Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“Yes, and hurry back to Master James, tell him you were safe in Amsterdam and then get word that you’d vanished. Oh, I would have been in his good graces then.” He plunked himself down next to me, folded his arms, and crossed his long legs. He had his little suitcase with him, and the front of his straw-colored hair stood on end. “What’s got into you?”

“Why were you spying on me?” I countered.

“The ferry was delayed this morning for repairs.” It seemed he couldn’t help smiling a little now. “I was hungry as a horse, so I went back a few streets to get some rolls and tea, and then I thought I saw you slipping out the other direction, way up the street, but I wasn’t at all sure. I thought I might be imagining things, you know, so I stayed and bought my breakfast. And then my conscience smote me, because if it was you I was in big trouble. So I hurried this way and saw the station, and then you boarded the train and I thought I was going to have heart failure.” He glared at me again. “You’ve been quite a bother this morning. I had to run around and get a ticket-and I almost didn’t have enough guilders for it, too-and hunt through the whole train for you. And now it’s been moving so long we can’t get off right away.” His narrow bright eyes strayed to the window and then to the pile of envelopes in my lap. “Would you mind explaining why you’re on the Paris express instead of at school?”

What could I do? “I’m sorry, Barley,” I said humbly. “I didn’t mean to involve you in this for a minute. I really thought you were on your way a long time ago and could go back to Master James with a clean conscience. I wasn’t trying to be any trouble to you.”

“Yes?” He was clearly waiting for more enlightenment. “So you just had a little hankering for Paris instead of history class?”

“Well,” I began, stalling for time. “My father sent me a telegram saying he was fine and I should join him there for a few days.”

Barley was silent for a moment. “Sorry, but that doesn’t explain everything. If you’d got a telegram it would probably have come last night and I’d have heard about it. And was there any question of your father’s not being ‘fine’? I thought he was just away on business. What’s all that you’re reading?”

“It’s a long story,” I said slowly, “and I know you already think I’m strange -”

“You’re awfully strange,” Barley put in crossly. “But you’d better tell me what you’re up to. You’ll have just time before we get off in Brussels and take the next train back to Amsterdam.”

“No!” I hadn’t meant to cry out like that. The lady across from us stirred in her gentle sleep, and I dropped my voice. “I have to go on to Paris. I’m fine. You can get off there, if you want, and then get back to London by tonight.”

“‘Get off there,’ eh? Does that mean you won’t be getting off there? Where else does this train go?”

“No, it does stop in Paris -”

He had folded his arms and was waiting again. He was worse than my father. Maybe he was worse than Professor Rossi had been. I had a brief vision of Barley standing at the head of a classroom, arms folded, eyes scanning his hapless students, his voice sharp: “And what finally leads Milton to his terrible conclusion about Satan’s fall? Or hasn’tanybody done the reading?”

I swallowed. “It’s a long story.” I said it again, more humbly.

“We have time,” said Barley.

“Helen and Turgut and I looked at one another around our little restaurant table, and I sensed a signal of kinship passing among us. Perhaps to delay for a moment, Helen picked up the round blue stone Turgut had put next to her plate and held it out to me. ‘This is an ancient symbol,’ she said. ‘It is a talisman against the Evil Eye.’ I took it, felt its heavy smoothness, warm from her hand, and set it down again.

“Turgut was not to be distracted, however. ‘Madam, you are Romanian?’ She was silent. ‘If this is true, you must be careful here.’ He lowered his voice a little. ‘The police might be rather interested in you. Our country is not on friendly terms with Romania.’

“‘I know,’ she said coldly.

“‘But how did the Gypsy woman know this?’ Turgut frowned. ‘You did not speak to her.’

“‘I do not know.’ Helen gave a helpless shrug.

“Turgut shook his head. ‘Some people say the Gypsies have the talent of special vision. I have never believed this, but -’ He broke off and patted his mustache with his napkin. ‘How strange that she talked of vampires.’

“‘Is it?’ Helen countered. ‘She must have been a crazy woman. Gypsies are all mad.’

“‘Perhaps, perhaps.’ Turgut was silent. ‘However, it is very strange to me, the way she spoke, because that is my other speciality.’

“‘Gypsies?’ I asked.

“‘No, good sir-vampires.’ Helen and I stared at him, carefully not meeting each other’s eyes. ‘Shakespeare is my life’s work, but the legend of the vampire is my hobby. We have an ancient tradition here of vampires.’

“‘Is that-ah-a Turkish tradition?’ I asked in astonishment.

“‘Oh, the legend goes back at least to Egypt, dear colleagues. But here in Istanbul – to begin with, there is a story that the most bloodthirsty of the emperors of Byzantium were vampires, that some of them understood the Christian communion as an invitation to quaff the blood of mortals. But I do not believe this. I believe it appeared later.’

“‘Well -’ I didn’t want to reveal too keen an interest, more for fear that Helen would jab my foot under the table again than from any conviction that Turgut was aligned with the powers of darkness. But she was staring at him, too. ‘What about the legend of Dracula? Have you heard of that?’

“‘Heard of that?’ snorted Turgut. His dark eyes shone, and he twisted his napkin into a knot. ‘You know that Dracula was a real person, a figure of history? A countryman of yours, actually, madam -’ He bowed to Helen. ‘He was a lord, avoivoda, in the western Carpathians in the fifteenth century. Not an admirable person, you know.’

“Helen and I were nodding-we couldn’t help it. I couldn’t, at least, and she seemed too intent now on Turgut’s words to stop herself. She had leaned forward a little, listening, and her eyes shone with the same rich darkness as his. Color had blossomed under her usual pallor. It was one of those many moments, I observed, even in the midst of my excitement, when beauty suddenly filled her rather harsh countenance, lighting it from within.

“‘Well -’ Turgut seemed to be warming to his subject. ‘I do not mean to bore you, but I have a theory that Dracula is a very important figure in the history of Istanbul. It is known that when he was a boy, he was held captive by Sultan Mehmed II in Gallipoli and then farther east in Anatolia -his own father gave him to the father of Mehmed, Sultan Murad II, as ransom for a treaty, from 1442 to 1448, six long years. Dracula’s father was not a gentleman, either.’ Turgut chuckled. ‘The soldiers who guarded the boy Dracula were masters in the art of torture, and he must have learned too much when he watched them. But, my good sirs’-he seemed to have forgotten Helen’s gender for the moment, in his collegial fervor-‘I have my own theory that he left his mark on them, too.’

“‘What on earth do you mean?’ My breath was coming short.

“‘From about that time, there is a record of vampirism in Istanbul. It is my notion-and it is still unpublished, alack, and I cannot prove it-that his first victims were among the Ottomans, maybe the guards who became his friends. He left behind him contamination in our empire, I propose, and then it must have been carried into Constantinople with the Conqueror.’