Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“Our companion seemed to be musing over a similar picture. As soon as we were certain Brother Rumen had left, Stoichev said in a low voice, ‘Yes, it is quite possible. But how could the monks of Panachrantos have gotten Dracula’s head from the sultan’s palace? It was indeed a treasure, as Stefan named it in his tale.’

“‘How did we get visas to enter Bulgaria?’ Helen asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Bakshish-a lot of it. The monasteries were quite poor after the conquest, but some of them might have had hidden stores-gold coin, jewels-something to tempt even the guards of the sultan.’

“I pondered this. ‘Our guidebook for Istanbul said that the heads of the sultan’s enemies were thrown into the Bosphorus after they had been displayed for a while. Maybe someone from Panachrantos intercepted that process-that might have been less dangerous than trying to get it from the palace gates.’

“‘We simply cannot know the truth about this,’ Stoichev said, ‘but I think Miss Rossi’s guess is a very good one. His head was the most likely object they could have sought inTsarigrad. There is a good theological reason, too, for their having done so. Our Orthodox beliefs state that as far as possible the body must be whole in death-we do not practice cremation, for example-because on the Day of Judgment we will be resurrected in our bodies.’

“‘What about the saints and all their relics, scattered everywhere?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘How are they going to be resurrected whole? Not to mention that I saw five of Saint Francis’s hands in Italy a few years ago.’

“Stoichev laughed. ‘The saints have special privileges,’ he said. ‘But Vlad Dracula, although he was an excellent Turk-killer, was certainly not a saint. In fact, Eupraxius was quite worried about his immortal soul, at least according to Stefan’s tale.’

“‘Or about his immortal body,’ Helen pointed out.

“‘So,’ I said, ‘maybe the monks of Panachrantos took his head to give it proper burial, at the risk of their lives, and the Janissaries noticed the theft and began searching, so the abbot sent it out of Istanbul rather than bury it there. Maybe there were pilgrims going to Bulgaria from time to time’-I glanced at Stoichev for confirmation-‘and they sent it for burial at-well, at Sveti Georgi, or some other Bulgarian monastery where they had connections. And then the monks from Snagov arrived, but too late to reunite the body with the head. The abbot of Panachrantos heard about it and spoke with them, and the Snagov monks decided to complete their mission by following with the body. Besides, they had to get the hell out of there before the Janissaries got interested in them, too.’

“‘Very good, for a speculation.’ Stoichev gave me his wonderful smile. ‘As I said, we cannot know for certain, because these are events at which our documents only hint. But you have made a convincing picture of them. We will get you away from the Dutch merchants, eventually.’ I felt myself flush, partly from pleasure and partly from chagrin, but his smile was genial.

“‘And then the Ottoman network was put on guard by the presence and departure of the Snagov monks’-Helen picked up the possible story-‘and maybe they searched the monasteries and discovered that the monks had stayed at Saint Irine, and they sent news of the monks’ journey to the officials along their route, perhaps to Edirne and then to Haskovo. Haskovo was the first large Bulgarian town the monks entered, and that is where they were-what is the term?-detained.’

“‘Yes,’ Stoichev finished. ‘The Ottoman officials tortured two of them for information, but those two brave monks said nothing. And the officials searched the wagon and found only food. But this leaves a question-why did the Ottoman soldiers not find the body?’

“I hesitated. ‘Maybe they weren’t looking for a body. Maybe they were still looking for the head. If the Janissaries had learned very little in Istanbul about the whole thing, they might have thought that the Snagov monks were the transporters of the head. The ”Chronicle“ of Zacharias said that the Ottomans were angry when they opened some bundles and found only food. The body could have been hidden in the woods nearby, if the monks had some warning of the search.’

“‘Or perhaps they constructed the wagon so that there was a special place to hide it,’ pondered Helen.

“‘But a corpse would have stunk,’ I reminded her bluntly.

“‘That depends on what you believe.’ She gave me her quizzical, charming smile.

“‘What I believe?’

“‘Yes. You see, a body that is at risk for becoming undead, or is already undead, does not decay, or it decomposes more slowly. Traditionally, if villagers in Eastern Europe suspected vampirism, they would dig up corpses to check for decomposition, and ritually destroy those that were not decaying properly. It is still done sometimes, even now.’

“Stoichev shuddered. ‘A peculiar activity. I have heard of it even in Bulgaria, although of course it is illegal now. The Church has always discouraged the desecration of graves, and now our government discourages all superstitions-as well as it can.’

“Helen almost shrugged. ‘Is it any stranger than hoping for bodily resurrection?’ she asked, but she smiled at Stoichev, and he too was charmed.

“‘Madam,’ he said, ‘we have very different interpretations of our heritage, but I salute your quickness of mind. And now, my friends, I would like some time to study your maps-it has occurred to me that there are materials in this library that may be of assistance in reading them. Give me an hour-what I do now will be dull for you, and slow for me to explain.’

“Ranov had just come in again, restlessly, and stood looking around the library. I hoped he hadn’t caught the mention of our maps.

“Stoichev cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you will like to go into the church and see its beauty.’ He glanced very slightly toward Ranov. Helen immediately got up and went to Ranov to engage him in some slight complication, while I fished discreetly in my briefcase and pulled out my file of copies of the maps. When I saw the eagerness with which Stoichev took them, my heart leaped with hope.

“Unfortunately, Ranov seemed more interested in hovering over Stoichev’s work and conferring with the librarian than in following us, although I devoutly wished we could draw him off. ‘Would you help us find some dinner?’ I asked him. The librarian stood silent, studying me closely.

“Ranov smiled. ‘Are you hungry? It is not yet time for the meal here, which is supper at six o’clock. We will wait for that. We will have to eat with the monks, unfortunately.’ He turned his back on us and began to study a shelf of leather-bound volumes, and that was that.

“Helen followed me to the door and squeezed my hand. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ she said, once we were outside.

“‘I don’t know whether I know how to do anything without Ranov, at this point,’ I said grimly. ‘What will we talk about without him?’

“She laughed, but I could see she was worried, too. ‘Should I go back and try again to distract him?’

“‘No,’ I said. ‘Better not. The more we do that the more he’ll wonder what Stoichev is looking at. We can’t get rid of him any more than we could a fly.’

“‘He would make a good fly.’ Helen took my arm. The sun was still brilliant in the courtyard, and hot when we left the shadow of the immense monastery walls and galleries. Looking up, I could see the forested slopes around the monastery, and the vertical rock peaks above them. Far overhead, an eagle banked and wheeled. Monks in their heavy, belted black gowns, tall black hats, and long black beards came and went between the church and the first floor of the monastery, or swept the wooden gallery floors, or sat in a triangle of shade near the porch of the church. I wondered how they endured the summer heat in those garments. The interior of the church gave me some insight; it was as cool as a springhouse, lit only by twinkling candles and the glimmer of gold, brass, jewels. The inner walls were ornately gilded and painted with images of saints and prophets-‘Nineteenth-century work,’ Helen said confidently-and I paused before an especially sober image, a saint with a long white beard and neatly parted white hair gazing straight out at us. Helen sounded out the letters near his halo. ‘Ivan Rilski.’