by Royce Prouty
I looked at the clock—two hours had passed. This was in keeping with my normal schedule, but a day at the museum still lay ahead, as I thought it best to not vary my routine.
Next I thumbed through the typed manuscript. The pages were not in good shape, and I handled them nimbly. Although the story was similarly constructed as a series of journal entries, and the names were the same, the events opening the story were completely different, as were the concluding chapters.
The story began as a mysterious stranger lands on the shores near Whitby in England. Immediately the midnight bloodletting attacks began, but the character was more werewolf than vampire, blending in during daylight hours and attacking in the dark. No mention of Jonathan’s visit to Dracula’s Castle opened the story. The ending was similar to that of the the second editions, whereby the protagonists chase the villain back to Transylvania and slay him.
George’s handwriting was all over the typed pages, pointing out violations of vampire conventions and suggesting he change the daytime habits and the entire opening scenes to make the villain more conniving. Not charming was noted repeatedly, and corrections dotted every page where the villain appeared. Voivode was written over the word Count referring to Dracula.
I looked up and three more hours had passed. I could see why the publishing houses had passed on the story as first presented, as it resembled Jack the Ripper events of that era mixed with garden-variety gothic yarns common at that time. Disposal of the villain was also anticlimactic, as they ambushed the count and swiftly killed him.
Not until the villain morphed from a maniacal human to that of an immortal legend did the protagonists’ deeds rise to the level of heroism, thus the enduring nature of the story. I also realized why George wanted to keep this manuscript in his possession, for it might better argue his case of greater influence.
That left only the last chapters to read, handwritten by Stoker on Lyceum Theatre stationery with a note to the publisher to change the prologue and final two chapters to the attached. It began with a prologue, the story of a woman named Elizabeth who takes her own life in despair that her husband has been killed in battle. The time frame mentioned was 1476. Her chosen method was a jump from her top-floor window in a corner bedroom of the Grand Castle. I stopped. The description matched my room’s dimension and its views at Castel Bran. A great cry went out over the valley when the Master returned from war to the news of his wife’s death, and vowed revenge against those who had schemed against them.
The second to last chapter chronicled the Master’s revenge. He, the Count Vlad Dracula, discovered that his two brothers, the Defender of the East and the Keeper of the North, had indeed sent messengers to deliver the false news of his demise to Elizabeth.
Thereafter months passed and Count Vlad called a summit to discuss a truce between the feuding brothers. They met in the middle, which would have been Dalca’s residence, and Vlad’s warriors grabbed both his brothers’ wives and slew them. In part it read:
. . . and with argint swords dipped in their blood, their bodies scattered equally about the waters of Acheron, in Demeter’s hull, beneath the eyes of the Lord, and a loving foundation, the bloodlines ceased.
The final chapter tells of a great battle as Count Vlad Dracula is slain by his brothers, much like the published first editions I authenticated, except the killing was done not by the novel’s human protagonists but instead by the brothers Radu and Dalca.
With only minutes before the museum opened, I quickly showered and prepared for a day of work and realized the gravity of these chapters.
Luc joined me in the lobby and we began walking. It was a quiet commute until Luc said, “You get what you were looking for last night?”
I meant to ask him the same, but instead responded, “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t look like you slept.”
“Worried.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Luc said.
Just then we reached the corner across from the museum. Two policemen spoke with the attendant outside the front door.
I approached the building as if all were normal, halting a respectful distance away from the discussion, allowing the curator to announce my arrival. He introduced me as an invited guest. My heart raced with the realization that if they looked at the basement security cameras it would be obvious who had covered them. Of course, I had also been named as a wanted fugitive, so this could have gone very badly indeed. I thought back to the time, only days ago, when I signed the declaration of citizenship, and hoped that Ms. Pope’s words about reciprocity in neighboring countries were correct.
I pointed toward the door and spoke as innocently as I could in English. “Is it open? Okay to go in?”
“Of course,” said the curator, following me in to unlock the basement door.
I sighed silently in relief. They must not have looked downstairs. Only as I swung open the door did I dare look across the street, to where Luc was standing, and make sure he saw me enter the building. Moving at my normal pace, though my heart urged me to hurry, I removed my jacket, laid my work pad and pens on the table, and walked over to pick up a box. Opening the top and lifting out a file, I sensed someone looking at me. Careful not to panic, I lifted the page out of the file as usual and held it to the light, while my peripheral vision detected an officer watching me through a basement window. Perhaps he knew. Not only about the break-in, but about my fugitive status. Or maybe he simply had a knack for smelling guilt in his presence.
The officer walked around the building looking in one basement window after another while I tried to look calm until they left. At that point, I pulled the makeshift covers off the cameras and tried to slow my pounding pulse. Clearly, I was not cut out for a life of crime.
I finished skimming over the remaining boxes, checking dates, and finally concluded that I had inspected all documents from the 1890s. As noon approached, I let the curator know I had completed my work and asked for an invite back if need be.
“Of course,” he said.
I met up with Luc at the hotel and checked out. Together we walked to the train station for tickets through Bucharest to . Luc suggested I take the window seat. I took his advice and, as any wanted man would do, turned my head away from people and stared at the passing landscape.
I have always had a figurative blackboard in my mind. Whenever I want to remember something, I imagine that it is written upon the slate, and thus I see it. Even numbers, when I want to remember them, I see in chalk form on the board. As I gazed out the train window, the words not dead—undead would not erase from the board. Dalca’s wife was not dead; he expected to find her in the cemetery—suspended, dormant, as Sonia said—and take her home. I shuddered at the thought of their reunion, then tried to imagine what Sonia had suggested, to take advantage of their animal coupling to kill the Master. Alas, my mental chalkboard had the capacity neither to capture such a scene nor to imagine its successful outcome.
I fell asleep watching the Danube River boat traffic and woke to a uniformed man saying to Luc, “.”
Luc showed his, then pointed toward me. “He is with me, a guest of the Dracul family.” Then Luc motioned for me to unzip my jacket, and as my crucifix came into sight the officer quickly stamped my passport and moved on.
Despite my best efforts, eventually fatigue won out. I exchanged vigilance for fatalism and resolved that they were either going to get me or they weren’t. Just don’t do anything stupid, like call attention to yourself.
I once again drifted back to sleep.
Our trip ended on Monday afternoon in . While Luc ducked into a washroom, I found the storage locker and stashed the Bible. Inside were the promised cash and passport, which I left, and an unsigned note that read, You are the strongest among us. I am proud. Even without a signature I recognized the paper used as a page torn from the journal Mr. Bena had shown me in the restaurant.
I removed my jacket, for the season had taken hold, and the air filled with birds and things on their menu. Summer has its own song. Every spring the fans walk to Wrigley Field in the early afternoon with their light jackets and hands in pockets. Then one day, usually in early June, you walk there and the sunshine has warmed the jacket off your back. Entering the park, you notice the brick walls have overnight turned ivy-green, and it’s like attending a grand picnic, with entertainment. What little breeze is the first promise of a sustained summer, the mosquitoes have not quite rallied, and you count it among your most beautiful of days. Such was that day, the grass swaying in the wind while the sun reflected late snow off the Carpathian peaks, the only sounds the horses’ hooves and cart wheels over the ancient rutted path.
Again we traveled the entire two hours to Dumitra without the inconvenience of having to share the road with competing vehicles, and I dismounted the cart with a handshake while the Gypsy’s children stayed safely in their yard, calling to their dad.
Luc told me he would be staying at the inn and pointed to the place on the hill where I had checked in during my first visit here. “You let me know when you’re going somewhere.”
“I will.” I bade him farewell and walked hurriedly through the village, to the stares and retreats of the locals. The window dolls remained out of sight, a No Vacancy signal to suitors and scoundrels. Here and there dogs growled and cats slinked out of sight.
I walked straight to the little church, making no detour, and knelt there before the cross. What I was about to undertake required aid from forces much greater than human, and so I beseeched God for help, pledging that I would gladly give my life if it meant protection for others, spasi i sokhrani, and comfort for the fearful hearts of these villagers who did not deserve to live this way.
“Pass the cup to me, Father,” I whispered.
Still praying as I left and crossed the bridge, I found Sonia’s door open. Inside she was busy baking bread, many loaves more than she could consume. A knock produced a quick turn of her head and a smile. Three kisses on my cheeks, and we embraced without reserve. It finally felt normal.
“Alms?” I pointed to the oven. She looked puzzled. “Oferte?”
She smiled and gestured toward the village. “Some here, they not take even bread from me.”
“I know better.” I washed up.
“After I gone, much legend will grow of this place.” She nodded toward a chair. “You look obosit.” Tired.
“Up all night reading a Bible,” I said in deliberately vague terms.
Sonia’s expression signaled that she knew the item I spoke of, but she, too, spoke matter-of-factly. “Oh, yes? Where?” The rest of her response came into my head and not my ears.
On this subject we should not voice.
I nodded and conveyed my thoughts. train station. I left the Bible in a locker there. I handed her the bundle of letters. I found these.
Sonia gasped, then hugged the papers to her breast as she sat in her chair. A pained smile turned the corners of her mouth upward with a quivering lip as she opened each one, then dabbed her eyes as she read.
I thought you’d want them back.
Feels like . . . ieri. Yesterday.
I conceded with a nod. I found what I think I was looking for.
There was a profound sadness in the room before she spoke. “It is a long time to miss someone.”
I gave her a moment to collect herself.
She nodded in return, turning each letter lovingly in her hands. “That is just the start of longing if you end up in the wrong place.” A moment passed as she sniffled before looking back at me. You were saying?
Did you know of arguments between your husband and Mr. Stoker?
Yes. One of Gheorghe’s letters to me was apology for saying too much to the man . . . over pints. Too close to facts.
“Over pints?” I said out loud.
“Over pints, yes.”
“Why would he do that?”
She returned to her silent words: When Gheorghe first meet him, Stoker was only writing plays then, gothic plays with unnatural creatures. Gheorghe attended the shows and went out with his host after.
And talked over pints.
Men do foolish things over pints. She was not happy. Told Stoker his creatures all wrong.
He wrote all over Stoker’s notes, too. The same thing as you said. Correcting what Stoker had wrong, suggesting changes.
She nodded.
But then later he regretted it. Did George not know these papers were for a book? For international publication?
No. My husband thought he wrote only plays. Gheorghe described his office at the teatru as being filled with piles of paper and notes with script names on top. Stoker did not tell him he was writing a manuscript; much artist thievery then.
I showed her the harsh letter from Stoker accusing him of approaching the publisher. Did your husband go to Constable?
No answer returned. Sonia straightened in her chair.
The dates coincide with George being in London on the days of both fires.
“Let me ask you, Mr. Joseph,” she said aloud. “Do you ever do something that others see as breaking law, but you do only to protect something from harm?”
“I just did,” I said. They’re in your hands.
My husband deeply regretted what he did, that he opened his mouth.
That your culture’s secret would become so public?
Not only that, she thought. He feared the author had said too much for his own safety. For our safety.
A silent moment passed. Along with the letters I found copies of the original chapters that went into the burned first edition of Dracula.
You would be wise to burn them.
I thought they were a treasure that belonged to the ages.
You will not think so if that family breeds.
Are the wives suspended?
Suspend, yes, both like , she thought.
Then why did Dracula not kill the wives?
All the Nobles know it would mean . . . . Extinction.
Sonia seemed to be describing some vampire version of mutually assured destruction, in which Noble wives were somehow considered off-limits, even to their enemies.
Did the two brothers really kill Vlad Dracula?
Yes. She gestured to indicate he was dismembered. That is what happens when you scheme against a Noble wampyr.
Revenge for kidnapping their wives?
Yes.
What happened to the other brother, Radu?
She did not answer, but instead stood from her chair and led me to the kitchen. “Come, let us eat.”
Before me she placed a plate of sausages and half a loaf of hard-crusted bread with a side of flavored olive oil. I turned down the , the plum brandy, for coffee. Two bites and I could say without reservation it was the best bread I ever ate. It must have come through loudly enough that she responded, “. You are most gracious guest.”
“I do mean it.”
Sonia smiled. “After a hundred years or so, a woman should get good at something, yes?”
We both laughed. Eating was not the time for hosting unpleasant talk, so we spoke of other matters during our dinner. I took wide-eyed pleasure listening to her soothsaying tales from her American trip; she recited an impressive client list that included presidents, authors, and business titans.
As Sonia cleaned the dishes at the sink, I looked at her. By that, I mean I really looked at her, not as a gracious host, but as a woman. Not that I knew women, not even in the Bibli
cal sense, but to have such a wife at home while off pursuing a vocation must have presented George with real challenges, the red-blooded kind. To have someone love you so much that a century removed still brought tears, that is the type of love any sane man would protect.
Sonia turned her head in my direction, hurriedly finished her task, and returned to the table. She refilled my coffee before sitting down. She looked in my eyes and then covered my hands with hers. Unlike the protective pat on the hands, this was a touch that told me I belonged there, right there. Also, I did not feel the usual jolt, like static electricity, but rather warmth that traveled up my arms.
“Thank you,” she said aloud.
I knew she had been listening, and blushed. Then I briefly considered that maybe George got away periodically to have some thoughts to himself.
She tilted her head up slightly and laughed. “Maybe.”
“Perhaps men need more privacy than women,” I said.
She recognized that I was rather troubled about the coming events and returned to solemnity. Remember, Joseph, that all great conquests are built on single step. Take each one and do your best.
.
You have been scheming.
I nodded.
All your thoughts move toward murder now, yes?
Not murder—self-preservation, I thought.
Tell me your plan.
The brothers are at war, aren’t they?
Only over one thing—each would die before letting the other mate again.
So if I find one of the wives, I can set one brother against the other, set up an ambush.
You would make a deal with the undead? she thought.
I’m certainly dead if I don’t find Dalca’s wife.
And you would double-cross him over his brother?
I could not answer for sure, since I had not met Radu, nor had Sonia answered my earlier question about him.
It is possible, she thought. But consider it the last double cross you will ever do.