Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“Turgut took the little frame fondly into his own hand again. ‘My grandfather chose with wisdom when he broke the tradition and made her a member of the Guard. It was she who found some scattered pieces of our archive in other libraries and brought them back to the collection. When I was five she killed a wolf at our summer cottage, and when I was eleven she taught me to ride and shoot. My father was devoted to her, although she frightened him with her fearlessness-he always said he had followed her back to Turkey from Rome to talk her out of too much bravery. Like the most trustworthy wives of the members of our Guard, my father knew about her membership and he worried constantly about her safety. He is over there -’ He pointed to a portrait in oils that I had noticed earlier, where it hung by the windows. The man looking out of it was a solid, comfortable, quaint person in a dark suit, with black eyes and hair and a soft expression; Turgut had told us that his father had been a historian of the Italian Renaissance, but I could easily imagine the man in the portrait playing marbles with his young son while his wife tended to the boy’s more serious education.

“Helen stirred beside me, stretching her legs discreetly. ‘You said your grandfather was an active member of the Crescent Guard. What does that mean? What are your activities?’

“Turgut shook his head regretfully. ‘That, madam fellow, I cannot tell even you two in detail. Some things must remain secret. We have told you this much because you asked-you almost guessed-and because we would like you to have complete faith in our assistance. It is very much to the benefit of the Guard that you should go into Bulgaria, and go as soon as possible. Today the Guard is small-there are only a few of us left.’ He sighed. ‘I, for one, alas, have no son-or daughter-to whom to pass my trust, although Mr. Aksoy is raising his nephew in our traditions. But you may believe that all the power of Ottoman determination will go with you, in one way or another.’

“I resisted the urge to groan aloud again. I could have argued with Helen, perhaps, but arguing with the secret might of the Ottoman Empire was beyond me. Turgut raised a finger. ‘I must give you one warning, and a very serious one, my friends. We have put into your hands a secret that has been kept with care-and with success, we believe-for five hundred years. We have no reason to think that our ancient foe knows it, although he surely hates and fears our city as he did in his lifetime. In the charter of the Guard, His Magnificence laid down his rule. Anyone who betrays the secret of the Guard to our enemies will be punished by immediate execution. This has never occurred, to my knowledge. But I ask you to be careful, for your own sakes as well as ours.’

“There was no hint of malice or threat in his voice, only a grave depth, and I heard in it the implacable loyalty that had made his sultan conqueror of the Great City, the previously impregnable, arrogant city of the Byzantines. When he had said, ‘We work for the sultan,’ he had meant exactly that, even if he himself had been born half a millennium after Mehmed’s death. The sun was sinking lower outside the parlor windows, and a rosy light reached Turgut’s big face, suddenly ennobling it. I thought for a moment how fascinated Rossi would have been by Turgut, how he would have seen in him living history, and I wondered what questions-questions I could not even begin to formulate myself-Rossi might have asked him.

“It was Helen, however, who said the right thing. Rising to her feet so that we all rose with her, she gave her hand to Turgut. ‘We are honored by what you have told us,’ she said, looking proudly into his face. ‘We will guard your secret and the wishes of the sultan with our lives.’ Turgut kissed her hand, clearly moved, and Selim Aksoy bowed to her. There seemed no need for me to add anything; setting aside for the moment her people’s traditional hatred of their Ottoman oppressors, she had spoken for both of us.

“‘We might have stood that way all day, looking wordlessly at one another as the twilight fell, if Turgut’s telephone had not suddenly given a screech. He bowed his excuses and went across the room to answer it, and Mrs. Bora began to load the remains of our meal onto a brass tray. Turgut listened to his caller for a few minutes, spoke in some agitation, and then replaced the receiver abruptly. He turned to Selim and addressed him in rapid Turkish, and Selim quickly put on his shabby jacket.

“‘Has something happened?’ I asked.

“‘Yes, alas.’ Turgut smote his chest with a punishing hand. ‘It is the librarian, Mr. Erozan. The man I left to watch him went out for a moment, and he called now to say that my friend has been attacked again. Erozan is unconscious and the man is going for a doctor. This is very serious. It is the third attack, and just at sunset.’

“Shocked, I reached for my jacket, too, and Helen slipped on her shoes, although Mrs. Bora put a pleading hand on her arm. Turgut kissed his wife, and as we hurried out, I turned once to see her standing pale and frightened at the door to the apartment.”

“Where can we sleep?” Barley said doubtfully. We were in our hotel room in Perpignan, a double room we’d gotten by telling the elderly clerk, too, that we were brother and sister. He’d given it to us without a murmur, although he’d looked dubiously from one of us to the other. We couldn’t afford separate rooms, and we both knew it. “Well?” Barley said, a little impatiently. We looked at the bed. There was no other place, not even a rug on the bare and polished floor. Finally Barley made a decision-for himself, at least. While I stood frozen to the spot, he went into the bathroom with some clothes and a toothbrush, emerging a few minutes later in cotton pajamas as pale as his hair.

Something about this picture, and his failure at nonchalance, made me laugh aloud, even while my cheeks burned, and then he began to laugh, too. We both laughed until the tears rent our faces-Barley bent double, crossing his arms over his skinny middle, and I clutching the depressing old armoire. In hysterical laughter, we relinquished all the tension of the trip, my fears, Barley’s disapproval, my father’s anguished letters, our arguments. Years later, I learned the termfou rire -a crazy fit of laughter-and that was my first one, there in that French hotel. My firstfou rire was followed by other firsts, as we stumbled toward each other. Barley grabbed my shoulders with as little elegance as I had held onto the armoire a moment before, but his kiss was angelically graceful, his youthful experience pressing softly into my utter lack of it. Like our laughter, it left me winded.

All my previous knowledge of lovemaking was drawn from polite movies and confusing books, and I was mostly unable to proceed. Barley, however, proceeded for me, and I followed gratefully, if clumsily. By the time we found ourselves lying on the stale, neat bed, I had already learned something of the negotiation between lovers and their clothing. Each garment seemed to me a momentous decision, Barley’s pajama shirt first of all; its removal revealed an alabaster torso and surprisingly muscled shoulders. The shedding of my blouse and ugly white brassiere was as much my decision as his. He told me that he loved the color of my skin, because it was completely different from his, and it was true that my arm had never looked so olive as when it lay against the snow of Barley’s. He drew the flat of his hand across me, and across my remaining clothes, and for the first time I did the same to him, discovering the alien contours of the male body; I seemed to be feeling my way shyly over the craters of the moon. My heart knocked inside me with such force that I worried he would be able to feel it striking his breast.