Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“I recoiled, staring at her.

“‘Oh, it wasn’t so crude,’ she said. ‘He did not say, ”You sleep with me and then you can go to England.“ He is actually rather subtle. He did not get everything he wanted from me, either. But by the time I was no longer charmed with him, I had my passport in my hand. That was how it happened, and when I realized it, I already had a ticket to freedom, to the West, and I was not willing to give it up. And I thought it was worth it to find my father. So I played along with Géza until I could escape to London, and then I left him a letter breaking my ties with him. I wanted to be honest about that, at least. He must have been very angry, but he never wrote me.’

“‘And how did you know he was with the secret police?’

“She laughed. ‘He was too vain to keep it to himself. He wanted to impress me. I did not tell him that I was more frightened than impressed, and more disgusted than frightened. He told me about people he had sent to jail, or had sent to be tortured, and implied that there was worse. It is impossible not to hate such a person, ultimately.’

“‘I’m not glad to hear this, since he’s interested in my movements,’ I said. ‘But I’m glad to know that’s how you feel about him.’

“‘What did you think?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve been trying to stay away from him from the minute we got here.’

“‘But I sensed some complicated feeling in you when you saw him at the conference,’ I admitted. ‘I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps you had loved him, or still loved him, something like that.’

“‘No.’ She shook her head, looking down at the dark current. ‘I could not love an interrogator-a torturer-probably a murderer. And if I did not reject him for all this-in the past and even more now-there would be other things for which I would reject him.’ She turned slightly in my direction, but without meeting my gaze. ‘They are smaller things, but still very important. He is not kind. He does not know when to say something comforting and when to be silent. He does not really care about history. He does not have soft gray eyes or bushy eyebrows, or roll his sleeves up to the elbow.’ I stared at her, and now she looked me full in the face with a kind of determined courage. ‘In short, the biggest problem with him is that he is not you.’

“Her gaze was almost unreadable, but after a moment she began to smile, as if in spite of herself, as if fighting herself, and it was the beautiful smile of all the women in her family. I stared, an unbeliever still, and then I took her into my arms and kissed her passionately. ‘What did you think?’ she murmured, as soon as I could let her go for a second. ‘What did you think?’

“We stood there for long minutes-it might have been an hour-and then she suddenly drew back with a groan and put her hand to her neck. ‘What is it?’ I asked quickly.

“She hesitated for a moment. ‘My wound,’ she said slowly. ‘It has healed, but sometimes it hurts me for a moment. And just now I thought-what if I should not have touched you?’

“We stared at each other. ‘Let me see it,’ I said. ‘Helen, let me see it.’

“Silently, she untied her scarf and lifted her chin in the light of the streetlamp. On the skin of her strong throat I saw two purple marks, nearly closed over. My fears receded a little; she had clearly not been bitten since the first attack. I leaned over and touched my lips to the spot.

“‘Oh, Paul, don’t!’ she cried, starting back.

“‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I will heal it myself.’ I searched her face, then. ‘Or did that make it hurt?’

“‘No, it was soothing,’ she admitted, but she put her hand over the spot, almost protectively, and after a minute tied her scarf on again. I knew then that even if her contamination had been slight, I must watch her more carefully than ever. I fished in my pocket. ‘We should have done this long ago. I want you to wear this.’ It was one of the little crucifixes we’d brought from Saint Mary’s Church at home. I fastened it around her neck, so that it hung discreetly below the scarf. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, touching it with her finger.

“‘I am not a believer, you know, and I felt I was too much the scholar to -’

“‘I know. But what about that time in Saint Mary’s Church?’

“‘Saint Mary’s?’ She frowned.

“‘At home, near the university. When you came in to read Rossi’s letters with me, you put some holy water on your forehead.’

She thought a minute. ‘Yes, I did. But that was not belief. It was from a feeling of homesickness.’

“We walked slowly back over the bridge and along the dark streets without touching each other. I could still feel her arms twined around me.

“‘Let me come to your room with you,’ I whispered as we came in sight of the hotel.

“‘Not here.’ I thought her lips quivered. ‘We are being watched.’

“I didn’t repeat my request, and was glad for the distraction that awaited us at the front desk of the hotel. When I asked for my key, the clerk handed it over with a scrap of paper scrawled in German: Turgut had called and wanted me to call him back. Helen waited while I went through the ritual of begging for the phone and giving the guard a little incentive to help me-I had stooped low, in these last days here-and then I dialed hopelessly for a while until it rang far away. Turgut answered with a rumble and a quick switch to English. ‘Paul, dear man! Thank the gods you have called. I have news for you-important news!’

“My heart leaped into my throat. ‘Did you find -’ A map? The tomb? Rossi?

“‘No, my friend, nothing so miraculous. But the letter Selim found has been translated and it is an astounding document. It was written by a monk of the Orthodox faith, in Istanbul, in 1477. Can you hear me?’

“‘Yes, yes!’ I shouted, so that the clerk glared at me and Helen looked anxious. ‘Go on.’

“‘In 1477. There is much more. I think it is important that you follow the information of this letter. I will show it to you when you get back tomorrow. Yes?’

“‘Yes!’ I shouted. ‘But does the letter say they buried-him-in Istanbul?’ Helen was shaking her head, and I could read her thoughts-the line might be bugged.

“‘I cannot tell, from the letter,’ Turgut rumbled. ‘I am still uncertain where he is buried, but it is not very likely that the tomb is here. I think you must prepare yourself for a new trip. You will probably need succor from the good aunt again, also.’ Despite the static, I could hear a grim note in his voice.

“‘A new trip? But where?’

“‘To Bulgaria!’ shouted Turgut, far away.

“I stared at Helen, the receiver slipping in my hand. ‘ Bulgaria?’”

Some years ago I found among my father’s papers a note that would have no place in this history except that it is the only memento of his love for Helen that has ever come into my hands, apart from his letters to me. He kept no journals as such, and his occasional notes to himself were almost entirely concerned with his work-musings on diplomatic problems, or on history, especially as it pertained to some international conflict. These reflections, and the lectures and articles that grew from them, now reside in the library of his foundation, and I am left, after all, with only one piece of writing he did entirely for himself-for Helen. I knew my father as a man devoted to fact and ideal, but not to poetry, which makes this document all the more important to me. Because this is no children’s book, and because I would like it to be as full a record as possible, I have included it here despite some of my own scruples. Quite possibly he wrote other letters like it, but it would have been characteristic of him to destroy them-perhaps to burn them in the tiny garden behind our house in Amsterdam, where as a young girl I sometimes found charred and unreadable scraps of paper in the little stone grill-and this one may have survived by accident. The letter is undated, so I have also hesitated about where to place it in this chronology. I give it at this point because it refers to the earliest days of their love, although the anguish in it leads me to believe that he wrote this letter when it could no longer have been delivered to her.