Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“‘I would protect you from any hell that could ever come near you.’

“‘Would that not be a burden? And how could we have children’-her look was hard and direct-‘knowing they might be affected somehow by this contamination?’

“It was hard for me to speak through the burning in my throat. ‘Then is your answer no, or shall I just ask you again another time?’

“Her hand-I couldn’t imagine doing without that hand, with its square-tipped fingernails and soft skin over hard bone-closed over mine, and I thought fleetingly that I didn’t have a ring to put on it.

“Helen glanced gravely at me. ‘The answer is that of course I will marry you.’

“After weeks of futile search for the other person I loved best, I was too stunned by the ease of this discovery to speak or even to kiss her. We sat close together in silence, looking down at the red and gold and gray of the vast monastery.”

Barley stood beside me in my father’s hotel room, contemplating the mess, but he was quicker to see what I had missed-the papers and books on the bed. We found a tattered copy of Bram Stoker’sDracula, a new history of medieval heresies in southern France, and a very old-looking volume on European vampire lore.

Among the books lay papers, including notes in his own hand, and among these a scattering of postcards in a hand completely unfamiliar to me, a fine dark ink, neat and minute. Barley and I began of one accord-again, how glad I was not to be alone-to search through everything, and my first instinct was to gather up the postcards. They were ornamented with stamps from a rainbow of countries: Portugal, France, Italy, Monaco, Finland, Austria. The stamps were pristine, without postmarks. Sometimes the message on a card ran over onto four or five more, neatly numbered. Most astonishingly, each was signed “Helen Rossi.” And each was addressed to me.

Barley, looking over my shoulder, took in my astonishment, and we sat down together on the edge of the bed. The first was from Rome-a black-and-white photograph of the skeletal remains of the Forum.

May 1962

My beloved daughter:

In what language should I write to you, the child of my heart and my body, whom I have not seen in more than five years? We should have been speaking together all this time, a no-language of small sounds and kisses, glances, murmuring. It is so difficult for me to think about, to remember what I have missed, that I have to stop writing today, when I have only started trying.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

The second was a color postcard, already fading, of flowers and urns-“Jardins de Boboli-The Gardens of Boboli-Boboli.”

May 1962

My beloved daughter:

I will tell you a secret: I hate this English. English is an exercise in grammar, or a class in literature. In my heart, I feel I could speak best with you in my own language, Hungarian, or even in the language that flows inside my Hungarian-Romanian. Romanian is the language of the fiend I am seeking, but even that has not spoiled it for me. If you were sitting on my lap this morning, looking out at these gardens, I would teach you a first lesson:“Ma numesc…”And then we would whisper your name over and over in the soft tongue that is your mother tongue, too. I would explain to you that Romanian is the language of brave, kind, sad people, shepherds and farmers, and of your grandmother, whose life he ruined from a distance. I would tell you the beautiful things she told me, the stars at night above her village, the lanterns on the river.“Ma numesc…”Telling you about that would be unbearable happiness for one day.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

Barley and I looked at each other, and he put his arm softly around my neck.

“We found Stoichev in a state of excitement at the library table. Ranov sat across from him, drumming his fingers and occasionally glancing at a document as the old scholar set it aside. He looked as irritated as I’d seen him yet, which suggested that Stoichev hadn’t been answering his questions. When we came in, Stoichev looked up eagerly. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said in a whisper. Helen sat down next to him and I leaned over the manuscripts he was examining. They were similar to Brother Kiril’s letters in design and execution, written in a beautifully close, neat hand on leaves that were faded and crumbling at the edges. I recognized the Slavonic script from the letters. Next to them he had laid out our maps. I found myself hardly breathing, hoping against hope that he would tell us something of real import. Perhaps the tomb was even here at Rila, I thought suddenly-perhaps that’s why Stoichev insisted on coming here, because he suspected as much. I was surprised and uneasy, though, that he wanted to make any announcement in front of Ranov.

“Stoichev looked around, glanced at Ranov, rubbed his wrinkled forehead with his hand, and said in a low voice, ‘I believe the tomb is not in Bulgaria.’

“I felt the blood drain out of my head. ‘What?’ Helen was looking fixedly at Stoichev, and Ranov turned away from us, drumming his fingers on the table as if only half listening.

“‘I am sorry to disappoint you, my friends, but it is clear to me from this manuscript, which I had not examined in many years, that a group of pilgrims traveled back to Wallachia from Sveti Georgi about 1478. This manuscript is a customs document-it gave them permission to take some kind of Christian relics of Wallachian origin back to Wallachia. I am sorry. Perhaps you will be able to travel there one day to examine further this issue. If you would like to continue your research on the routes of pilgrims in Bulgaria, however, I will be happy to assist you.’

“I stared at him, speechless. We could not possibly get into Romania after all this, I thought. It had been a miracle that we had gotten this far.

“‘I recommend that you acquire permission to see some other monasteries and the routes on which they are located, particularly the Bachkovo Monastery. It is a beautiful example of our Bulgarian Byzantinism and the buildings are much older than those of Rila. Also, they have some very rare manuscripts that monks on pilgrimage brought to the monastery as gifts. It will be interesting for you, and you can gather in that way some material for your articles.’

“To my amazement, Helen seemed completely acquiescent with this plan. ‘Could this be arranged, Mr. Ranov?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps Professor Stoichev would like to accompany us, as well.’

“‘Oh, I am afraid I must return to my home,’ Stoichev said regretfully. ‘I have much work to do. I wish I could be there to help you at Bachkovo, but I can send a letter of introduction with you for the abbot. Mr. Ranov can be your interpreter, and the abbot will help you with any translations of manuscripts you wish to make. He is a fine scholar of the history of the monastery.’

“‘Very well.’ Ranov looked pleased to hear that Stoichev would be leaving us. There was nothing we could say about this terrible situation, I thought; we had to simply go through with a pretense at research at another monastery, and decide along the way what to do next. Romania? The image of Rossi’s door at the university rose up before me once more: it was closed, locked. Rossi would never open it again. I followed numbly as Stoichev put the manuscripts back in their box and shut the lid. Helen carried it to a shelf for him and helped him out the door. Ranov trailed us in silence-a silence I took to contain some gloating. Whatever we’d actually come to find was beyond us now, and we would be left alone with our guide again. Then he could get us to finish up our research and leave Bulgaria as soon as possible.