his cigarette. As soon as the meal was over, I went along the corridor to the women‘s row, where Helen and I had parted the night before, and found the door standing open. The other women, the Czechs and Germans, had gone, leaving their beds neatly made. Helen was still asleep, apparently; I could see her form in the cot nearest the window. She was turned toward the wall, and I stepped in, silently, reasoning that she was my fiancée now, and I had the right to kiss her good morning, even in a monastery. I closed the door behind me, hoping no monks would happen by.

―Helen lay with her back to the room, on a cot near the window. When I drew closer, she rolled slightly in my direction, as if sensing my presence. Her head was tipped back, her eyes closed, her dark curls spread over the pillow. She was deeply asleep and an audible, almost stertorous breathing came from her lips. I thought she must have been tired after our travels and our walk of the day before, but something about the very abandon of her attitude made me step closer, uneasy. I bent over her, thinking I would kiss her even before she awoke, and then in a single terrible moment I saw the greenish pallor of her face and the fresh blood on her throat. Where the nearly healed wound had been, in the deepest part of her neck, two small gashes oozed, red and open. There was a little blood on the edge of the white sheet, too, and more on the sleeve of her cheap-looking white gown, where she‘d thrown one arm back in her sleep. The front of her gown was pulled askance and slightly torn, and one of her breasts was bare almost to the dark nipple. I saw all this in a frozen instant, and my heart seemed to stop beating inside me. Then I reached down and drew the sheet gently over her nakedness, as if covering a child for sleep. I couldn‘t think of any other motion, at that moment. A thick sob filled my throat, a rage I didn‘t yet quite feel.

―‗Helen!‘ I shook her shoulder gently, but her face did not change. I saw now how haggard she looked, as if she were in pain even in her sleep. Where was the crucifix? I remembered it suddenly, and looked all around. I found it by my foot; the narrow chain was broken. Had someone torn it off, or had she broken it herself in sleep? I shook her again. ‗Helen, wake up!‘

―This time she stirred, but fretfully, and I wondered if I might somehow harm her by bringing her to consciousness too quickly. After a second, however, she opened her eyes, frowning. Her movements were very feeble. How much blood had she lost during this night, this night when I‘d been sleeping soundly in the next corridor? Why had I left her alone, then or on any night?