Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“‘Now I have a question for you.’ Helen narrowed her eyes at both of us. ‘Professor Bora, how did you come to be in our restaurant last night? It seems to me too much of a coincidence that you appeared when we had just arrived in Istanbul, looking for the archive you have been so much interested in all these years.’

“Turgut had risen, and now he took a small brass box from a side table and opened it, offering us cigarettes. I refused, but Helen took one and let Turgut light it for her. He lit one for himself, too, and sat down again, and they regarded each other, so that for a moment I felt subtly excluded. The tobacco had a delicate scent and was obviously very fine; I wondered if this was the Turkish luxury so famous in the United States. Turgut exhaled gently and Helen kicked off her slippers and drew her legs up under her, as if used to lounging on Eastern cushions. This was a side of her I hadn’t seen before, this easy grace under the spell of hospitality.

“At last Turgut spoke. ‘How did I come to meet you in the restaurant? I have asked myself this question several times, because I do not have an answer to it, either. But I can tell you in all honesty, my friends, that I did not know who you were or what you were doing in Istanbul when I sat down near your table. In fact, I often go to that place because it is my favorite in the old quarter, and I take a walk there sometimes between my classes. That day I went in almost without thinking about it, and when I saw no one but two strangers there, I felt lonely and did not want to sit by myself in the corner. My wife says I am a hopeless case of friend making.’

“He smiled and tapped the ash from his cigarette into a copper plate, which he pushed toward Helen. ‘But that is not such a bad habit, is it? In any case, when I saw your interest in my archive, I was surprised and moved, and now that I hear your more-than-remarkable story, I feel that somehow I am to be your assistance here in Istanbul. After all, why didyou come tomy favorite restaurant? Why did I go in there with my book for dinner? I see you are suspicious, madam, but I have no answer for you, except to say that the coincidence gives me hope. ”There are more things in heaven and earth -“’ He looked reflectively at both of us, and his face was open and sincere, and more than a little sad.

“Helen blew a cloud of Turkish smoke into the hazy sunlight. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘We shall hope. And now, what shall we do with our hope? We have seen the originals of the maps, and we have seen the bibliography of the Order of the Dragon, which Paul wanted so much to look at. But where does that put us?’

“‘Come with me,’ Turgut said abruptly. He rose to his feet, and the last languor of the afternoon vanished. Helen stubbed out her cigarette and rose, too, her sleeve brushing my hand. I followed. ‘Please come into my study for a moment.’ Turgut opened a door among the folds of antique wool and silk and stood politely aside.”

Isat very, very still on my seat in the train, staring at the newspaper of the man who sat opposite me. I felt I should move around a little, act natural, or I might actually draw his attention, but he was so perfectly still that I began to imagine I had not even heard him breathe, and to find it difficult to breathe myself. After a moment my worst fear was realized: he spoke without lowering the newspaper. His voice was exactly like his shoes and perfectly tailored pants; he spoke to me in English with an accent I couldn’t place, although it had a flavor of French-or was I getting it mixed up with the headlines that danced on the outside ofLe Monde, scrambling themselves under my agonized gaze? Terrible things were happening in Cambodia, in Algeria, in places I had never heard of, and my French had improved too much this year. But the man was speaking from behind the print, without moving his paper a millimeter. My skin tingled as I listened, because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. His voice was quiet, cultivated. It asked a single question: “Where is your father, my dear?”

I tore myself from my seat and jumped toward the door; I heard his newspaper fall behind me, but all my concentration was on the latch. It was not locked. I got it open in a moment of transcendent fear. I slipped out without turning around and ran in the direction Barley had taken to the dining car. There were other people dotted mercifully here and there in the compartments, their curtains open, their books and newspapers and picnic baskets balanced beside them, their faces turning curiously toward me as I sped past. I couldn’t stop even to listen for footsteps behind me. I remembered suddenly that I’d left our valises in the compartment, on the overhead rack. Would he take those? Search them? My purse was on my arm; I had fallen asleep with it slipped over my wrist, as I always wore it in public.

Barley was in the dining car, at the far end, with his book open on a wide table. He had ordered tea and several other things, and it took him a moment to glance up from his little kingdom and register my presence. I must have looked wild, because he pulled me into the booth at once. “What is it?”

I put my face against his neck, struggling not to cry. “I woke up and there was a man in our compartment, reading the paper, and I couldn’t see his face.”

Barley put a hand in my hair. “A man with a newspaper? What are you so upset about?”

“He didn’t let me see his face at all,” I whispered, turning to look at the entrance to the dining car. There was no one there, no dark-suited figure entering to search it. “But he spoke to me behind the paper.”

“Yes?” Barley seemed to have discovered that he liked my curls.

“He asked me where my father was.”

“What?” Barley sat upright. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, in English.” I sat up, too. “I ran, and I don’t think he followed, but he’s on the train. I had to leave our bags there.”

Barley bit his lip; I half expected to see blood well up against his white skin. Then he signaled to the waiter, stood, conferred with him for a moment, and fished in his pockets for a large tip, which he left by his teacup. “Our next stop is Boulois,” he said. “It’s in sixteen minutes.”

“What about our bags?”

“You’ve got your purse and I have my wallet.” Barley suddenly stopped and stared at me. “The letters -”

“They’re in my purse,” I said quickly.

“Thank God. We might have to leave the rest of the luggage, but it doesn’t matter.” Barley took my hand, and we went through the end of the dining car-into the kitchen, to my surprise. The waiter hurried behind us, ushering us into a little niche near the refrigerators. Barley pointed; there was a door next to it. There we stood for sixteen minutes, I clutching my purse. It seemed only natural that we should stand holding each other tight, in that small space, like two refugees. Suddenly I remembered my father’s gift and put my hand up to it: the crucifix hung against my throat in what I knew was plain sight. No wonder that newspaper had never been lowered.

At last the train began to slow, the brakes shuddered and squealed, and we stopped. The waiter pushed a lever and the door near us opened. He gave Barley a conspiratorial grin; he probably thought this was a comedy of the heart, my irate father chasing us through the train, something of that sort. “Step off the train but stay right next to it,” Barley advised me in a low voice, and we inched together onto the pavement. There was a broad stucco station there, under silvery trees, and the air was warm and sweet. “Do you see him?”

I peered down the train until finally I saw someone far along the line among the disembarking passengers-a tall, broad-shouldered figure in black, with something wrong about his entirety, a shadowy quality that made my stomach lurch. He wore a low, dark hat now, so that I couldn’t see his face. He held a dark briefcase and a roll of white, perhaps the newspaper. “That’s him.” I tried not to point, and Barley drew me rapidly back on the steps.