Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“I was relieved to hear that Stoichev knew Rossi’s work and thought well of it; this might give us some credentials, in his eyes, and might also make it easier to enlist his sympathies. ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘In fact, Professor Rossi is not only Helen’s father but also my adviser-I’m working with him on my dissertation.’

“‘How fortunate.’ Stoichev folded one veined hand over the other. ‘And what is your dissertation about?’

“‘Well,’ I began, and this time it was my turn to flush. I hoped Ranov wasn’t watching these changes of color too closely. ‘It’s about Dutch merchants in the seventeenth century.’

“‘Remarkable,’ said Stoichev. ‘That is quite an interesting topic. Then what brings you to Bulgaria?’

“‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘Miss Rossi and I became interested in doing some research on connections between Bulgaria and the Orthodox community in Istanbul after the Ottoman conquest of the city. Even though this is a departure from the topic of my dissertation, we have been writing some articles about it. In fact, I’ve also just given a lecture at the University of Budapest on the history of-parts of Romania under the Turks.’ I immediately saw this was a mistake; perhaps Ranov hadn’t known we’d been in Budapest as well as Istanbul. Helen was composed, however, and I took my cue from her. ‘We would like very much to finish our research here in Bulgaria, and we thought you might well be able to help us.’

“‘Of course,’ Stoichev said patiently. ‘Perhaps you could tell me exactly what interests you most about the history of our medieval monasteries and the routes of pilgrimages, and about the fifteenth century in particular. It is a fascinating century in Bulgarian history. You know that after 1393 most of our country was under the Ottoman yoke, although some parts of Bulgaria were not conquered until well into the fifteenth century. Our native intellectual culture was preserved from that time on very much by the monasteries. I am glad you are interested in the monasteries because they are one of the richest sources of our heritage in Bulgaria.’ He paused and refolded his hands, as if waiting to see how familiar this information was to us.

“‘Yes,’ I said. There was no help for it. We would have to talk about some aspect of our search with Ranov sitting right there. After all, if I asked him to leave, he would immediately become suspicious about our purpose here. Our only hope was to make our questions sound as scholarly and impersonal as possible. ‘We believe there are some interesting connections between the Orthodox community in fifteenth-century Istanbul and the monasteries of Bulgaria.’

“‘Yes, of course that is true,’ said Stoichev, ‘especially since the Bulgarian church was placed by Mehmed the Conqueror under the jurisdiction of the patriarch of Constantinople. Before that, of course, our church was independent, with its own patriarch in Veliko Trnovo.’

“I felt a wave of gratitude toward this man with his erudition and wonderful ears. My comments had been close to inane, and yet he was answering them with circumspect-not to mention informative-politeness.

“‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And we’re especially interested-we found a letter-that is, we were recently in Istanbul ourselves’-I was careful not to glance at Ranov-‘and we found a letter that has to do with Bulgaria-with a group of monks who traveled from Constantinople to a monastery in Bulgaria. We’re interested for the purposes of one of our articles in tracing their route through Bulgaria. Perhaps they were on pilgrimage-we’re not quite sure.’

“‘I see,’ said Stoichev. His eyes were warier and more luminous than ever. ‘Is there any date on this letter? Can you tell me a little about its contents or who wrote it, if you know that, and where you found it? To whom it was addressed, and so on, if you know these things?’

“‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘In fact, we have a copy of it here. The original letter is in Slavonic, and a monk in Istanbul wrote it out for us. The original resides in the state archive of Mehmed II. Perhaps you would like to read the letter for yourself.’ I opened my briefcase and got the copy out, handing it to him, hoping Ranov would not ask for it next.

“Stoichev took the letter and I saw his eyes flash over the opening lines. ‘Interesting,’ he said, and to my disappointment he set it down on the table. Perhaps he was not going to help us after all, or even read the letter. ‘My dear,’ he said, turning to his niece, ‘I don’t think we can look at old letters without offering these guests something to eat and drink. Would you bring usrakiya and a little lunch?’ He nodded with particular politeness toward Ranov.

“Irina rose promptly, smiling. ‘Certainly, Uncle,’ she said, in beautiful English. There was no end, I thought, to the surprises in this household. ‘But I would like some help to bring it up the stairs.’ She gave Ranov the slightest glance from her clear eyes and he got up, smoothing his hair.

“‘I will be glad to help the young lady,’ he said, and they went downstairs together, Ranov thumping noisily on the steps and Irina chattering to him in Bulgarian.

“As soon as the door closed behind them, Stoichev leaned forward and read the letter with greedy concentration. When he was done, he looked up at us. His face had lost ten years, but it was tense, too. ‘This is remarkable,’ he said in a low voice. We rose out of the same instinct and came to sit close to him at his end of the long table. ‘I am astonished to see this letter.’

“‘Yes-what?’ I said eagerly. ‘Do you have any sense of what it might mean?’

“‘A little.’ Stoichev’s eyes were enormous and he looked intently at me. ‘You see,’ he added, ‘I, too, have one of Brother Kiril’s letters.’”

Iremembered all too well the bus station in Perpignan, where I had stood with my father the year before, waiting for a dusty bus to the villages. The bus pulled up again now, and Barley and I boarded it. Our ride to Les Bains, along broad rural roads, was also familiar to me. The towns we passed were girded with square, shorn plane trees. Trees, houses, fields, and old cars all seemed made of the same dust, a café-au-lait cloud that covered everything.

The hotel in Les Bains was much as I remembered it, too, with its four stories of stucco, its iron window grills and boxes of rosy flowers. I found myself longing for my father, breathless with the thought that we’d see him soon, perhaps in a few minutes. For once I led Barley, pushing the heavy door open and putting my bag down in front of the marble-topped desk inside. But then that desk seemed so extremely high and dignified that I felt shy again and had to force myself to tell the sleek old man behind it that I thought my father might be staying here. I didn’t remember the old man from our visit here, but he was patient, and after a minute he said there was indeed a foreign monsieur by that name staying there, butla clé -his key-was not in, and therefore he himself must be out. He showed us the empty hook. My heart leaped, and leaped again a moment later when a man I did remember opened the door behind the counter. It was the maître d‘ from the little restaurant, poised and graceful and in a hurry. The old man arrested him with a question and he turned to meétonné, as he said at once that the young lady was here, and how she had grown, how grown-up and lovely. And her-friend?

“Cousin,”Barley said.

But monsieur had not mentioned that his daughter and nephew would be joining him, what a nice surprise. We must all dine there that evening. I asked where my father was, if anybody knew, but no one did. He had left early, the older man contributed, perhaps to take a morning walk. The maître d‘ said they were still full, but if we needed other rooms he could see to that. Why didn’t we go up to my father’s room and leave our bags, at least? My father had taken a suite with a nice view and a little parlor to sit in. He-the maître d’-would give usl’autre clé and make us some coffee. My father would be back soon, probably. We agreed gratefully to all these suggestions. The creaking elevator took us up so slowly that I wondered if the maître d‘ was pulling the chain himself down in the cellar.