Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

Oh my love, I wanted to tell you how I have thought about you. My memory belongs entirely to you, because it reverts constantly these days to our first moments alone together. I have asked myself many times why other affections can’t replace your presence, and I always return to the illusion that we are still together, and then-unwillingly-to the knowledge that you have made a hostage of my memory. When I least expect it, I am overwhelmed by your words in recollection. I feel the weight of your hand over mine, both our hands hidden under the edge of my jacket, my jacket folded on the seat between us, the exquisite lightness of your fingers, your profile turned away from me, your exclamation when we entered Bulgaria together, when we first flew over the Bulgarian mountains.

Since we were young, my dear, there has been a revolution about sex, a bacchanalia of mythic proportions that you have not lived to see-now, in the Western world, at least, young people apparently encounter each other without preliminaries. But I remember our restrictions with almost as much longing as I remember their legal consummation, much later. This is the kind of memory I can share with no one: the intimacy we had with each other’s clothing, in a situation in which we had to delay fulfillments, the way the removal of any garment was a burning question between us, so that I recall with agonizing clarity-and when I least want to-both the delicate base of your neck and the delicate collar of your blouse, that blouse whose outline I knew by heart before my fingers ever brushed its texture or touched its pearly buttons. I remember the scent of train travel and harsh soap in the shoulder of your black jacket, the slight roughness of your black straw hat, as fully as I do the softness of your hair, which was almost exactly the same shade. When we dared to spend half an hour together in my hotel room in Sofia before appearing for another grim meal, I felt that my longing would destroy me. When you hung your jacket on a chair, and laid your blouse over it, slowly and deliberately, when you turned to face me with eyes that never wavered from mine, I was paralyzed by fire. When you put my hands on your waist and they had to choose between the heavy polish of your skirt and the finer polish of your skin, I could have wept.

Perhaps it was then that I found your single blemish-the one place, perhaps, I never kissed-the tiny curling dragon on the wing of your shoulder blade. My hands must have crossed it before I saw it. I remember my intake of breath-and yours-when I found it and stroked it with a reluctantly curious finger. In time it became for me part of the geography of your smooth back, but at that first moment it fueled the awe in my desire. Whether or not this happened in our hotel in Sofia, I must have learned it around the time when I was memorizing the edge of your lower teeth and their fine serration, and the skin around your eyes, with its first signs of age like cobwebs -

Here my father’s note breaks off, and I can only revert to his more guarded letters to me.

“Turgut Bora and Selim Aksoy were waiting for us at the airport in Istanbul. ‘Paul!’ Turgut embraced and kissed me and beat me on the shoulders. ‘Madam Professor!’ He shook Helen’s hand in both of his. ‘Thank goodness you are safe and sound. Welcome to your triumphal return!’

“‘Well, I wouldn’t call it triumphal,’ I said, laughing in spite of myself.

“‘We will converse, we will converse!’ Turgut cried, slapping me soundly across the back. Selim Aksoy followed all this with a quieter greeting. Within an hour we found ourselves at the door of Turgut’s apartment, where Mrs. Bora was clearly delighted by our reappearance. Helen and I both exclaimed aloud when we saw her: today she was dressed in very pale blue, like a small spring flower. She looked quizzically at us. ‘We like your dress!’ Helen exclaimed, taking Mrs. Bora’s little hand in her long one.

“Mrs. Bora laughed. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I sue all my clothes for me.’ Then she and Selim Aksoy served us coffee and something she explained wasbörek, a roll of pastry with salty cheese inside, as well as a dinner of five or six other dishes.

“‘Now, my friends, tell us what you have learned.’

“This was a tall order, but together we filled him in on our experiences at the conference in Budapest, my meeting with Hugh James, Helen’s mother’s story, Rossi’s letters. Turgut listened with wide eyes as we described Hugh James’s discovery of his dragon book. Recounting all this, I felt we had indeed learned a lot. Unfortunately, none of it pointed to Rossi’s whereabouts.

“Turgut told us in his turn that they had had serious troubles during our absence from Istanbul; two nights before, his kind friend the archivist had been attacked a second time in the apartment where he was now resting. The first man they’d had watching him had fallen asleep on duty and had seen nothing. They had a new guard now, whom they hoped would be more careful. They were taking every precaution, but poor Mr. Erozan was very unwell.

“They had another kind of news, too. Turgut gulped down his second cup of coffee and hurried to retrieve something from his grisly study next door. (I was relieved not to be invited into it today.) He emerged carrying a notebook and sat down again next to Selim Aksoy. They looked gravely at us. ‘I told you on the phone that we found a letter in your absence,’ Turgut said. ‘The original letter is in Slavonic, the old language of the Christian churches. As I told you, it was written by a monk from the Carpathians and it concerns his travels to Istanbul. My friend Selim is surprised that it is not in Latin, but perhaps this monk was a Slav. Shall I read it in no time?’

“‘Of course,’ I said, but Helen held up her hand.

“‘Just one minute, please. How and where did you find it?’

“Turgut nodded approvingly. ‘Mr. Aksoy found it in the archive, actually-the one you visited with us. He has spent three days looking at all manuscripts from the fifteenth century that are in that archive. This he found with a small collection of documents from the infidel churches-that is to say, Christian churches that were allowed to remain open in Istanbul during the rule of the Conqueror and his successors. There are not many such in the archive because they were usually kept by the monasteries, and especially by the patriarchate of Constantinople. But some church documents came into the hands of the sultan, particularly if they concerned new agreements for the churches under the Empire-such an agreement was called afirman. Sometimes the sultan received letters of-how do you say?-petition, in some church matter, and there are those in the archive, too.’

“He translated quickly for Aksoy, who wanted him to explain something else. ‘Yes-my friend gives us a good information about this. He reminds me that soon after the Conqueror took the city, he appointed a new patriarch for the Christians, Patriarch Gennadius.’ Aksoy, listening, nodded vigorously. ‘And the sultan and Gennadius had a very civil friendship-I told you that the Conqueror was tolerant of Christians in his empire once he had conquered them. Sultan Mehmed asked Gennadius to write for him an explanation of the Orthodox faith and then had it translated for his personal library. There is a copy of this translation in the archive. Also, there are copies of some of the churches’ charters, which they had to submit to the Conqueror, and these are there, too. Mr. Aksoy was looking through one of the church charters, from a church in Anatolia, and between two of its leaves he found this letter.’

“‘Thank you.’ Helen sat back on the cushions.

“‘Alack, I cannot show you the original, but of course we could not take it out of the archives. You may go yourselves to see it while you are here, if you wish. It is written out in a beautiful hand, on a small sheet of parchment, with one edge torn. Now I shall read our translation to you, which we have made in English. Please to remember that this is the translation of a translation, and some points may be lost along that path.’