Elisabeth Kostova - The Historian

“Do they live here year-round?” I asked Georgescu.

“Oh, yes. They are here in the moost difficult winters.” My guide nodded. “You will hear them chanting the mass if you dinna leave too airly.” I assured him that I wouldn’t want to miss such an experience. “Now, let us go in the church.” We went around to the front doors, great carved wooden ones, and there I entered a world I had never known before, quite a different one from our Anglican chapels.

It was cold inside, and before I could see anything in the penetrating darkness of the interior, I could smell a smoky spice on the air and feel a clammy draft from the stones, as if they were breathing. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, it was only to catch faint gleams of brass and candle flame. The daylight filtered in dimly, through heavy, dark colored glass. There were no pews or chairs, apart from some tall wooden seats built along one of the walls. Near the entrance burned a stand of candles, dripping thickly and giving off a smell of scorching wax; some of them were stuck in a brass crown at the top and some placed in a pot of sand around the base. “The monks light these every day, and now and then there are other visitors who do, as well,” Georgescu explained. “The ones around the top are for the living, and the ones around the bottom are for the soouls of the dead. They bairn until they go out by themselves.”

At the center of the church he pointed upwards, and I saw a dim, floating face above us, at the peak of the dome. “Are you familiar with our Byzantine churches?” Georgescu asked. “Christ is always in the center, looking doon. This candelabrum”-a great crown hung from the center of Christ’s chest, filling the main space of the church, but the candles in it had burned out-“is typical, too.”

We proceeded to the altar. I felt suddenly like an invader, but there was no sign of the monks and Georgescu strode ahead with proprietary cheerfulness. The altar was hung with embroidered cloths, and in front of it lay a mass of woven wool rugs and mats in folk motifs that I would have called Turkish if I hadn’t known better. The top of the altar was adorned with several richly decorated objects, among them an enamelled crucifix and a gold-framed icon of the Virgin and Child. Behind it rose a wall of sad-eyed saints and even sadder angels, and in their midst was a pair of beaten-gold doors backed by purple velvet curtains, leading somewhere completely hidden and mysterious.

All this I made out with difficulty, through the dusk, but the gloomy beauty of the scene moved me. I turned to Georgescu. “Did Vlad worship here? In the previous church, I mean?”

“Oh, cairtainly.” The archaeologist chuckled. “He was a pious auld murtherer. He built many churches and other monasteries, to be sure that plenty of people were praying for his salvation. This was one of his favorite places and he was very cloose to the monks here. I doon’t know what they thought of his bad deeds, but they loved his support of the monastery. Besides, he protected them from the Turks. But the treasures you see here were brought from other churches-peasants stole everything valuable in the last century, when the church was closed. Look here-this is what I wanted to show you.” He squatted down and turned back the rugs in front of the altar. Directly before it I saw a long rectangular stone, smooth and undecorated but clearly a grave marker. My heart began to thud.

“Vlad’s tomb?”

“Yes, according to legend. Some of my colleagues and I excavated here a few years ago and found an empty hole-it contained only a few animal boones.”

I caught my breath. “He wasn’t in it?”

“Absolutely not.” Georgescu’s teeth glinted like the brass and gold all around us. “The written records say that he was buried here, in front of the altar, and that the new church was built on the same foundations as the auld, so his toomb was not disturbed. You can imagine how disappointed we were not to find him.”

Disappointed?I thought. I found the idea of the empty hole below more frightening than disappointing.

“In any case, we decided to pooke around a little more, and over here”-he led me back down the nave to a spot near the front entrance and moved another rug-“over here we found a second stoone just the same as the first.” I stared down at it. This one was indeed the same size and shape as the first and also undecorated. “So we doog this up, too,” Georgescu explained, patting it.

“And you found -?”

“Oh, a very nice skeleton.” He reported this with obvious satisfaction. “In a casket that had part of the shroud still over it-amazing, after five centuries. The shroud was royal purple with gold embroidery and the skeleton inside was in good condition. Beautifully dressed, too, in purple broocade with dark red sleeves. The most wonderful thing was that sewn to one of the sleeves we found a little ring. The ring is rather plain, but one of my colleagues believes it was part of a larger oornament that showed the symbol of the Oorder of the Dragon.”

My heart had lost a beat or two, by this point, I confess. “The symbol?”

“Yes, a dragon with long claws and a looped tail. Those who were invested in the Oorder wore this image somewhere on their person at all times, usually as a brooch or clasp for the cloak. Our friend Vlad was no doubt invested in it, probably by his father, when he reached manhood.” Georgescu smiled up at me. “But I have the feeling you knew that already, Professor.”

I was struggling with warring emotions of regret and relief. “So this was his grave, and the legends just had the exact spot wrong.”

“Oh, I doon’t think so.” He smoothed the rug back over the stone. “Not all my colleagues would agree with me, but I think the evidence is clairly against it.”

I couldn’t help staring at him in surprise. “But what about the regal clothing and the little ring?”

Georgescu shook his head. “This fellow was probably a member of the Oorder, too-a high-ranking nobleman-and perhaps he was dressed up in Dracula’s best clothes for the occasion. Perhaps he was even invited to die so that there would be a body to fill the toomb-who knows exactly when.”

“Did you rebury the skeleton?” I had to ask it; the stone lay so very close to our feet.

“Oh, noo-we packed him off to the history museum in Bucarest, but you can’t go see him there-they locked him up in storage with all his nice clothes. It was a shame.” Georgescu did not look terribly sorry, as if the skeleton had been appealing but unimportant, at least compared with his true quarry.

“I don’t understand,” I said, staring at him. “With so much evidence, exactly why don’t you think he was Vlad Dracula?”

“It’s very simple,” Georgescu countered cheerfully, patting the rug. “This fellow had his head on. Dracula’s was cut off and taken to Istanbul by the Turks as a troophy. All the sources are in agreement about that. So now I’m digging in the old prison for another toomb. I think the body was removed from its burial site in front of the altar to outwit grave robbers, or perhaps to protect it from later Turkish invasions. He’s on this island somewhere, the auld bugger.”

I was transfixed by all the questions I wanted to ask Georgescu, but he stood and stretched. “Wouldn’t you like to go across to the restaurant for supper? I’m hungry enough to devour a sheep whoole. But we can hear the beginning of the service first, if you’d like. Where are you staying?”

I confessed that I had no idea yet and that I needed also to provide lodgings for my driver. “There’s a great deal I should like to talk with you about,” I added.

“And I with you,” he agreed. “We can doo that during our supper.”