The Historian

  “‘It is very beautiful,’ Helen said, turning to our host, and I remembered how lovely she could look when sincerity relaxed the hard lines around her mouth and eyes. ‘It is like the Arabian Nights.’

  “Turgut laughed and waved off the compliment with a large hand, but he was clearly pleased. ‘That is my wife,’ he said. ‘She loves our old arts and crafts, and her family passed down to her many fine things. Perhaps there is even a little something from Sultan Mehmed’s empire here.’ He smiled at me. ‘I do not make the coffee as well as she does—that is what she tells me—but I will give you my best effort.’ He settled us on the low furniture, close together, and I thought with contentment about all those time-honored objects signifying comfort: cushion, divan, and—after all—ottoman.

  “Turgut’s best effort turned out to be lunch, which he brought in from a small kitchen across the hall, refusing our earnest offers of help. How he had rustled up a meal in such a short time eluded my imagination—it must have been waiting for him there. He brought in trays of sauces and salads, a bowl of melon, a stew of meat and vegetables, skewers of chicken, the ubiquitous cucumber-and-yogurt mixture, coffee, and an avalanche of sweets rolled in almonds and honey. We ate heartily, and Turgut urged food on us until we were groaning. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I cannot let my wife think I have starved you.’ All this was followed by a glass of water with something white and sweet sitting on a plate next to it. ‘Attar of roses,’ Helen said, tasting it. ‘Very nice. They have this in Romania, too.’ She dropped a little of the white paste into her glass and drank it, and I followed suit. I wasn’t sure what the water might do to my digestion later, but it was not the moment for such worries.

  “When we were nearly bursting, we leaned back against the low divans—I now understood their use, recovery after a large meal—and Turgut looked at us with satisfaction. ‘You are sure you have had enough?’ Helen laughed and I moaned a little, but Turgut refilled our glasses and coffee cups anyway. ‘Very good. Now, let us talk of the things we have not yet been able to discuss. First of all, I am astounded to think that you know Professor Rossi, too, but I do not yet understand your connection. He is your adviser, young man?’ And he sat down on an ottoman, leaning toward us with an expectant air.

  “I glanced at Helen and she nodded slightly. I wondered if the attar of roses had softened her suspicions. ‘Well, Professor Bora, I’m afraid we have not been completely open with you up to this point,’ I confessed. ‘But, you see, we are on a peculiar mission and we have not known whom to trust.’

  “‘I see.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps you are wiser than you know.’

  “That gave me pause, but Helen nodded again, and I continued. ‘Professor Rossi is of special interest to us, too, not only because he is my adviser but because of some information he communicated to us—to me—and because he has—well, he has disappeared.’

  “Turgut’s gaze was piercing. ‘Disappeared, my friend?’

  “‘Yes.’ Haltingly, I told him about my bond with Rossi, my work with him on my dissertation, and the strange book I’d found in my library carrel. When I began to describe the book, Turgut started up in his seat and struck his hands together but said nothing, only listening more intently. I went on to relate how I’d brought the book to Rossi, and the story he’d told me about finding a book of his own. Three books, I thought, pausing for breath. We knew of three of these strange books, now—a magic number. But exactly how were they related to one another, as they must be? I reported what Rossi had told me about his research in Istanbul—here Turgut shook his head as if baffled—and his discovery in the archive that the dragon image matched the outlines of the old maps.

  “I told Turgut how Rossi had vanished, and about the grotesque shadow I had seen pass over his office window the evening he had disappeared, and how I’d begun the search for him on my own, at first only half believing his story. Here I paused again, this time to see what Helen would say, because I didn’t want to reveal her story without her permission. She stirred and looked quietly at me from the depths of the divan, and then to my surprise she picked up the tale herself and related to Turgut everything she had already told me, speaking in her low, sometimes harsh voice—the tale of her birth, her personal vendetta against Rossi, the intensity of her research on Dracula’s history, and her intention to search for his legend eventually in this very city. Turgut’s eyebrows rose to the edge of his pomaded hair. Her words, her deep, clear articulation, the obvious magnificence of her mind, and perhaps also the flush in her cheeks above the pale blue collar all brought an answering hue of admiration to his face—or so I thought, and for the first time since we’d met Turgut, I felt a twinge of hostility toward him.

  “When Helen had rounded out the story, we all sat in silence for a moment. The green sunlight filtering into that beautiful room seemed to deepen around us, and a sense of further unreality crept over me. At last Turgut spoke. ‘Your experience is most remarkable, and I am grateful that you tell me it. And I am sorry to hear your family’s sad story, Miss Rossi. I still wish I knew why Professor Rossi was compelled to write to me that he did not know about our archive here, which seems a lie, does it not? But it is terrible, the disappearance of such a fine scholar. Professor Rossi was punished for something—or he is being punished right now, as we sit here.’

  “The languorous feeling cleared from my head in an instant, as if a cold breeze had swept it away. ‘But what makes you so certain of this? And how on earth can we find him, if this is true?’

  “‘I am a rationalist, like you,’ Turgut said quietly, ‘but I believe by my instinct what you say Professor Rossi told you that evening. And we have proof of his words in what the old librarian of the archive told me—that a foreign researcher was frightened away there—and in my finding Professor Rossi’s name in the registry. Not to mention the appearance of a fiend with blood —’ He stopped. ‘And now there is this dreadful aberration, his name—the name of his article—added somehow to the bibliography in the archive. It confounds me, that addition! You have done the right thing, my colleagues, to come to Istanbul. If Professor Rossi is here, we will find him. I have long wondered, myself, if Dracula’s tomb could be here in Istanbul. It seems to me that if someone has placed Rossi’s name very recently in that bibliography, then there is a good chance Rossi himself is here. And you believe that Rossi will be found at Dracula’s place of burial. I will devote myself entirely to your service in this matter. I feel—responsible to you in this.’

  “‘Now I have a question for you.’ Helen narrowed her eyes at both of us. ‘Professor Bora, how did you come to be in our restaurant last night? It seems to me too much of a coincidence that you appeared when we had just arrived in Istanbul, looking for the archive you have been so much interested in all these years.’

  “Turgut had risen, and now he took a small brass box from a side table and opened it, offering us cigarettes. I refused, but Helen took one and let Turgut light it for her. He lit one for himself, too, and sat down again, and they regarded each other, so that for a moment I felt subtly excluded. The tobacco had a delicate scent and was obviously very fine; I wondered if this was the Turkish luxury so famous in the United States. Turgut exhaled gently and Helen kicked off her slippers and drew her legs up under her, as if used to lounging on Eastern cushions. This was a side of her I hadn’t seen before, this easy grace under the spell of hospitality.

  “At last Turgut spoke. ‘How did I come to meet you in the restaurant? I have asked myself this question several times, because I do not have an answer to it, either. But I can tell you in all honesty, my friends, that I did not know who you were or what you were doing in Istanbul when I sat down near your table. In fact, I often go to that place because it is my favorite in the old quarter, and I take a walk there sometimes between my classes. That day I went in almost without thinking about it, and when I saw no one but two strangers there, I felt lonely and did not want to sit by myself in the corner. My wife says I am a hopeless case of
friend making.’

  “He smiled and tapped the ash from his cigarette into a copper plate, which he pushed toward Helen. ‘But that is not such a bad habit, is it? In any case, when I saw your interest in my archive, I was surprised and moved, and now that I hear your more-than-remarkable story, I feel that somehow I am to be your assistance here in Istanbul. After all, why did you come to my favorite restaurant? Why did I go in there with my book for dinner? I see you are suspicious, madam, but I have no answer for you, except to say that the coincidence gives me hope. “There are more things in heaven and earth —”’ He looked reflectively at both of us, and his face was open and sincere, and more than a little sad.

  “Helen blew a cloud of Turkish smoke into the hazy sunlight. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘We shall hope. And now, what shall we do with our hope? We have seen the originals of the maps, and we have seen the bibliography of the Order of the Dragon, which Paul wanted so much to look at. But where does that put us?’

  “‘Come with me,’ Turgut said abruptly. He rose to his feet, and the last languor of the afternoon vanished. Helen stubbed out her cigarette and rose, too, her sleeve brushing my hand. I followed. ‘Please come into my study for a moment.’ Turgut opened a door among the folds of antique wool and silk and stood politely aside.”

  Chapter 31

  I sat very, very still on my seat in the train, staring at the newspaper of the man who sat opposite me. I felt I should move around a little, act natural, or I might actually draw his attention, but he was so perfectly still that I began to imagine I had not even heard him breathe, and to find it difficult to breathe myself. After a moment my worst fear was realized: he spoke without lowering the newspaper. His voice was exactly like his shoes and perfectly tailored pants; he spoke to me in English with an accent I couldn’t place, although it had a flavor of French—or was I getting it mixed up with the headlines that danced on the outside of Le Monde, scrambling themselves under my agonized gaze? Terrible things were happening in Cambodia, in Algeria, in places I had never heard of, and my French had improved too much this year. But the man was speaking from behind the print, without moving his paper a millimeter. My skin tingled as I listened, because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. His voice was quiet, cultivated. It asked a single question: “Where is your father, my dear?”

  I tore myself from my seat and jumped toward the door; I heard his newspaper fall behind me, but all my concentration was on the latch. It was not locked. I got it open in a moment of transcendent fear. I slipped out without turning around and ran in the direction Barley had taken to the dining car. There were other people dotted mercifully here and there in the compartments, their curtains open, their books and newspapers and picnic baskets balanced beside them, their faces turning curiously toward me as I sped past. I couldn’t stop even to listen for footsteps behind me. I remembered suddenly that I’d left our valises in the compartment, on the overhead rack. Would he take those? Search them? My purse was on my arm; I had fallen asleep with it slipped over my wrist, as I always wore it in public.

  Barley was in the dining car, at the far end, with his book open on a wide table. He had ordered tea and several other things, and it took him a moment to glance up from his little kingdom and register my presence. I must have looked wild, because he pulled me into the booth at once. “What is it?”

  I put my face against his neck, struggling not to cry. “I woke up and there was a man in our compartment, reading the paper, and I couldn’t see his face.”

  Barley put a hand in my hair. “A man with a newspaper? What are you so upset about?”

  “He didn’t let me see his face at all,” I whispered, turning to look at the entrance to the dining car. There was no one there, no dark-suited figure entering to search it. “But he spoke to me behind the paper.”

  “Yes?” Barley seemed to have discovered that he liked my curls.

  “He asked me where my father was.”

  “What?” Barley sat upright. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, in English.” I sat up, too. “I ran, and I don’t think he followed, but he’s on the train. I had to leave our bags there.”

  Barley bit his lip; I half expected to see blood well up against his white skin. Then he signaled to the waiter, stood, conferred with him for a moment, and fished in his pockets for a large tip, which he left by his teacup. “Our next stop is Boulois,” he said. “It’s in sixteen minutes.”

  “What about our bags?”

  “You’ve got your purse and I have my wallet.” Barley suddenly stopped and stared at me. “The letters —”

  “They’re in my purse,” I said quickly.

  “Thank God. We might have to leave the rest of the luggage, but it doesn’t matter.” Barley took my hand, and we went through the end of the dining car—into the kitchen, to my surprise. The waiter hurried behind us, ushering us into a little niche near the refrigerators. Barley pointed; there was a door next to it. There we stood for sixteen minutes, I clutching my purse. It seemed only natural that we should stand holding each other tight, in that small space, like two refugees. Suddenly I remembered my father’s gift and put my hand up to it: the crucifix hung against my throat in what I knew was plain sight. No wonder that newspaper had never been lowered.

  At last the train began to slow, the brakes shuddered and squealed, and we stopped. The waiter pushed a lever and the door near us opened. He gave Barley a conspiratorial grin; he probably thought this was a comedy of the heart, my irate father chasing us through the train, something of that sort. “Step off the train but stay right next to it,” Barley advised me in a low voice, and we inched together onto the pavement. There was a broad stucco station there, under silvery trees, and the air was warm and sweet. “Do you see him?”

  I peered down the train until finally I saw someone far along the line among the disembarking passengers—a tall, broad-shouldered figure in black, with something wrong about his entirety, a shadowy quality that made my stomach lurch. He wore a low, dark hat now, so that I couldn’t see his face. He held a dark briefcase and a roll of white, perhaps the newspaper. “That’s him.” I tried not to point, and Barley drew me rapidly back on the steps.

  “Stay out of sight. I’ll watch where he goes. He’s looking up and down.” Barley peered out while I cowered resolutely back, my heart pounding. He kept a hard grip on my arm. “All right—he’s walking the other way. No, he’s coming back. He’s looking in the windows. I think he’s going to get on the train again. God, he’s a cool one—checking his watch. He’s stepping up. Now he’s getting off again and coming this way. Get ready—we’re going to go back in and run the length of the train if we have to. Are you ready?”

  At that moment, the fans whirred, the train gave a heave, and Barley swore. “Jesus, he’s getting back on. I think he just realized we didn’t really get off.” Suddenly Barley jerked me off the steps and onto the platform. Next to us the train heaved again and started up. Several of the passengers had put the windows down and leaned out to smoke or gaze around. Among them, several cars away, I saw a dark head turned in our direction, a man with his shoulders squared—he was full, I thought, of a cold fury. Then the train was picking up speed, pulling around a curve. I turned to Barley, and we glared at each other. Except for a few villagers sitting in the little rural station, we were alone in the middle of a French nowhere.

  Chapter 32

  “If I had expected Turgut’s study to be another Oriental dream, the haven of an Ottoman scholar, I had guessed wrong. The room into which he ushered us was much smaller than the large one we had just left, but high-ceilinged like it, and daylight from two windows showed the furnishings plainly. Two walls were lined top to bottom with books. Black velvet curtains hung to the floor beside each window, and a tapestry of horses and hounds riding to the chase gave a feeling of medieval splendor to the room. Piles of English reference books lay on a table in the center of the study; an immense set of Shakespeare took up its own curious cabinet n
ear the desk.

  “But the first impression I had of Turgut’s study was not one of the preeminence of English literature; I had instead the immediate sense of a darker presence, an obsession that had gradually overcome the milder influence of the English works he wrote about. This presence leaped out at me suddenly as a face, a face that was everywhere, meeting my gaze with arrogance from a print behind the desk, from a stand on the table, from an odd piece of embroidery on one wall, from the cover of a portfolio, from a sketch near the window. It was the same face in every case, caught in different poses and different media, but always the same gaunt-cheeked, mustached, medieval visage.

  “Turgut was watching me. ‘Ah, you know who this is,’ he said grimly. ‘I have collected him in many forms, as you can see.’ We stood side by side looking at the framed print on the wall behind the desk. It was a reproduction of a woodcut like the one I’d seen at home, but the face was fully frontal, so that the ink-dark eyes seemed to bore into ours.

  “‘Where did you find all these different images?’ I asked.

  “‘Anywhere I could.’ Turgut gestured toward the folio on the table. ‘Sometimes I had them sketched from old books, and sometimes I found them in antique shops, or at auctions. It is extraordinary how many pictures of his face still float loose in our city, once you are watching out for them. I felt that if I could gather them all, I might be able to read the secret of my strange empty book in his eyes.’ He sighed. ‘But these woodcuts are so crude, so—black and white. I could not be satisfied with them, and finally I asked a friend of mine who is an artist to blend them all into one for me.’