The Historian

by Elizabeth Kostova

  “‘My uncle is very excited,’ Irina whispered to us. ‘He says to me that your letter is a great discovery for Bulgarian history.’ I wondered if she knew how much was actually riding on this research, what shadows lay across our path, but it was impossible for me to read anything more in her expression. She helped her uncle through the door and we followed him along the tremendous wooden galleries that lined the courtyard, Ranov trailing us with a cigarette in his hand.

  “The library was a long gallery on the first floor, nearly opposite the abbot’s rooms. At the entrance, a black-bearded monk ushered us in; he was a tall, gaunt-faced man and it seemed to me that he looked hard at Stoichev for a moment before nodding to us. ‘This is Brother Rumen,’ Stoichev told us. ‘He is the librarian monk at present. He will show us what we need to see.’

  “A few books and manuscripts had been put into glass-fronted display cases and labeled for the tourists; I would have liked to look at these, but we were on our way to a deeper recess, which opened out of the back of the room. It was miraculously cool in the depths of the monastery, and even the few raw electric bulbs could not completely chase away the profound darkness in the corners. In this inner sanctum, wooden cabinets and shelves were laden with boxes and trays of books. In the corner a little shrine held an icon of the Virgin and her stiff, precocious baby flanked by two red-winged angels, with a jeweled gold lamp hanging before them. The old, old walls were whitewashed stucco and the smell that engulfed us was a familiar odor of slowly decaying parchment, vellum, velvet. I was glad to see that Ranov had at least had the grace to put out his smoke before following us into this treasure-house.

  “Stoichev tapped his foot on the stone floor as if summoning spirits. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you are looking at the heart of the Bulgarian people—this is where for hundreds of years the monks preserved our heritage, often in secret. Generations of faithful monks copied these manuscripts, or hid them when the monastery was attacked by the infidel. This is a small percentage of the legacy of our people—much of it was destroyed, of course. But we are grateful for these remains.’

  “He spoke with the librarian, who began to look carefully through labeled boxes on the shelves. After a few minutes he brought down a wooden box and took from it several volumes. The top one was decorated with a startling painting of Christ—at least I took it to be Christ—an orb in one hand and a scepter in the other, his face clouded with Byzantine melancholy. To my disappointment, Brother Kiril’s letters were not housed in this glorious binding, but in a plainer one beneath it, which had the look of old bone. The librarian carried it to a table and Stoichev sat eagerly down to it, opening it with relish. Helen and I drew out our notebooks and Ranov strolled around the library shelves as if too bored to stay in one place.

  “‘As I remember,’ Stoichev said, ‘there are two letters here, and it is unclear whether there were more—whether Brother Kiril wrote others that have not survived.’ He pointed to the first page. It was covered in a close, rounded, calligraphic hand, and the parchment was deeply aged, almost brown. He turned to the librarian with a question. ‘Yes,’ he told us, pleased. ‘They have typed these in Bulgarian, and some of the other rare documents from this period, as well.’ The librarian set a folder in front of him, and Stoichev sat silent a while, examining the typed pages and turning back to the ancient calligraphy. ‘They have done quite a good job,’ he said at last. ‘I will read you the best translation I can, for your notes.’ And he read to us a halting version of these two letters.

  Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

  We are now three days upon the high road journeying out of Laota toward Vin. One night we slept in the stable of a good farmer, and one night at the hermitage of Saint Mikhail, where no monks now live but which gave us at least the dry shelter of a cave. The last night we were forced for the first time to make our camp in the forest, spreading rugs on the rustic floor and placing our bodies within a circle of the horses and wagon. Wolves came close enough in the night for us to hear their howling, whereupon the horses tried in terror to bolt. With great difficulty we subdued them. Now I am heartily glad for the presence of Brothers Ivan and Theodosius, with their height and strength, and I bless your wisdom in placing them among us.

  Tonight we are made welcome in the house of a shepherd of some wealth and also of piety; he has three thousand sheep in this region, he tells us, and we are bid sleep on his soft sheepskins and mattresses, although I for one have elected the floor as more fitting to our devotions. We are out of the forest here, among open hills that roll on every side, where we may walk with equal blessing in rain and sunshine. The good man of the house tells us they have twice suffered the raids of the infidel from across the river, which is now a few days’ walk only, if Brother Angelus can mend himself and keep to our pace. I think to let him ride one of the horses, although the sacred weight they pull is great enough already on them. Fortunately, we have seen no signs of infidel soldiers on the road.

  Your most humble servant in Christ,

  Br. Kiril

  April, the Year of Our Lord 6985

  Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

  We have left the city some weeks behind us and are now riding openly in the territory of the infidels. I dare not write our location, in case we should be captured. Perhaps we should have chosen the sea route after all, but God will be our Protector along the way we have chosen. We have seen the burned remains of two monasteries and one church. The church was smoking as yet. Five monks were hung there for conspiring to a rebellion, and their surviving brothers are scattered to other monasteries already. This is the only news we have learned, as we cannot talk long with the people who come out to our wagon. There is no reason to think one of these monasteries is the one we seek, however. The sign will be clear there, the monster equal to the saint. If this missive can be delivered to you, my lord, it shall be as soon as possible.

  Your most humble servant in Christ,

  Br. Kiril

  June, the Year of Our Lord 6985

  “When Stoichev had finished, we sat in silence. Helen was scribbling notes still, her face intent over her work, Irina sat with her hands folded, Ranov stood negligently against a cabinet, scratching under his collar. For myself, I had given up trying to write down the events described in the letter; Helen would catch everything anyway. There was no clear evidence here of a particular destination, no mention of a tomb, no scene of burial—the disappointment I felt was choking.

  “But Stoichev seemed far from downcast. ‘Interesting,’ he said, after long minutes. ‘Interesting. You see, your letter from Istanbul must lie between these two letters here, chronologically. In the first and second letters, they are traveling through Wallachia toward the Danube—that is clear from the place-names. Then comes your letter, which Brother Kiril wrote in Constantinople, perhaps hoping to send it and the previous letters from there. But he was unable or afraid to send them—unless these are just copies—we have no way to know. And the last letter is dated June. They took a land route like the one that is described by the Zacharias “Chronicle.” In fact, it must have been the same route, from Constantinople through Edirne and Haskovo, because that was the major road from Tsarigrad into Bulgaria.’

  “Helen looked up. ‘But can we be sure this last letter describes Bulgaria?’

  “‘We cannot be absolutely certain,’ Stoichev admitted. ‘However, I believe it is very probable. If they traveled from Tsarigrad—Constantinople—into a country where monasteries and churches were being burned in the late fifteenth century, it is very likely that this was Bulgaria. Also, your letter from Istanbul states that they intend to go to Bulgaria.’

  “I couldn’t help voicing my frustration. ‘But there’s no further information about the location of the monastery they were looking for. Assuming it even was Sveti Georgi.’ Ranov had settled at the table with us and was looking at his thumbs; I wondered if I should hide my interest in Sveti Georgi from him, but how else were we going to ask
Stoichev about it?

  “‘No.’ Stoichev nodded. ‘Brother Kiril would certainly not have written the name of their destination in his letters, just as he did not write the name of Snagov with Eupraxius’s titles. If they had been caught, these monasteries might have suffered extra persecution, eventually, or at least might have been searched.’

  “‘There is an interesting line in here.’ Helen had finished her notes. ‘Could you read that again—that the sign in the monastery they sought was a monster equal to a saint? What do you think this meant?’

  “I looked quickly at Stoichev; this line had struck me, too. He sighed. ‘It might refer to a fresco or an icon that was in the monastery—in Sveti Georgi, if that was indeed their destination. It is difficult to imagine what such an image might have been. And even if we could find Sveti Georgi itself, there is little hope that an icon that was there in the fifteenth century would still be there, especially since the monastery was probably burned at least once. I do not know what this means. Perhaps it is even a theological reference that the abbot would have understood but that we cannot, or perhaps it referred to some secret agreement between them. We must keep it in our minds, however, since Brother Kiril names it as the sign that will tell them they have come to the right place.’

  “I was still wrestling with my disappointment; I realized now that I had expected these letters in their faded binding to hold the final key to our search, or at least to shed some light on the maps I still hoped to use.

  “‘There is a larger issue that is very strange.’ Stoichev ran a hand over his chin. ‘The letter from Istanbul says that the treasure they seek—perhaps a holy relic from Tsarigrad—is in a particular monastery in Bulgaria, and that is why they must go there. Please read me that passage again, Professor, if you will be so kind.’

  “I had taken out the text of the Istanbul letter, to have beside me while we studied Brother Kiril’s other missives. ‘It says, “. . . what we seek has been transported already out of the city and into a haven in the occupied lands of the Bulgarians.’

  “‘That is the passage,’ Stoichev said. ‘The question is’—he tapped a long forefinger on the table in front of him—‘why would a holy relic, for example, have been smuggled out of Constantinople in 1477? The city had been Ottoman since 1453 and most of its relics were destroyed in the invasion. Why did the monastery of Panachrantos send a remaining relic into Bulgaria twenty-four years later, and why was that the particular relic these monks had gone to Constantinople to find?’

  “‘Well,’ I reminded him, ‘we know from the letter that the Janissaries were looking for the same relic, so it had some value for the sultan also.’

  “Stoichev considered. ‘True, but the Janissaries looked for it after it was taken safely out of the monastery.’

  “‘It must have been a holy object with political power for the Ottomans, as well as a spiritual treasure for the monks of Snagov.’ Helen was frowning, tapping her cheek with her pen. ‘A book, perhaps?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said, excited now. ‘What if it was a book that contained some information the Ottomans wanted and the monks needed?’ Ranov, across the table, suddenly gave me a hard look.

  “Stoichev nodded slowly, but I remembered after a second that this meant disagreement. ‘Books of that period did not usually contain political information—they were religious texts, copied many times for use in the monasteries or for the Islamic religious schools and mosques, if they were Ottoman. It is not likely that the monks would make such a dangerous journey even for a copy of the holy gospels. And they would already have had such books at Snagov.’

  “‘Just a minute.’ Helen’s eyes were wide with thought. ‘Wait. It must have been something connected with Snagov’s needs, or the Order of the Dragon, or maybe the wake for Vlad Dracula—remember the “Chronicle”? The abbot wanted Dracula buried somewhere else.’

  “‘True,’ Stoichev mused. ‘He wanted to send Dracula’s body to Tsarigrad even at the risk of the lives of his monks.’

  “‘Yes,’ I said. I think I was about to say something else, to meander down some other path of inquiry, but suddenly Helen turned to me and shook my arm.

  “‘What?’ I said, but by then she had recovered herself.

  “‘Nothing,’ she said softly, without looking at either me or Ranov. I wished to God he would get up and go outside to smoke, or get tired of the conversation, so that Helen could speak up freely. Stoichev glanced at her keenly, and after a moment he began to explain in a droning voice how medieval manuscripts were made and copied—sometimes by monks who were actually illiterate and encoded generations of small errors in them—and how their different handwritings were codified by modern scholars. I was puzzled about why he was going on at such length, although what he said held considerable interest for me. Fortunately, I stayed quiet during his disquisition, for after a while Ranov actually began to yawn. Finally, he stood up and made his way out of the library, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. As soon as he was gone Helen seized my arm again. Stoichev watched her intently.

  “‘Paul,’ she said, and her face was so strange that I caught her around the shoulders, thinking she might faint. ‘His head! Don’t you see? Dracula went back to Constantinople to get his head!’

  “Stoichev made a little choked sound, but too late. At that moment, glancing around, I saw Brother Rumen’s angular face around the edge of a bookshelf. He had come silently back into the room, and although his back was to us while he put something away, it was a listening back. After a moment, he went quietly out again, and we all sat silent. Helen and I glanced helplessly at each other and I got up to check the depths of the room. The man was gone, but it would probably be a matter of a short time before someone else—Ranov, for example—heard about Helen’s exclamation. And what use might Ranov make of that information?”

  Chapter 62

  “Few moments in my years of research, writing, and thought have prompted for me such a sudden access of clarity as that moment when Helen spoke her guess aloud in the library at Rila. Vlad Dracula had returned to Constantinople for his head—or, rather, the abbot of Snagov had sent his body there to be reunited with it. Had Dracula requested this ahead of time, knowing the bounty placed on his famous head in his lifetime, knowing the sultan’s penchant for displaying the heads of his enemies to the populace? Or had the abbot taken this mission upon himself, not wanting the headless body of his possibly heretical—or dangerous—sponsor to remain at Snagov? Surely, a vampire without a head couldn’t pose much of a threat—the picture was almost comical—but the disturbances among his monks might have been enough to persuade the abbot to give Dracula a proper Christian burial elsewhere. Probably the abbot couldn’t have taken upon himself the destruction of his prince’s body. And who knew what promises the abbot had made Dracula ahead of time?

  “A singular image drifted back to me: Topkapı Palace in Istanbul, where I’d strolled that recent sunny morning, and the gates where the Ottoman executioners had displayed the heads of the sultan’s enemies. Dracula’s head would have warranted one of the highest spikes, I thought—the Impaler finally impaled. How many people would have gone to see it, this proof of the sultan’s triumph? Helen had told me once that even the inhabitants of Istanbul had feared Dracula and worried that he might fight his way into their very city. No Turkish encampment would have to tremble again at his approach; the sultan had finally gotten control of that troublesome region and could set an Ottoman vassal on the Wallachian throne, as he’d wanted to years before. All that was left of the Impaler was a gruesome trophy, with its shriveled eyes and tangled, blood-caked hair and mustache.

  “Our companion seemed to be musing over a similar picture. As soon as we were certain Brother Rumen had left, Stoichev said in a low voice, ‘Yes, it is quite possible. But how could the monks of Panachrantos have gotten Dracula’s head from the sultan’s palace? It was indeed a treasure, as Stefan named it in his tale.’

  “‘How did we
get visas to enter Bulgaria?’ Helen asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Bakshish—a lot of it. The monasteries were quite poor after the conquest, but some of them might have had hidden stores—gold coin, jewels—something to tempt even the guards of the sultan.’

  “I pondered this. ‘Our guidebook for Istanbul said that the heads of the sultan’s enemies were thrown into the Bosphorus after they had been displayed for a while. Maybe someone from Panachrantos intercepted that process—that might have been less dangerous than trying to get it from the palace gates.’

  “‘We simply cannot know the truth about this,’ Stoichev said, ‘but I think Miss Rossi’s guess is a very good one. His head was the most likely object they could have sought in Tsarigrad. There is a good theological reason, too, for their having done so. Our Orthodox beliefs state that as far as possible the body must be whole in death—we do not practice cremation, for example—because on the Day of Judgment we will be resurrected in our bodies.’

  “‘What about the saints and all their relics, scattered everywhere?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘How are they going to be resurrected whole? Not to mention that I saw five of Saint Francis’s hands in Italy a few years ago.’

  “Stoichev laughed. ‘The saints have special privileges,’ he said. ‘But Vlad Dracula, although he was an excellent Turk-killer, was certainly not a saint. In fact, Eupraxius was quite worried about his immortal soul, at least according to Stefan’s tale.’