Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

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The Historian: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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"To you, perceptive reader, I bequeath my history…"
Late one night, exploring her father's library, a young woman finds an ancient book and a cache of yellowing letters. The letters are all addressed to "My dear and unfortunate successor," and they plunge her into a world she never dreamed of-a labyrinth where the secrets of her father's past and her mother's mysterious fate connect to an inconceivable evil hidden in the depths of history.
The letters provide links to one of the darkest powers that humanity has ever known-and to a centuries-long quest to find the source of that darkness and wipe it out. It is a quest for the truth about Vlad the Impaler, the medieval ruler whose barbarous reign formed the basis of the legend of Dracula. Generations of historians have risked their reputations, their sanity, and even their lives to learn the truth about Vlad the Impaler and Dracula. Now one young woman must decide whether to take up this quest herself-to follow her father in a hunt that nearly brought him to ruin years ago, when he was a vibrant young scholar and her mother was still alive.
What does the legend of Vlad the Impaler have to do with the modern world? Is it possible that the Dracula of myth truly existed-and that he has lived on, century after century, pursuing his own unknowable ends? The answers to these questions cross time and borders, as first the father and then the daughter search for clues, from dusty Ivy League libraries to Istanbul, Budapest, and the depths of Eastern Europe. In city after city, in monasteries and archives, in letters and in secret conversations, the horrible truth emerges about Vlad the Impaler's dark reign-and about a time-defying pact that may have kept his awful work alive down through the ages.
Parsing obscure signs and hidden texts, reading codes worked into the fabric of medieval monastic traditions-and evading the unknown adversaries who will go to any lengths to conceal and protect Vlad's ancient powers-one woman comes ever closer to the secret of her own past and a confrontation with the very definition of evil. Elizabeth Kostova's debut novel is an adventure of monumental proportions, a relentless tale that blends fact and fantasy, history and the present, with an assurance that is almost unbearably suspenseful-and utterly unforgettable.
Amazon.com Review
If your pulse flutters at the thought of castle ruins and descents into crypts by moonlight, you will savor every creepy page of Elizabeth Kostova's long but beautifully structured thriller The Historian. The story opens in Amsterdam in 1972, when a teenage girl discovers a medieval book and a cache of yellowed letters in her diplomat father's library. The pages of the book are empty except for a woodcut of a dragon. The letters are addressed to: "My dear and unfortunate successor." When the girl confronts her father, he reluctantly confesses an unsettling story: his involvement, twenty years earlier, in a search for his graduate school mentor, who disappeared from his office only moments after confiding to Paul his certainty that Dracula-Vlad the Impaler, an inventively cruel ruler of Wallachia in the mid-15th century-was still alive. The story turns out to concern our narrator directly because Paul's collaborator in the search was a fellow student named Helen Rossi (the unacknowledged daughter of his mentor) and our narrator's long-dead mother, about whom she knows almost nothing. And then her father, leaving just a note, disappears also.
As well as numerous settings, both in and out of the East Bloc, Kostova has three basic story lines to keep straight-one from 1930, when Professor Bartolomew Rossi begins his dangerous research into Dracula, one from 1950, when Professor Rossi's student Paul takes up the scent, and the main narrative from 1972. The criss-crossing story lines mirror the political advances, retreats, triumphs, and losses that shaped Dracula's beleaguered homeland-sometimes with the Byzantines on top, sometimes the Ottomans, sometimes the rag-tag local tribes, or the Orthodox church, and sometimes a fresh conqueror like the Soviet Union.
Although the book is appropriately suspenseful and a delight to read-even the minor characters are distinctive and vividly seen-its most powerful moments are those that describe real horrors. Our narrator recalls that after reading descriptions of Vlad burning young boys or impaling "a large family," she tried to forget the words: "For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me this: history's terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth." The reader, although given a satisfying ending, gets a strong enough dose of European history to temper the usual comforts of the closing words.
From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Considering the recent rush of door-stopping historical novels, first-timer Kostova is getting a big launch-fortunately, a lot here lives up to the hype. In 1972, a 16-year-old American living in Amsterdam finds a mysterious book in her diplomat father's library. The book is ancient, blank except for a sinister woodcut of a dragon and the word "Drakulya," but it's the letters tucked inside, dated 1930 and addressed to "My dear and unfortunate successor," that really pique her curiosity. Her widowed father, Paul, reluctantly provides pieces of a chilling story; it seems this ominous little book has a way of forcing itself on its owners, with terrifying results. Paul's former adviser at Oxford, Professor Rossi, became obsessed with researching Dracula and was convinced that he remained alive. When Rossi disappeared, Paul continued his quest with the help of another scholar, Helen, who had her own reasons for seeking the truth. As Paul relates these stories to his daughter, she secretly begins her own research. Kostova builds suspense by revealing the threads of her story as the narrator discovers them: what she's told, what she reads in old letters and, of course, what she discovers directly when the legendary threat of Dracula looms. Along with all the fascinating historical information, there's also a mounting casualty count, and the big showdown amps up the drama by pulling at the heartstrings at the same time it revels in the gruesome. Exotic locales, tantalizing history, a family legacy and a love of the bloodthirsty: it's hard to imagine that readers won't be bitten, too.

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“This was easier to answer, and I let Helen go first. ‘He is not here, evidently,’ she said in her nastiest voice. ‘You may examine the tomb.’ At this the little bureaucrat took a step forward and seemed about to speak.

“‘Stay with them,’ Ranov said to Géza. Ranov moved carefully forward among the tables, glancing around at everything; it was clear to me that he’d never been here before. The dark-suited bureaucrat followed him without a word. When they reached the sarcophagus, Ranov held up his lantern and his gun and looked cautiously inside. ‘It is empty,’ he threw back to Géza. He turned to the other two, smaller sarcophagi. ‘What is this? Come here, help me.’ The bureaucrat and the monk stepped obediently forward. Stoichev followed more slowly and I thought I saw a light in his face as he looked around him at the empty tables, the cabinets. I could only guess what he made of this place.

“Ranov was already peering into the sarcophagi. ‘Empty,’ he said heavily. ‘He is not here. Search the room.’ Géza was already striding among the tables, holding his light up to every wall, opening cabinets. ‘Did you see him or hear him?’

“‘No,’ I said, more or less truthfully. I told myself that if only they didn’t injure Helen, if they let her go, I would consider this expedition a success. I would never ask life for anything else. I also thought, with fleeting gratitude, of Rossi’s delivery from this whole situation.

“Géza said something that must have been a curse in Hungarian, because Helen nearly smiled, despite the gun aimed at her heart. ‘It is useless,’ he said, after a moment. ‘The tomb in the crypt is empty, and this one is also. And he will never return to this place, since we have found it.’ It took me a moment to digest this. The tomb in the crypt was empty? Then where was Rossi’s body, which we’d just left there?

Ranov turned to Stoichev. ‘Tell us about what is here.’ They had lowered their guns at last and I drew Helen to me, which made Géza give me one sour look, although he said nothing.

“Stoichev held his lantern up as if he had been waiting for this moment. He went to the nearest table and tapped it. ‘These are oak, I think,’ he said slowly, ‘and they could be medieval in their design.’ He looked under the table at a leg joint, tapped a cabinet. ‘But I do not know much about furniture.’ We waited, silently.

“Géza kicked the leg of one of the ancient tables. ‘What am I going to say to the Minister of Culture? That Wallachian belonged to us. He was a Hungarian prisoner and his country was our territory.’

“‘Why don’t we quarrel about that when we find him?’ Ranov growled. I realized suddenly that their only common language was English, and that they loathed each other. At that moment I knew whom Ranov reminded me of. With his heavyset face and thick dark mustache, he looked like the photographs I’d seen of the young Stalin. People like Ranov and Géza did minimal damage only because they had minimal power.

“‘Tell your aunt to be more careful with her phone calls.’ Géza gave Helen a baleful look and I felt her stiffen against me. ‘Now leave this damned monk to guard the place,’ he added to Ranov, and Ranov issued a command that made poor Brother Ivan tremble. At that moment, the light from Ranov’s lantern suddenly fell in a new direction. He had been raising it here and there, examining the tables. Now his light slanted across the face of the dark-suited, severely hatted little bureaucrat, who was standing silently by Dracula’s empty sarcophagus. Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed his face at all if it hadn’t been for the strange expression it wore-a look of private grief suddenly illuminated by the lantern. I could see plainly the bone-thin face under the awkward mustache, and the familiar glitter of the eyes. ‘Helen!’ I shouted. ‘Look!’ She stared, too.

“‘What?’ Géza turned on her in an instant.

“‘This man -’ Helen was aghast. ‘That man there-he is -’

“‘He’s a vampire,’ I said flatly. ‘He followed us from our university in the United States.’ I had barely begun to speak before the creature was in flight. He had to come straight toward us to get out, barreling into Géza, who tried to seize him, and pushing past Ranov. Ranov was quicker on his feet; he grabbed the librarian, they collided hard, and then Ranov leaped back from him with a cry and the librarian was in flight again. Ranov turned and shot the hurtling figure before it was many feet away. It didn’t falter for a second-Ranov might have been shooting into air. Then the evil librarian was gone, so suddenly that I wasn’t sure whether he’d actually reached the passage or vanished before our eyes. Ranov ran after him, through the doorway, but returned almost immediately. We all stood staring at him; his face was white, and where he grasped the torn cloth of his jacket, a little blood was already trickling between his fingers. After a long minute Ranov spoke. ‘What the hell is this about?’ His voice trembled.

“Géza shook his head. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘He bit you.’ He took a step back from Ranov. ‘And I was alone with that little man several times. He said he could tell me where we could find the Americans, but he never told me he was -’

“‘Of course he never told you,’ Helen said contemptuously, although I tried to keep her quiet. ‘He wanted to find his master, to follow us to him, not to kill you. You were more useful to him this way. Did he give you our notes?’

“‘Shut up.’ Géza looked inclined to strike her, but I heard the fear and awe in his voice, and I quietly drew her away.

“‘Come.’ Ranov was herding us with his gun again, one hand on his wounded shoulder. ‘You have been of very little assistance. I want you back in Sofia and on a plane as soon as possible. You are lucky we don’t have permission to make you disappear-it would be too inconvenient.’ I thought he was going to kick us as Géza had done to the table leg, but he turned instead and ushered us brusquely out of the library. He made Stoichev walk ahead; I guessed with a pang what the old man must have been through, in the course of this coercive chase. Clearly, Stoichev hadn’t intended for us to be followed; I’d believed that from my first glimpse of the misery in his face. Had he made it back to Sofia before they forced him to turn around and follow us? I hoped Stoichev’s international reputation would protect him from further abuse, as it had in the past. But Ranov-that was the worst of it. Ranov would probably return, infected, to his duties with the secret police. I wondered if Géza would try to do anything about this, but the Hungarian’s face looked so forbidding that I didn’t dare to address him.

“I looked back once, from the doorway, at the princely sarcophagus that had lain here for nearly five hundred years. Its occupant might be anywhere now, or on his way to anywhere. At the top of the steps we crawled one by one through the opening-I prayed none of those guns would go off-and there I saw something very strange. The reliquary of Saint Petko sat open on its pedestal. They must have had some tools, to open it where we had failed. The marble slab underneath was back in place and covered with its embroidered cloth, undisturbed. Helen shot me a blank look. Glancing into the reliquary as we passed it, I saw a few pieces of bone, a polished skull-all that remained of the local martyr.

“Outside the church, in the heavy night, there was a confusion of cars and people-Géza had apparently arrived with an entourage, two of whom were guarding the church doors. Dracula certainly hadn’t escaped that way, I thought. The mountains loomed around us, darker than the dark sky. Some of the villagers had gotten wind of the arrivals and come up with lighted torches; they fell back at Ranov’s approach, staring at his torn and bloody jacket, their faces strained in the uneven light. Stoichev caught my arm; his face bobbed near my ear. ‘We closed it,’ he whispered.

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