Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“‘Ross,’ I said urgently. ‘Tell us what happened and what we should do.’

“He seemed to struggle with his eyesight for a moment, focusing on me and blinking rapidly. The dried blood on his neck moved with his struggle to breathe. ‘He came for me suddenly, to my office, and took me on a long journey. I was not-conscious for some of it, so I do not know what place this is.’

“‘Bulgaria,’ Helen said, keeping his swollen hand tenderly.

“His eyes flickered again with an old interest, a spark of curiosity. ‘Bulgaria? So that’s why -’ He tried to moisten his lips.

“‘What did he do to you?’

“‘He brought me here to look after his-diabolical library. I have resisted in every way I could think of. It was my fault, Paul. I had started doing some research again, for an article -’ He struggled for breath. ‘I wanted to show him as part of a-greater tradition. Beginning with the Greeks. I-I heard there was a new scholar at the university writing on him, although I couldn’t find out the man’s name.’

“At this, I heard Helen draw her breath in sharply. Rossi’s eyes flickered toward her. ‘It seemed to me that I should finally publish -’ He was wheezing now and he closed his eyes for a moment. Helen, holding his hand, had begun to tremble against me; I kept a tight grip on her waist.

“‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Just rest.’ But Rossi seemed determined to finish.

“‘Not all right,’ he choked, his eyes still closed. ‘He gave you the book. I knew then he would come for me, and he did. I fought him, but he has almost made me-like him -’ He seemed unable to raise his other hand and he turned his neck and head, clumsily, so that we could suddenly see a deep puncture wound in the side of his throat. It was still open, and when he moved it gaped and oozed. Our gaze on it seemed to make him wild again, and he looked beseechingly at me. ‘Paul, is it getting dark outside?’

“A wave of horror and despair went through me, shooting through my hands. ‘Can you feel it, Ross?’

“‘Yes, I know when the dark is coming, and I become-hungry. Please. He will hear you soon. Hurry-leave.’

“‘Tell us how to find him,’ I said desperately. ‘We’ll kill him now.’

“‘Yes, kill him, if you can do it without endangering yourself. Kill him for me,’ he whispered, and for the first time I saw that he could still feel anger. ‘Listen, Paul. There is a book in there. A life of Saint George.’ He began to struggle with his breathing again. ‘Very old, with a Byzantine cover-no one has ever seen such a book. He has many great books, but this one is -’ He seemed for a moment to faint, and Helen pressed his hand between hers, beginning to weep in spite of herself. When he came to, he whispered, ‘I hid it behind the first cabinet to the left. Take it with you if you can. I have written something-I have put something inside it. Hurry, Paul. He is waking up. I am waking up with him.’

“‘Oh, Jesus.’ I looked around for some kind of help-what, I didn’t know. ‘Ross, please-I can’t let him have you. We’ll kill him and you’ll get well. Where is he?’ But now Helen was calmer and she picked up the dagger and showed it to him.

“He seemed to let out a long breath, and it was mingled with a smile. I saw then how his teeth had lengthened, like a dog’s, and how the corner of his lip was already chewed raw. Tears ran freely from his eyes and trickled down his bruised cheekbones. ‘Paul, my friend -’

“‘Where is he? Where is the library?’ I made the question even more urgent, but Rossi could not speak again.

“Helen made a quick gesture, and I understood, and dug a rock quickly from the edge of the floor. It took me a long moment to loosen it, and in that moment I feared I could hear some movement in the church above us. Helen unbuttoned his shirt and opened it gently, and she set the tip of Turgut’s dagger over his heart.

“He kept his eyes on us for a moment, trustingly, so that they looked blue as a child’s, and then shut them. As soon as they closed I gathered all my strength and brought down onto the hilt of the dagger that ancient stone, a stone set in place by the hands of an anonymous monk or hired peasant, some vanished denizen of the twelfth or thirteenth century. Probably that stone had lain quiet as centuries of monks trod on it, bringing bones to their ossuary, or wine to their cellar. That stone had not moved when the corpse of a foreign Turk-killer was carried secretly over it and hidden in a fresh grave in the floor nearby, or when Wallachian monks celebrated a heretical new mass above it, or when the Ottoman police came searching in vain for the corpse, or when Ottoman horsemen rode into the church with their torches, or when a new church rose overhead, or when the bones of Sveti Petko were brought in their reliquary to sit close to it, or when pilgrims knelt on it to receive the neomartyr’s blessing. It had rested there those many centuries, until I dug it roughly from its place and gave it a new use, and that is all I can write about it.”

May 1954

I have no one to whom to write this, and no hope that it will ever be found, but it seems to me a crime not to attempt to record my knowledge while I am still able to, and God only knows how long that will be.

I was taken from my university office some days ago-I am not sure how many, but I surmise that this is still the month of May. On that night I said good-bye to my beloved student and friend, who had shown me his copy of the demonic book I had tried for years to forget. I saw him walk away with all the help I could possibly give him. Then I shut my office door and sat for a few moments in great regret and fear. I knew that I was culpable. I had renewed in secret my research into the history of vampires and I fully intended to come around by degrees to an expansion of my knowledge of the legend of Dracula, and perhaps even to solve at last the mystery of the whereabouts of his tomb. I had let time, rationality, and pride lull me into believing there would be no consequences to renewing my research. I admitted my guilt to myself even in that first moment of solitude.

It had cost me a terrible pang to give Paul my research notes and the letters I’d written about my experiences, not because I wanted them for myself any longer-all desire to continue my research had vanished in me the second he had shown me his book. I simply, deeply regretted having to put this gruesome knowledge into his hand, although I was sure that the more he understood the better he would be able to protect himself. I could only hope that if any punishment followed, I would be the sufferer and not Paul, with his youthful optimism, his light step, his untried brilliance. Paul cannot be more than twenty-seven; I have had decades of life and much undeserved happiness. This was my first thought. My next thoughts were practical. Even if I wished to protect myself, I had no way to do so immediately, except my own faith in the rational. I had kept my notes but not any traditional means of warding off evil-no crucifixes or silver bullets, no braids of garlic. I had never resorted to those, even at the height of my research, but now I began to regret that I had advised Paul to use only the resources of his own mind.

These thoughts required the space of a minute or two, and as it turned out, I had only a minute or two at my disposal. Then, with a sudden rush of foul, cold air, an immense presence was upon me, so that I could hardly see, and my entire body seemed to rise out of its chair with fear. I was enveloped, blinded in an instant, and I felt I must be dying, though from what I couldn’t tell. In the midst of it I had the strangest vision of youth and loveliness, a feeling more than a vision, a sense of myself much younger and full of love for something or someone. Perhaps that is the way one dies. If so, when my time comes-and it will come soon, whatever terrible form it takes-I hope this vision will be with me again in the last moment.