Chapter 64
“We found Stoichev in a state of excitement at the library table. Ranov sat across from him, drumming his fingers and occasionally glancing at a document as the old scholar set it aside. He looked as irritated as I’d seen him yet, which suggested that Stoichev hadn’t been answering his questions. When we came in, Stoichev looked up eagerly. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said in a whisper. Helen sat down next to him and I leaned over the manuscripts he was examining. They were similar to Brother Kiril’s letters in design and execution, written in a beautifully close, neat hand on leaves that were faded and crumbling at the edges. I recognized the Slavonic script from the letters. Next to them he had laid out our maps. I found myself hardly breathing, hoping against hope that he would tell us something of real import. Perhaps the tomb was even here at Rila, I thought suddenly—perhaps that’s why Stoichev insisted on coming here, because he suspected as much. I was surprised and uneasy, though, that he wanted to make any announcement in front of Ranov.
“Stoichev looked around, glanced at Ranov, rubbed his wrinkled forehead with his hand, and said in a low voice, ‘I believe the tomb is not in Bulgaria.’
“I felt the blood drain out of my head. ‘What?’ Helen was looking fixedly at Stoichev, and Ranov turned away from us, drumming his fingers on the table as if only half listening.
“‘I am sorry to disappoint you, my friends, but it is clear to me from this manuscript, which I had not examined in many years, that a group of pilgrims traveled back to Wallachia from Sveti Georgi about 1478. This manuscript is a customs document—it gave them permission to take some kind of Christian relics of Wallachian origin back to Wallachia. I am sorry. Perhaps you will be able to travel there one day to examine further this issue. If you would like to continue your research on the routes of pilgrims in Bulgaria, however, I will be happy to assist you.’
“I stared at him, speechless. We could not possibly get into Romania after all this, I thought. It had been a miracle that we had gotten this far.
“‘I recommend that you acquire permission to see some other monasteries and the routes on which they are located, particularly the Bachkovo Monastery. It is a beautiful example of our Bulgarian Byzantinism and the buildings are much older than those of Rila. Also, they have some very rare manuscripts that monks on pilgrimage brought to the monastery as gifts. It will be interesting for you, and you can gather in that way some material for your articles.’
“To my amazement, Helen seemed completely acquiescent with this plan. ‘Could this be arranged, Mr. Ranov?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps Professor Stoichev would like to accompany us, as well.’
“‘Oh, I am afraid I must return to my home,’ Stoichev said regretfully. ‘I have much work to do. I wish I could be there to help you at Bachkovo, but I can send a letter of introduction with you for the abbot. Mr. Ranov can be your interpreter, and the abbot will help you with any translations of manuscripts you wish to make. He is a fine scholar of the history of the monastery.’
“‘Very well.’ Ranov looked pleased to hear that Stoichev would be leaving us. There was nothing we could say about this terrible situation, I thought; we had to simply go through with a pretense at research at another monastery, and decide along the way what to do next. Romania? The image of Rossi’s door at the university rose up before me once more: it was closed, locked. Rossi would never open it again. I followed numbly as Stoichev put the manuscripts back in their box and shut the lid. Helen carried it to a shelf for him and helped him out the door. Ranov trailed us in silence—a silence I took to contain some gloating. Whatever we’d actually come to find was beyond us now, and we would be left alone with our guide again. Then he could get us to finish up our research and leave Bulgaria as soon as possible.
“Irina had apparently been in the church; she drifted toward us across the hot courtyard as we emerged, and at the sight of her Ranov turned aside to smoke in one of the galleries, then strolled toward the main gate and disappeared through it. I thought I saw him walk a little faster as he reached the gate; perhaps he needed a break from us, too. Stoichev sat heavily down on a wooden bench near the gate, with Irina’s protective hand on his shoulder. ‘Look here,’ he said very quietly, smiling up at us as if we were just chatting. ‘We must talk quickly while our friend cannot hear us. I did not mean to frighten you. There is no document about a pilgrimage back to Wallachia with some relics. I am sorry to say that I was lying. Vlad Dracula is certainly buried at Sveti Georgi, wherever that is, and I have found something very important. In the “Chronicle,” Stefan said Sveti Georgi was close to Bachkovo. I could not see any relationship between the Bachkovo area and the maps you have, but there is a letter here from the abbot of Bachkovo to the abbot of Rila, from the early sixteenth century. I did not dare to show it to you in front of our companion. This letter states that the abbot of Bachkovo no longer needs assistance from the abbot of Rila or any other clerics in suppressing the heresy at Sveti Georgi, because the monastery has been burned and its monks scattered. He warns the abbot of Rila to keep a close watch for any monks from there, or any monks who might spread the idea that the dragon has slain Sveti Georgi—Saint George—because this is the sign of their heresy.’
“‘The dragon has slain—wait,’ I said. ‘You mean that line about the monster and the saint? Kiril said they were looking for a monastery with a sign that the saint and the monster were equal.’
“‘Saint George is one of our most important figures in Bulgarian iconography,’ Stoichev said quietly. ‘It would be a strange reversal indeed for the dragon to overcome Saint George. But you remember that the Wallachian monks were looking for a monastery that already had that sign, because that would be the correct place to bring Dracula’s body to reunite it with his head. Now I am beginning to wonder if there was a larger heresy we do not know about—one that might have been known in Constantinople, or Wallachia, or even by Dracula himself. Did the Order of the Dragon have its own spiritual beliefs, outside the order of the Church? Could it have created a heresy somehow? I have never thought of such a possibility before today.’ He shook his head. ‘You must go to Bachkovo and ask the abbot there if he knows anything about this equality or reversal of monster and saint. You must ask him in secret. My letter to him—which your guide will take from you and read—will imply only that you wish to do research about pilgrimage routes, but you must find a way to talk with him in secret. Also, there is a monk there who used to be a scholar, a noted investigator of the history of Sveti Georgi. He worked with Atanas Angelov and was the second person to see the “Chronicle” of Zacharias. His name was Pondev when I knew him, but I do not know what it is now that he is a monk. The abbot can help you identify him. There is something else. I do not have here a map of the area near Bachkovo, but I believe that to the northeast of the monastery somewhere there is a long, winding valley that probably once contained a river. I remember seeing this once and speaking with the monks about it when I visited the region, although I do not remember now what they called it. Could this be our dragon’s tail? But what, then, would be the wings of the dragon? Perhaps the mountains? You must look for them, also.’
“I wanted to kneel before Stoichev and kiss his foot. ‘But won’t you come with us?’
“‘I would defy even my niece to do that,’ he replied, smiling up at her, ‘but I fear it would only raise more suspicion. If your guide thinks that I am still interested in this research, he will be even more attentive. Come to see me as soon as you return to Sofia, if you can. I will think of you all the time and wish for your safe journey and the discovery of what you seek. Here—you must take this.’ He put into Helen’s hand a little object, but she closed her fingers quickly over it, and I didn’t see what it was or where she’d put it.
“‘Mr. Ranov has been gone a long time, for him,’ she observed softly.
“I looked quickly at her. ‘Shall I go check on him?’ I had learned to trust Helen’s instincts, and I walked to the main gate without waitin
g for an answer.
“Just outside the great complex, I saw Ranov standing with another man near a long blue car. The other fellow was tall and graceful in his summer suit and hat, and something about him made me stop short in the shadow of the gate. They were in the middle of an earnest discussion, which broke off suddenly. The handsome man gave Ranov a slap on the back and swung into the seat of the car. I felt the jolt of that friendly cuff, myself—I knew that gesture—it had landed on my own shoulder once. Surely, incredible as it seemed, the man now driving swiftly out of the dusty parking area was Géza József. I shrank back into the courtyard and returned to Helen and Stoichev as quickly as I could. Helen eyed me keenly; perhaps she was learning to trust my instincts, too. I drew her aside for a moment, and Stoichev, although he looked puzzled, was too polite to question me. ‘I think József is here,’ I whispered quickly. ‘I didn’t see his face, but someone who looked like him was talking with Ranov just now.’
“‘Shit,’ Helen said softly. I think that was the first and last time I ever heard her swear.
“A moment later, Ranov came hurrying up. ‘It is time for supper,’ he said flatly, and I wondered if he was regretting having left us alone with Stoichev for a few minutes. I felt sure from his tone that he hadn’t seen me outside. ‘Come with me. We will eat.’
“The silent monastery supper was delicious, a homemade meal served by two monks. A handful of tourists was apparently staying in the hostel with us, and I noted that some of them spoke languages other than Bulgarian. The German-speakers must be on vacation from East Germany, I thought, and perhaps that other sound was Czech. We ate greedily, sitting at a long wooden table, with the monks lined up at another table nearby, and I anticipated with pleasure the narrow cots that awaited us. Helen and I had no moment alone, but I knew she must be thinking about József’s presence. What did he want with Ranov? Or, rather, what did he want from us? I remembered Helen’s warning that we were being followed. Who had told him where we were?
It had been an exhausting day, but I was so anxious to get to Bachkovo that I would gladly have set out on foot if that could have gotten me there faster. Instead we would sleep, to prepare for the next day’s travel. Mingled with the snores from East Berlin and Prague, I would hear Rossi’s voice musing over some controversial point in our work, and Helen saying, half amused at my lack of perspicacity, ‘Of course I will marry you.’”
Chapter 65
June 1962
My beloved daughter:
We are wealthy, you know, because of some terrible things that happened to me and your father. I left most of that money with your father, for your care, but I have enough to last me through a long search, a siege. I exchanged some of it in Zurich almost two years ago, and opened a bank account there under a name I will never tell anyone. My bank account is deep. I draw from that money once a month, to pay for the rented rooms, the archival fees, the meals in restaurants. I spend as little as possible so that one day I can give to you everything that remains, my little one, when you are a woman.
Your loving mother,
Helen Rossi
June 1962
My beloved daughter:
Today was one of the bad days. (I will never send this card. If I ever send any of them, it will not be this one.) Today was one of the days when I cannot remember if I am seeking this devil or simply running from him. I stand before the mirror, an old mirror in my room at the Hotel d’Este; the glass has spots like moss, creeping up its curved surface. I pull off my scarf, I stand here and finger the scar on my neck, a redness that never fully heals. I wonder if you will find me before I can find him. I wonder if he will find me before I can find him. I wonder why he has not found me already. I wonder if I will ever see you again.
Your loving mother,
Helen Rossi
August 1962
My beloved daughter:
When you were born, your hair was black and stuck to your slimy head in curls. After they washed and dried you, it became a soft down around your face, dark hair like mine, but also coppery like your father’s. I lay in a pool of morphine, and held you and watched the lights in your newborn hair change from Gypsy dark to bright, and then back to dark. Everything about you was polished and shone; I had shaped and polished you inside me without knowing what I was doing. Your fingers were golden, your cheek was rose, your eyelashes and eyebrows were the feathers of the baby crow. My happiness overflowed even the morphine.
Your loving mother,
Helen Rossi
Chapter 66
“I woke early in my cot in the men’s dormitory at Rila; sunshine was just beginning to come through the small windows, which looked out on the courtyard, and some of the other tourists were still sound asleep on the other cots. I’d heard the earliest call of the church bell, in the dark, and now that bell was tolling again. My first thought on waking this time was that Helen had said she would marry me. I wanted to see her again, to see her as soon as possible, to find a moment to ask her if yesterday had been a dream. The sunshine that filled the courtyard outside was an echo of my sudden happiness, and the morning air seemed to me unbelievably fresh, full of centuries of freshness.
“But Helen was not at breakfast. Ranov was there, sullen as ever, smoking, until a monk asked him gently to go outside with his cigarette. As soon as the meal was over, I went along the corridor to the women’s row, where Helen and I had parted the night before, and found the door standing open. The other women, the Czechs and Germans, had gone, leaving their beds neatly made. Helen was still asleep, apparently; I could see her form in the cot nearest the window. She was turned toward the wall, and I stepped in, silently, reasoning that she was my fiancée now, and I had the right to kiss her good morning, even in a monastery. I closed the door behind me, hoping no monks would happen by.
“Helen lay with her back to the room, on a cot near the window. When I drew closer, she rolled slightly in my direction, as if sensing my presence. Her head was tipped back, her eyes closed, her dark curls spread over the pillow. She was deeply asleep and an audible, almost stertorous breathing came from her lips. I thought she must have been tired after our travels and our walk of the day before, but something about the very abandon of her attitude made me step closer, uneasy. I bent over her, thinking I would kiss her even before she awoke, and then in a single terrible moment I saw the greenish pallor of her face and the fresh blood on her throat. Where the nearly healed wound had been, in the deepest part of her neck, two small gashes oozed, red and open. There was a little blood on the edge of the white sheet, too, and more on the sleeve of her cheap-looking white gown, where she’d thrown one arm back in her sleep. The front of her gown was pulled askance and slightly torn, and one of her breasts was bare almost to the dark nipple. I saw all this in a frozen instant, and my heart seemed to stop beating inside me. Then I reached down and drew the sheet gently over her nakedness, as if covering a child for sleep. I couldn’t think of any other motion, at that moment. A thick sob filled my throat, a rage I didn’t yet quite feel.
“‘Helen!’ I shook her shoulder gently, but her face did not change. I saw now how haggard she looked, as if she were in pain even in her sleep. Where was the crucifix? I remembered it suddenly, and looked all around. I found it by my foot; the narrow chain was broken. Had someone torn it off, or had she broken it herself in sleep? I shook her again. ‘Helen, wake up!’
“This time she stirred, but fretfully, and I wondered if I might somehow harm her by bringing her to consciousness too quickly. After a second, however, she opened her eyes, frowning. Her movements were very feeble. How much blood had she lost during this night, this night when I’d been sleeping soundly in the next corridor? Why had I left her alone, then or on any night?
“‘Paul,’ she said, as if puzzled. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then she seemed to struggle to sit up and discovered the disarray of her gown. She put her hand to her throat, while I watched in a speechless anguish, and drew it slowly away. There was st
icky, drying blood on her fingers. She stared at them, and at me. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. She sat upright and I felt a first hint of relief, despite the horror in her face; if she’d lost a lot of blood, she would’ve been too weak for even that much action. ‘Oh, Paul,’ she whispered. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took her other hand in mine and gripped it hard.
“‘Are you completely awake?’ I said.
“She nodded.
“‘And you know where you are?’
“‘Yes,’ she said, but then she put her head down over her bloody hand and broke into harsh low sobs, a horrifying sound. I had never before heard her cry out loud. The sound went through my body like a wave of bitter cold.
“‘I’m here.’ I kissed her clean hand.
“She squeezed my fingers, weeping, then tried to gather herself. ‘We must think what—is that my crucifix?’
“‘Yes.’ I held it up, watching her carefully, but to my infinite relief there was no sign of recoil in her face. ‘Did you remove it?’
“‘No, of course not.’ She shook her head and a leftover tear rolled down her cheek. ‘And I don’t remember breaking it. I don’t think they—he—would dare to, if the legend is accurate.’ She was wiping her face now, keeping her hand carefully clear of the wound on her throat. ‘I must have broken it while I slept.’
“‘I think so, judging from where I found it.’ I showed her the spot on the floor. ‘And it doesn’t make you feel—uncomfortable—to have it near you?’
“‘No,’ she said wonderingly. ‘At least, not yet.’ The cold little word made me catch my breath.
She reached out and touched the crucifix, at first hesitantly, and then took it in her hand. I let out my breath. Helen sighed, too. ‘I fell asleep thinking about my mother, and about an article I would like to write on the figures in Transylvanian embroidery—they are famous, you know—and then I didn’t wake until now.’ She frowned. ‘I had a bad dream, but my mother was mixed all through it, and she was—shooing away a great black bird. When she had frightened it away, she bent over and kissed my forehead, as she used to when I was a little girl going to sleep, and I saw the mark’—she paused, as if thinking pained her a little—‘I saw the mark of the dragon on her bare shoulder, but it seemed to me just a part of her, not something terrible. And when I received her kiss on my forehead, I was not so afraid.’
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