Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“On one wall of the sitting room hung a primitive map, painted, to my amazement, on leather. I couldn’t help stepping toward it, and Stoichev smiled. ‘Do you like that?’ he asked. ‘It is the Byzantine Empire in about 1150.’ It was the first time he had spoken, and he used a quiet, correct English.

“‘While Bulgaria was still among its territories,’ Helen mused.

“Stoichev glanced at her, clearly pleased. ‘Yes, exactly. I think this map was made in Venice or Genoa and brought to Constantinople, perhaps as a gift to the emperor or someone in his court. This is a copy which a friend has made for me.’

“Helen smiled, touching her chin in thought. Then she almost winked at him. ‘The emperor Manuel I Comnenus, perhaps?’

“I was stunned and Stoichev looked astonished, too. Helen laughed. ‘Byzantium used to be quite a hobby with me,’ she said. The old historian smiled, then, and bowed to her, suddenly courtly. He gestured to the chairs around a table in the middle of the sitting room, and we all sat down. From where I sat I could see the yard behind the house, sloping gradually to the edge of a wood, and the fruit trees, some of them already forming small green fruits. The windows were open, and that same hum of bees and rustle of leaves came to us. I thought how pleasant it must be for Stoichev, even in exile, to sit up here among his manuscripts and read or write and listen to that sound, which no heavy-handed state could muffle, or which no bureaucrat had yet chosen to send him away from. It was a fortunate imprisonment, as such things went, and perhaps more voluntary than we had any way of ascertaining.

“Stoichev said nothing else for a while, although he looked intently at us, and I wondered what he thought of our appearing there, and whether he planned to find out who we were. After a few minutes, thinking he might never address us, I spoke to him. ‘Professor Stoichev,’ I said, ‘please forgive this invasion of your solitude. We are very grateful to you and to your niece for letting us visit you.’

“He looked at his hands on the table-they were fine and freckled with age spots-and then at me. His eyes, as I’ve said, were hugely dark, and they were the eyes of a young man, although his clean-shaven olive face was old. His ears were unusually large and stuck out from the sides of his head in the midst of neatly clipped white hair; they actually caught some of the light from the windows, so that they looked translucent, pinkish around the edges like a rabbit’s. Those eyes, with their combined mildness and wariness, had something of the animal in them, too. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and one of them, in the front, was covered in gold. But they were all there, and his face was startling when he smiled, as if a wild animal had suddenly formed a human expression. It was a wonderful face, a face that in its youth must have had an unusual radiance, a great visible enthusiasm-it must have been an irresistible face.

“Stoichev smiled now, with such force that it made Helen and me smile, too. Irina dimpled at us. She had settled herself in a chair under an icon of someone-I assumed it was Saint George-putting his spear with vigor through an undernourished dragon. ‘I am very glad that you have come to see me,’ Stoichev said. ‘We don’t get so many visitors, and visitors who speak English are even more rare. I am very glad to be able to practice my English with you, although it is not as good as it was, I am afraid.’

“‘Your English is excellent,’ I said. ‘Where did you learn it, if you don’t mind my asking?’

“‘Oh, I do not mind,’ said Professor Stoichev. ‘I had the good fortune to study abroad when I was young, and some of my studies were conducted in London. Is there anything with which I can help you, or did you only wish to visit my library?’ He said this so simply that it took me by surprise.

“‘Both,’ I said. ‘We wished to visit it, and we wished to ask you some questions for our research.’ I paused to hunt for words. ‘Miss Rossi and I are very much interested in the history of your country in the Middle Ages, although I know far less about it than I ought to, and we have been writing some-ah -’ I began to falter, because it swept over me that despite Helen’s brief lecture on the plane I actually knew nothing about Bulgarian history, or so little that it could only sound absurd to this erudite man who was the guardian of his country’s past; and also because what we had to discuss was highly personal, terribly improbable, and not at all something that I wanted to broach with Ranov sneering down at the table.

“‘So you are interested in the medieval Bulgaria?’ said Stoichev, and it seemed to me that he, too, glanced in Ranov’s direction.

“‘Yes,’ said Helen, coming quickly to my rescue. ‘We are interested in the monastic life of medieval Bulgaria, and we have been researching it as well as we can for some articles we would like to produce. Specifically, we would like to know about life in the monasteries of Bulgaria in the late medieval period, and about some of the routes that brought pilgrims to Bulgaria, and also routes by which pilgrims from Bulgaria traveled to other lands.’

“Stoichev lit up, shaking his head with apparent pleasure so that his large delicate ears caught the light. ‘That is a very good topic,’ he said. He looked beyond us, and I thought he must be gazing into a past so deep that it was really the well of time, and seeing more clearly than perhaps anyone else in the world the period to which we had alluded. ‘Is there something in particular you will write about? I have many manuscripts here that might be useful to you, and I would be happy to permit you to look at them, if you would like.’

“Ranov shifted in his chair, and I thought again how much I disliked his watching us. Fortunately, most of his attention seemed to be focused on Irina’s pretty profile, across the room. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘We’d like to learn more about the fifteenth century-the late fifteenth century, and Miss Rossi here has done quite a bit of work on that period in her family’s native country-that is -’

“‘Romania,’ Helen put in. ‘But I was raised and educated in Hungary.’

“‘Ah, yes-you are our neighbor.’ Professor Stoichev turned to Helen and gave her the gentlest of smiles. ‘And you are from the University of Budapest?’

“‘Yes,’ said Helen.

“‘Perhaps you know my friend there-his name is Professor Sándor.’

“‘Oh, yes. He is the head of our history department. He is quite a friend of mine.’

“‘That is very nice-very nice,’ Professor Stoichev said. ‘Please give him my warmest greetings if you have the chance.’

“‘I will.’ Helen smiled at him.

“‘And who else? I do not think I know anyone else who is there now. But your name, Professor, is very interesting. I know this name. There is in the United States’-he turned to me again, and back to Helen; to my discomfort I saw Ranov’s gaze narrowing on us-‘a famous historian named Rossi. He is perhaps a relative?’

“Helen, to my surprise, flushed pink. I thought maybe she didn’t yet relish admitting this in public, or felt some lingering doubt about doing so, or that perhaps she had noticed Ranov’s sudden attention to the conversation. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He is my father, Bartholomew Rossi.’

“I thought Stoichev might very naturally wonder why an English historian’s daughter claimed she was Romanian and had been raised in Hungary, but if he had any such questions he kept them to himself. ‘Yes, that is the name. He has written very fine books-and on such a range of topics!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘When I read some of his early articles, I thought he would make a fine Balkan historian, but I see that he has abandoned that area and gone into many others.’