Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

But Barley was pushing forward, too, and he had caught up my father’s lantern. A large man lay on the flagstones, his dagger beside him. “Oh, Elsie,” said a broken English voice. His head oozed a little dark blood, and even as we watched in paralyzing horror, his eyes grew still.

Barley threw himself into the dust next to that shattered form. He seemed to be actually strangling with surprise and grief. “Master James?”

The hotel in Les Bains boasted a high-ceilinged parlor with a fireplace, and the maître d‘ had lit a fire there and stubbornly closed the parlor doors against other guests. “Your trip to the monastery has tired you” was all he had said, setting a bottle of cognac near my father, and glasses-five glasses, I noted, as if our missing companion were still there to drink with us-but I saw from the look that my father exchanged with him that much more than that had passed between them.

The maître d‘ had been on the phone all evening, and he had somehow made things right with the police, who had questioned us only in the hotel and released us under his benevolent eye. I suspected he’d also taken care of calling a morgue or a funeral parlor, whatever one used in a French village. Now that everyone official was gone, I sat on the uncomfortable damask sofa with Helen, who reached over to stroke my hair every few minutes, and tried not to imagine Master James’s kind face and solid form inert under a sheet. My father sat in a deep chair by the fire and gazed at her, at us. Barley had put his long legs up on an ottoman and was trying, I thought, not to stare at the cognac, until my father recollected himself and poured us each a glass. Barley’s eyes were red with silent weeping, but he seemed to want to be left alone. When I looked at him, my own eyes filled with tears for a moment, uncontrollably.

My father looked across at Barley, and I thought for a moment that he was going to cry, too. “He was very brave,” my father said quietly. “You know that his attack made it possible for Helen to shoot as she did. She would not have been able to shoot through the heart like that if the monster had not been distracted. I think James must have known in the last moments what a difference he had made. And he avenged the person he had loved best-and many others.” Barley nodded, still unable to speak, and there was a little silence among us.

“I promised I would tell you everything when we could sit quietly,” Helen said at last, setting down her glass.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to leave you alone?” Barley spoke reluctantly.

Helen laughed, and I was surprised by the melody of her laugh, so different from her speaking voice. Even in that room half full of grief, her laugh did not seem out of place. “No, no, my dear,” she said to Barley. “We can’t do without you.” I loved her accent, that harsh yet sweet English of hers that I thought I already knew from so long ago I couldn’t remember the time. She was a tall, spare woman in a black dress, an outdated sort of dress, with a coil of graying hair around her head. Her face was striking-lined, worn, her eyes youthful. The sight of her shocked me every time I turned my head-not only because she was there, real, but because I had always imagined only the young Helen. I had never included in my imagination all her years away from us.

“Telling will take a long, long time,” she said softly, “but I can say a few things now, at least. First, that I am sorry. I have caused you such pain, Paul, I know.” She looked at my father across the firelight. Barley stirred, embarrassed, but she stopped him with a firm gesture. “I caused myself an even greater pain. Second, I should have told you this already, but now our daughter”-her smile was sweet and tears gleamed in her eyes-“our daughter and our friends can be my witnesses. I am alive, not undead. He never reached me a third time.”

I wanted to look at my father, but I couldn’t bring myself even to turn my head. It was his private moment. I heard, though, that he did not sob aloud.

She stopped and seemed to draw a breath. “Paul, when we visited Saint-Matthieu and I learned about their traditions-the abbot who had risen from the dead and Brother Kiril, who guarded him-I was filled with despair, and also with a terrible curiosity. I felt that it could not be coincidence that I had wanted to see the place, had longed for it. Before we went to France, I had been doing more research in New York-without telling you, Paul-hoping to find Dracula’s second hiding place and to avenge my father’s death. But I had never seen anything about Saint-Matthieu. My longing to go there began only when I read about it in your guidebook. It was just a longing, with no scholarly basis.”

She looked around at us, her beautiful profile drooping. “I had taken up my research again in New York because I felt that I had been the cause of my father’s death-through my desire to outshine him, to reveal his betrayal of my mother-and I could not bear the thought. Then I began to feel that it was my evil blood-Dracula’s blood-that had caused me to do this, and I realized that I had passed this blood to my baby, even if I seemed to have healed from the touch of the undead myself.”

She paused to stroke my cheek and to take my hand in hers. I quivered under her touch, the closeness of this strange, familiar woman leaning against my shoulder on the divan. “I felt more and more unworthy, and when I heard Brother Kiril’s explanation of the legend at Saint-Matthieu, I felt that I would never be able to rest until I knew more. I believed that if I could find Dracula and exterminate him I might be completely well again, a good mother, a person with a new life.

“After you fell asleep, Paul, I went out to the cloisters. I had considered going into the crypt again with my gun, trying to open the sarcophagus, but I thought I could not do it alone. While I was trying to decide whether or not to wake you, to beg you to help me, I sat on the cloister bench, looking over the cliff. I knew I should not be there alone, but I was drawn to the place. There was beautiful moonlight, and mist creeping along the walls of the mountains.”

Helen’s eyes had grown strangely wide. “As I sat there, I felt the crawling of the skin on my back, as if something stood just behind me. I turned quickly, and on the other side of the cloister, where the moonlight could not fall, I seemed to see a dark figure. His face was in shadow, but I could feel, rather than see, burning eyes upon me. It was only the work of a moment more before he would spread his wings and reach me, and I was completely alone on the parapet. Suddenly I seemed to hear voices, agonizing voices in my own head that told me I could never overcome Dracula, that this was his world, not mine. They told me to jump while I was still myself, and I stood up like a person in a dream and jumped.”

She sat very straight now, looking into the fire, and my father drew his hand over his face. “I wanted to fall free, like Lucifer, like an angel, but I had not seen those rocks. I fell on them instead and cut my head and arms, but there was a large cushion of grass there, too, and the fall did not kill me or break my bones. After some hours, I think, I woke to the cold night, and felt blood seeping around my face and neck, and saw the moon setting and the drop below. My God, if I had rolled instead of fainting -” She paused. “I knew I could not explain to you what I had tried to do, and the shame of it came over me like a kind of madness. I felt I could never be worthy, after that, of you or our daughter. When I could stand, I got up, and I found that I had not bled so much. And although I was very sore, I had not broken anything and I could feel that he had not swooped down upon me-he must have given me up for lost, too, when I jumped. I was terribly weak and it was hard for me to walk, but I went around the monastery walls and down the road, in the dark.”