Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“Perhaps it was the turmoil of imagination into which the poem and its illustration had thrown me, or perhaps I was more tired than I’d realized from travel, staying up late at Aunt Éva’s restaurant, and lecturing to a crowd of strangers. When I entered my room, it took me a long moment to register what I saw there, and a longer one to conclude that Helen might be seeing the same sight in her own quarters two floors above. Then I suddenly feared for her safety and took flight for the stairs without stopping to examine anything. My room had been searched, nook and cranny, drawer and closet and bedclothes, and every article I possessed had been tossed about, damaged, even torn by hands not merely hasty but malicious.”

“But can’t you get the police to help? This place is overflowing with them, it seems.‘ Hugh James broke a piece of bread in half and took a hearty bite. ’What a dreadful thing to have happen in a foreign hotel.‘

“‘We’ve called the police,’ I assured him. ‘At least I think we have, because the hotel clerk did it for us. He said no one could come until late tonight or early tomorrow morning, and not to touch anything. He’s put us in new rooms.’

“‘What? Do you mean Miss Rossi’s room was ransacked, too?’ Hugh’s great eyes grew rounder. ‘Was anyone else in the hotel hit?’

“‘I doubt it,’ I said grimly.

“We were seated at an outdoor restaurant in Buda, not far from Castle Hill, where we could look out over the Danube toward the Parliament House on the Pest side. It was still very light and the evening sky had set up a blue-and-rose shimmer on the water. Hugh had picked out the spot-it was one of his favorites, he said. Budapestians of all ages strolled the street in front of us, many of them pausing at the balustrades above the river to look at the lovely scene, as if they, too, could never get enough of it. Hugh had ordered several national dishes for me to try, and we had just settled in with the ubiquitous golden-crusted bread and a bottle of Tokay, a famous wine from the northeastern corner of Hungary, as he explained. We’d already dispensed with the preliminaries-our universities, my erstwhile dissertation (he chuckled when I told him the scope of Professor Sándor’s misconceptions about my work), Hugh’s research on Balkan history and his forthcoming book on Ottoman cities in Europe.

“‘Was anything stolen?’ Hugh filled my glass.

“‘Nothing,’ I said glumly. ‘Of course, I hadn’t left my money there, or any of my-valuables-and the passports are at the front desk, or maybe at the police station, for all I know.’

“‘What were they looking for, then?’ Hugh toasted me briefly and took a sip.

“‘It’s a very, very long story.’ I sighed. ‘But it fits in pretty nicely with some other things we need to talk about.’

“He nodded. ‘All right. Unto the breach, then.’

“‘If you’ll take your turn, as well.’

“‘Of course.’

“I drank half my glass for fortification and began at the beginning. I wouldn’t have needed the wine to erase any doubts about telling Hugh James all of Rossi’s story; if I didn’t tell him everything, I might not learn everything he knew himself. He listened in silence, with obvious absorption, except when I mentioned Rossi’s decision to conduct research in Istanbul, when he jumped. ‘By Jove,’ he said. ‘I’d thought of going there myself. Going back, I mean-I’ve been there twice, but never to look for Dracula.’

“‘Let me save you some trouble.’ I refilled his glass this time and told him about Rossi’s adventures in Istanbul and then about his disappearance, at which Hugh’s eyes bulged, although he said nothing. Finally I described my meeting with Helen, leaving out nothing about her claim to Rossi, and all of our travels and research to date, including our encounters with Turgut. ‘You see,’ I concluded, ‘at this point it hardly surprises me to have my hotel room turned upside down.’

“‘Yes, exactly.’ He seemed to brood for a moment. We had made our way through a multitude of stews and pickles by this time, and he put his fork down rather sadly, as if regretting to see the last of them. ‘It’s most remarkable, our meeting like this. But I’m distressed to hear about Professor Rossi’s disappearance-very distressed. That’s dreadfully strange. I wouldn’t have sworn before hearing your story that there was more involved in researching Dracula than the usual stuff. Except that I have had an odd feeling, you know, about my own book, this whole time. One doesn’t want to go just on odd feelings, but there it is.’

“‘I can see I haven’t stretched your credulity as much as I feared I might.’

“‘And these books,’ he mused. ‘I count four of them-mine, yours, Professor Rossi’s, and the one belonging to that professor in Istanbul. It’s damned strange that there should be four such alike.’

“‘Have you ever met Turgut Bora?’ I asked. ‘You said you’ve been to Istanbul a few times.’

“He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never even heard the name. But then he’s in literature, and I wouldn’t have come across him in the history department there, or at any conferences. I’d appreciate your helping me get in touch with him someday, if you would. I’ve never been to the archive you describe, but I read about it in England and was thinking of giving it a try. You’ve saved me the trouble, though, as you say. You know, I’d never thought of the thing as a map-the dragon in my book. That’s an extraordinary idea.’

“‘Yes, and possibly a matter of life or death for Rossi,’ I said. ‘But now it’s your turn. How did you come across your book?’

“He looked grave. ‘As you’ve described in your case-and the other two-I didn’t so much come across my book as receive it, although from where or from whom I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps I should give you a little background.’ He was silent a moment, and I had the sense that this was a difficult subject for him. ‘You see, I took my degree at Oxford nine years ago, and then went to teach at the University of London. My family lives in Cumbria, in the Lake District, and they are not wealthy. They struggled-and I did, too-so that I could have the best of educations. I always felt a bit on the outside, you know, particularly at my public school-my uncle helped put me through there. I suppose I studied harder than most, trying to excel. History was my great love, from the beginning.’

“Hugh patted his lips with his napkin and shook his head, as if remembering youthful folly. ‘I knew by the end of my second year of university that I was going to do rather well, and this goaded me further. Then the war came and interrupted everything. I’d finished almost three years at Oxford. I first heard of Rossi there, by the way, although I never met him. He must have left for America several years before I came to the university.’

“He stroked his chin with a large, rather chapped hand. ‘I couldn’t have loved my studies more, but I loved my country, too, and I enlisted right away, in the navy. I was shipped out to Italy and then home again a year later with wounds in my arms and legs.’

“He touched his white cotton shirtsleeve gingerly, just above the cuff, as if feeling the surprise of blood there again. ‘I recovered rather quickly and wanted to go back out, but they wouldn’t take me-one eye had been affected when the ship blew up. So I returned to Oxford and tried to ignore the sirens, and I finished my degree just after the war ended. The last weeks I was there were some of the happiest of my life, I think, in spite of all the shortages-this terrible curse had been lifted from the world, I was almost done with my delayed studies, and a girl back home I’d loved most of my life had finally agreed to marry me. I had no money, and there was no food anyway, but I ate sardines in my room and wrote love letters home-I guess you don’t mind my telling you all this-and I studied like a demon for my examinations. I got myself into a great state of fatigue, of course.’