Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“‘What?’ I bent to listen to him.

“‘The monk and I went down first, into the crypt, while those-those thugs searched the church and the woods for you. We saw the man in the grave-not Dracula-and I knew you had been there. So we closed it up and when they came down they opened the reliquary only. They were so angry then that I thought they would throw out the poor saint’s bones.’ Brother Ivan looked sturdy enough, I thought, but Professor Stoichev’s frailty must conceal a rare strength. Stoichev looked sharply at me. ‘But who was that in the grave underneath, if it was not -?’

“‘It was Professor Rossi,’ I whispered. Ranov was opening car doors, ordering us in.

“Stoichev gave me a quick, eloquent look. ‘I am so sorry.’”

“That is how we left my dearest friend resting in Bulgaria, may he sleep there in peace until the end of the world.”

“After our adventure in a crypt, the Boras’ front parlor looked like heaven on earth. It was an exquisite relief to be there again, with cups of hot tea in our hands-the weather had taken a rare cool turn that week, although it was June already-and Turgut smiling at us from the cushions of the divan. Helen had slipped off her shoes at the door to the apartment and put on some tasseled red slippers Mrs. Bora brought her. Selim Aksoy was there, too, sitting quietly in the corner, and Turgut made sure that he and Mrs. Bora got a fair translation of everything.

“‘Are you certain that the tomb was empty?’ Turgut had asked it once already, but seemed unable to refrain from asking again.

“‘Quite sure.’ I glanced at Helen. ‘What we don’t know is whether the noise we heard was the sound of Dracula escaping somehow as we came in. It was probably dark outside by then, and easy for him to move around.’

“‘And he could have changed shape, of course, if the legend is correct.’ Turgut sighed. ‘Damn his eyes! You were very close to catching him, my friends, closer than the Crescent Guard has come in five centuries. I am passing glad you were not killed, but terribly sorry also that you were not able to destroy him.’

“‘Where do you think he went?’ Helen leaned forward, her eyes intensely dark.

“Turgut stroked his big chin. ‘Well, my dear, I cannot guess. He can travel far and fast, but I do not know how far he would go. To another ancient site, I am sure, some hiding place that has been undisturbed for centuries. It must have been a blow for him to leave Sveti Georgi, but he would understand that this site will be guarded now for a long time to come. I would give my right hand to know whether he has remained somewhere in Bulgaria or left the country altogether. Borders and politics do not mean very much to him, I am certain.’ Turgut’s frown was harsh on his kind face.

“‘You do not think he would follow us?’ Helen asked simply, but something in the angle of her shoulders made me think that the very simplicity with which she asked this question cost her an effort.

“Turgut shook his head. ‘I hope not, Madam Professor. I should think he would be a little afraid of you two by now, since you found him when no one else could.’

“Helen was silent, and I didn’t like the doubt in her face. Selim Aksoy and Mrs. Bora watched her with a particular tenderness, too, I thought; maybe they were wondering how I could have allowed her to go into such a dangerous situation in the first place, even if we’d managed to return whole.

“Turgut turned to me. ‘And I am deeply sorry about your friend Rossi. I would have liked to meet him.’

“‘And I know you would have enjoyed each other’s company,’ I said sincerely, taking Helen’s hand. Her eyes filled whenever Rossi’s name came up, and now she looked away, as if for privacy.

“‘I wish I could have met Professor Stoichev, also.’ Turgut sighed again and set his cup down on the brass table before us.

“‘That would have been magnificent,’ I said, smiling at the picture of the two scholars comparing notes. ‘You and Stoichev could have explained the Ottoman Empire and the medieval Balkans to each other. Maybe you will meet someday.’

“Turgut shook his head. ‘I do not think so,’ he said. ‘The barriers between us are as high and-prickly-as they were between anytsar and pasha. But if you ever speak with him again, or write to him, by all means give him my regards.’

“It was an easy promise to make.

“Selim Aksoy wanted Turgut to put a question to us, and Turgut listened to him gravely. ‘We are wondering,’ he told us, ‘if in the midst of all that danger and chaos you saw the book that Professor Rossi described-a life of Saint George, was it not? Did the Bulgarians take it to the university in Sofia?’

“Helen’s laugh could be surprisingly girlish when she was really delighted, and I refrained from kissing her soundly in front of all of them. She had barely smiled since we’d left Rossi’s grave. ‘It is in my briefcase,’ I said. ‘For the moment.’

“Turgut stared, astounded, and it took him a long minute to recollect his duties as interpreter. ‘And how did it find a home there?’

“Helen was mute, smiling, so I explained. ‘I didn’t think of it again myself until we were back in Sofia, at the hotel.’ No, I couldn’t tell them the whole truth, so I gave them a polite version.

“The whole truth was that when we had finally been alone together for ten minutes in Helen’s hotel room, I took her into my arms and kissed her smoky dark hair, pulled her against my shoulder, fitting her to me through our soiled travel clothes like the other part of myself-Plato’s missing half, I thought-and then I felt not only the relief of our having survived together to embrace there, and the beauty of her long bones, her breath against my neck, but also something inexplicably wrong about her body, something lumpy and hard. I drew back and looked at her, fearful, and saw her wry smile. She laid her finger to her lips. It was merely a reminder; we both knew the room was probably bugged.

“After a second she put my hands on the buttons of her blouse, which was now shabby and dirty from our adventures. I unbuttoned it without letting myself dare to think, and drew it off. I’ve said that women’s undergarments were more complicated in those days, with secret wires and hooks and strange compartments-an inner armor. Wrapped in a handkerchief and warmed against Helen’s skin was a book-not the great folio I’d imagined when Rossi had told us about its existence, but a volume small enough to fit in my hand. Its casing was elaborately patterned gold over painted wood and leather. The gold was set with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, lapis, fine pearls-a little firmament of jewels, all to honor the face of the saint at the center. His delicate Byzantine features looked as if they’d been painted a few days earlier, rather than centuries, and his wide, sad, dragon-forgiving eyes seemed to follow mine. His eyebrows rose in fine arches above them, the nose was long and straight, his mouth sadly severe. The portrait had a roundness, a fullness, a realism I hadn’t seen in Byzantine art before, a look of Roman ancestry. If I had not been in love already, I would have said this was the most beautiful face I’d ever seen, human but also celestial, or celestial but also human. Across the neck of his robe I saw finely inked words. ‘Greek,’ Helen said. Her voice was less than a whisper, hovering at my ear. ‘Saint George.’

“Inside were small sheets of parchment in breathtakingly good condition, each covered in a fine medieval hand, also Greek. Here and there I saw exquisite pages of illustration: Saint George driving his spear into the maw of a writhing dragon while a crowd of nobles looked on; Saint George receiving a tiny gilded crown from Christ, who reached down with it from his heavenly throne; Saint George on his deathbed, mourned by red-winged angels. Each was filled with astounding, miniature detail. Helen nodded and drew my ear close to her mouth again, barely breathing. ‘I am no expert on this,’ she whispered, ‘but I think it might have been made for the emperor of Constantinople-exactly which one remains to be seen. This is the seal of the later emperors.’ Sure enough, on the inside front cover was painted a double-headed eagle, the bird that looked backward into Byzantium’s august past and forward into its limitless future; it hadn’t been sharp-eyed enough to see ahead to the toppling of the Empire by an upstart infidel.