Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“‘Now, then, my friends, let me read you the next few titles.’ Turgut was writing cheerfully away. ‘Almost all of them are connected with torture or murder or something else unpleasant, you can see. ”Erasmus,Fortunes of an Assassin. Henricus Curtius,The Cannibals. Giorgio of Padua,The Damned. “’

“‘No dates for these works are listed with them?’ I asked, bending over the documents.

“Turgut sighed. ‘No. And I have never been able to find other references to some of these titles, but of those I have located, there is none written later than 1600.’

“‘And yet that is later than the lifetime of Vlad Dracula,’ Helen commented. I looked at her in surprise; I hadn’t thought of that. It was a simple point, but quite true and very puzzling.

“‘Yes, dear madam,’ Turgut said, looking up at her. ‘The most recent of these works was written more than a hundred years after his death and after the death of Sultan Mehmed, as well. Alas, I have been unable to find any information about how or when this bibliography became part of Sultan Mehmed’s collection. Someone must have added it later, perhaps long after the collection came to Istanbul.’

“‘But before 1930,’ I mused.

“Turgut looked at me sharply. ‘That is the date when this collection was put under lock and key,’ he said. ‘What makes you say that, Professor?’

“I felt myself reddening, both because I had said far too much, so much that Helen was turning away from me in despair at my idiocy, and because I was not yet a professor. I was silent a minute; I have always hated to lie, and I try, my dear daughter, never to do so if I can possibly avoid it.

“Turgut was studying me, and I felt-uncomfortably-that before this moment I had never fully registered the extreme keenness of his dark eyes with their genial crow’s-feet. I took a deep breath. I would have it out with Helen later. I had trusted Turgut all along, and he might well help us more if he knew more. To stall for another moment, however, I looked down at the list of documents he was translating for us, then glanced at the Turkish translation from which he was working. I couldn’t meet his eyes. Exactly how much of what we knew should I tell him? If I related the full extent of my knowledge of Rossi’s experiences here, would he discredit our seriousness and sanity? It was precisely because I’d lowered my eyes in indecision that I suddenly saw something strange. My hand flew out toward the original Greek document, the bibliography of the Order of the Dragon. Not all of it was in Greek, after all. I could clearly read the name at the bottom of the list:Bartolomeo Rossi. It was followed by a phrase in Latin.

“‘Good God!’ My exclamation had ruffled the silent researchers all over the room, I realized too late. Mr. Erozan, still talking with the man in the cap and long beard, turned quizzically toward us.

“Turgut took alarm at once, and Helen moved swiftly closer. ‘What is it?’ Turgut put out a hand toward the document. I was still staring; it was easy enough for him to follow my gaze. Then he jumped to his feet, breathing out what could have been an echo of my own agitation, so clear an echo that it brought me a strange comfort in the midst of all that other strangeness: ‘My God! Professor Rossi!’

“The three of us looked at one another, and for a moment nobody spoke. Finally I tried. ‘Do you,’ I said to Turgut in a low voice, ‘know that name?’

“Turgut looked from me to Helen. ‘Do you?’ he said at last.”

Barley’s smile was kind. “You must have been tired or you wouldn’t have slept so hard. I’m tired myself, just thinking what a mess you’re in. What would anyone say if you told them about all this-anyone else, I mean? That lady there, for example.” He nodded at our drowsy companion, who hadn’t gotten off at Brussels and apparently meant to nap all the way to Paris. “Or a policeman. No one would think you were anything but crazed.” He sighed. “And you really intended to travel to the south of France by yourself? I wish you’d tell me the exact location, instead of making me guess it, so I could wire Mrs. Clay and get you in the biggest possible trouble.”

It was my turn to smile. We’d been over this ground a couple of times already.

“You’re awfully stubborn,” Barley groaned. “I never would have thought one little girl could be so much trouble-namely the trouble I’d be in with Master James if I left you in the middle of nowhere in France, you know.” That almost made the tears start up behind my eyes, but his next words dried them before they had time to form. “At least we’ll have time for lunch before we have to catch our next train. The Gare du Nord has the most delicious sandwiches and we can use up my francs.” It was the choice of pronoun that warmed my heart.

To step off even a modern train into that great arena of travel, the Gare du Nord, with its soaring framework of old iron and glass, its hoopskirted, light-filled beauty, is to step directly into Paris. Barley and I descended from the train, bags in hand, and stood for a couple of minutes drinking it all in. At least, that is what I was doing, although I had been there many times by then, passing through on my travels with my father. Thegare echoed with the sounds of trains braking, people talking, footsteps, whistles, the rush of pigeon wings, the clink of coins. An old man in a black beret passed us with a young woman on his arm. She had beautifully coiffed red hair and wore pink lipstick, and I imagined for a moment trading places with her. Oh, to look like that, to be Parisian, to be grown-up and have high-heeled boots and real breasts and an elegant, aging artist at your side! Then it occurred to me that he might be her father, and I felt very lonely.

I turned to Barley, who had apparently been drinking in the smells rather than the sights. “God, I’m hungry,” he grumbled. “If we’re here, let’s at least eat something good.” He darted off toward a corner of the station as if he knew the way by heart; it turned out, in fact, that he knew not only the way but the mustard and the selection of finely sliced ham by heart, and soon we were eating two large sandwiches in white paper, Barley not even bothering to sit down on the bench I found.

I was hungry, too, but mostly I was worried about what to do next. Now that we were off the train, Barley could go to any public phone in sight and find a way to call Mrs. Clay or Master James or perhaps an army of gendarmes to take me back to Amsterdam in handcuffs. I looked warily up at him, but his face was mostly obscured by the sandwich. When he emerged from it to drink a little orange soda, I said, “Barley, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“Now what?”

“Please don’t make any phone calls. I mean, please, Barley, don’t betray me. I’m going south from here, no matter what. You can see I can’t go home without knowing where my father is and what’s happening to him, can’t you?”

He sipped gravely. “I can see that.”

“Please, Barley.”

“What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know,” I said, bewildered. “I thought you were angry about my running away and might still feel you had to report me.”

“Just think,” said Barley. “If I were really upstanding, I could be on my way back to tomorrow’s lectures-and a good sound scolding from James-right now, with you in tow. Instead, here I am, forced by gallantry-and curiosity-to accompany a lady to the south of France at the drop of a hat. You think I’d miss out on that?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated, but more gratefully.

“We’d better ask about the next train to Perpignan,” Barley said, folding up his sandwich paper decisively.