The Historian

  “Stoichev said nothing else for a while, although he looked intently at us, and I wondered what he thought of our appearing there, and whether he planned to find out who we were. After a few minutes, thinking he might never address us, I spoke to him. ‘Professor Stoichev,’ I said, ‘please forgive this invasion of your solitude. We are very grateful to you and to your niece for letting us visit you.’

  “He looked at his hands on the table—they were fine and freckled with age spots—and then at me. His eyes, as I’ve said, were hugely dark, and they were the eyes of a young man, although his clean-shaven olive face was old. His ears were unusually large and stuck out from the sides of his head in the midst of neatly clipped white hair; they actually caught some of the light from the windows, so that they looked translucent, pinkish around the edges like a rabbit’s. Those eyes, with their combined mildness and wariness, had something of the animal in them, too. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and one of them, in the front, was covered in gold. But they were all there, and his face was startling when he smiled, as if a wild animal had suddenly formed a human expression. It was a wonderful face, a face that in its youth must have had an unusual radiance, a great visible enthusiasm—it must have been an irresistible face.

  “Stoichev smiled now, with such force that it made Helen and me smile, too. Irina dimpled at us. She had settled herself in a chair under an icon of someone—I assumed it was Saint George—putting his spear with vigor through an undernourished dragon. ‘I am very glad that you have come to see me,’ Stoichev said. ‘We don’t get so many visitors, and visitors who speak English are even more rare. I am very glad to be able to practice my English with you, although it is not as good as it was, I am afraid.’

  “‘Your English is excellent,’ I said. ‘Where did you learn it, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  “‘Oh, I do not mind,’ said Professor Stoichev. ‘I had the good fortune to study abroad when I was young, and some of my studies were conducted in London. Is there anything with which I can help you, or did you only wish to visit my library?’ He said this so simply that it took me by surprise.

  “‘Both,’ I said. ‘We wished to visit it, and we wished to ask you some questions for our research.’ I paused to hunt for words. ‘Miss Rossi and I are very much interested in the history of your country in the Middle Ages, although I know far less about it than I ought to, and we have been writing some—ah —’ I began to falter, because it swept over me that despite Helen’s brief lecture on the plane I actually knew nothing about Bulgarian history, or so little that it could only sound absurd to this erudite man who was the guardian of his country’s past; and also because what we had to discuss was highly personal, terribly improbable, and not at all something that I wanted to broach with Ranov sneering down at the table.

  “‘So you are interested in the medieval Bulgaria?’ said Stoichev, and it seemed to me that he, too, glanced in Ranov’s direction.

  “‘Yes,’ said Helen, coming quickly to my rescue. ‘We are interested in the monastic life of medieval Bulgaria, and we have been researching it as well as we can for some articles we would like to produce. Specifically, we would like to know about life in the monasteries of Bulgaria in the late medieval period, and about some of the routes that brought pilgrims to Bulgaria, and also routes by which pilgrims from Bulgaria traveled to other lands.’

  “Stoichev lit up, shaking his head with apparent pleasure so that his large delicate ears caught the light. ‘That is a very good topic,’ he said. He looked beyond us, and I thought he must be gazing into a past so deep that it was really the well of time, and seeing more clearly than perhaps anyone else in the world the period to which we had alluded. ‘Is there something in particular you will write about? I have many manuscripts here that might be useful to you, and I would be happy to permit you to look at them, if you would like.’

  “Ranov shifted in his chair, and I thought again how much I disliked his watching us. Fortunately, most of his attention seemed to be focused on Irina’s pretty profile, across the room. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘We’d like to learn more about the fifteenth century—the late fifteenth century, and Miss Rossi here has done quite a bit of work on that period in her family’s native country—that is —’

  “‘Romania,’ Helen put in. ‘But I was raised and educated in Hungary.’

  “‘Ah, yes—you are our neighbor.’ Professor Stoichev turned to Helen and gave her the gentlest of smiles. ‘And you are from the University of Budapest?’

  “‘Yes,’ said Helen.

  “‘Perhaps you know my friend there—his name is Professor Sándor.’

  “‘Oh, yes. He is the head of our history department. He is quite a friend of mine.’

  “‘That is very nice—very nice,’ Professor Stoichev said. ‘Please give him my warmest greetings if you have the chance.’

  “‘I will.’ Helen smiled at him.

  “‘And who else? I do not think I know anyone else who is there now. But your name, Professor, is very interesting. I know this name. There is in the United States’—he turned to me again, and back to Helen; to my discomfort I saw Ranov’s gaze narrowing on us—‘a famous historian named Rossi. He is perhaps a relative?’

  “Helen, to my surprise, flushed pink. I thought maybe she didn’t yet relish admitting this in public, or felt some lingering doubt about doing so, or that perhaps she had noticed Ranov’s sudden attention to the conversation. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He is my father, Bartholomew Rossi.’

  “I thought Stoichev might very naturally wonder why an English historian’s daughter claimed she was Romanian and had been raised in Hungary, but if he had any such questions he kept them to himself. ‘Yes, that is the name. He has written very fine books—and on such a range of topics!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘When I read some of his early articles, I thought he would make a fine Balkan historian, but I see that he has abandoned that area and gone into many others.’

  “I was relieved to hear that Stoichev knew Rossi’s work and thought well of it; this might give us some credentials, in his eyes, and might also make it easier to enlist his sympathies. ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘In fact, Professor Rossi is not only Helen’s father but also my adviser—I’m working with him on my dissertation.’

  “‘How fortunate.’ Stoichev folded one veined hand over the other. ‘And what is your dissertation about?’

  “‘Well,’ I began, and this time it was my turn to flush. I hoped Ranov wasn’t watching these changes of color too closely. ‘It’s about Dutch merchants in the seventeenth century.’

  “‘Remarkable,’ said Stoichev. ‘That is quite an interesting topic. Then what brings you to Bulgaria?’

  “‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘Miss Rossi and I became interested in doing some research on connections between Bulgaria and the Orthodox community in Istanbul after the Ottoman conquest of the city. Even though this is a departure from the topic of my dissertation, we have been writing some articles about it. In fact, I’ve also just given a lecture at the University of Budapest on the history of—parts of Romania under the Turks.’ I immediately saw this was a mistake; perhaps Ranov hadn’t known we’d been in Budapest as well as Istanbul. Helen was composed, however, and I took my cue from her. ‘We would like very much to finish our research here in Bulgaria, and we thought you might well be able to help us.’

  “‘Of course,’ Stoichev said patiently. ‘Perhaps you could tell me exactly what interests you most about the history of our medieval monasteries and the routes of pilgrimages, and about the fifteenth century in particular. It is a fascinating century in Bulgarian history. You know that after 1393 most of our country was under the Ottoman yoke, although some parts of Bulgaria were not conquered until well into the fifteenth century. Our native intellectual culture was preserved from that time on very much by the monasteries. I am glad you are interested in the monasteries because they are one of the richest sources of our heritage in Bulgaria.’ He paused and r
efolded his hands, as if waiting to see how familiar this information was to us.

  “‘Yes,’ I said. There was no help for it. We would have to talk about some aspect of our search with Ranov sitting right there. After all, if I asked him to leave, he would immediately become suspicious about our purpose here. Our only hope was to make our questions sound as scholarly and impersonal as possible. ‘We believe there are some interesting connections between the Orthodox community in fifteenth-century Istanbul and the monasteries of Bulgaria.’

  “‘Yes, of course that is true,’ said Stoichev, ‘especially since the Bulgarian church was placed by Mehmed the Conqueror under the jurisdiction of the patriarch of Constantinople. Before that, of course, our church was independent, with its own patriarch in Veliko Trnovo.’

  “I felt a wave of gratitude toward this man with his erudition and wonderful ears. My comments had been close to inane, and yet he was answering them with circumspect—not to mention informative—politeness.

  “‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And we’re especially interested—we found a letter—that is, we were recently in Istanbul ourselves’—I was careful not to glance at Ranov—‘and we found a letter that has to do with Bulgaria—with a group of monks who traveled from Constantinople to a monastery in Bulgaria. We’re interested for the purposes of one of our articles in tracing their route through Bulgaria. Perhaps they were on pilgrimage—we’re not quite sure.’

  “‘I see,’ said Stoichev. His eyes were warier and more luminous than ever. ‘Is there any date on this letter? Can you tell me a little about its contents or who wrote it, if you know that, and where you found it? To whom it was addressed, and so on, if you know these things?’

  “‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘In fact, we have a copy of it here. The original letter is in Slavonic, and a monk in Istanbul wrote it out for us. The original resides in the state archive of Mehmed II. Perhaps you would like to read the letter for yourself.’ I opened my briefcase and got the copy out, handing it to him, hoping Ranov would not ask for it next.

  “Stoichev took the letter and I saw his eyes flash over the opening lines. ‘Interesting,’ he said, and to my disappointment he set it down on the table. Perhaps he was not going to help us after all, or even read the letter. ‘My dear,’ he said, turning to his niece, ‘I don’t think we can look at old letters without offering these guests something to eat and drink. Would you bring us rakiya and a little lunch?’ He nodded with particular politeness toward Ranov.

  “Irina rose promptly, smiling. ‘Certainly, Uncle,’ she said, in beautiful English. There was no end, I thought, to the surprises in this household. ‘But I would like some help to bring it up the stairs.’ She gave Ranov the slightest glance from her clear eyes and he got up, smoothing his hair.

  “‘I will be glad to help the young lady,’ he said, and they went downstairs together, Ranov thumping noisily on the steps and Irina chattering to him in Bulgarian.

  “As soon as the door closed behind them, Stoichev leaned forward and read the letter with greedy concentration. When he was done, he looked up at us. His face had lost ten years, but it was tense, too. ‘This is remarkable,’ he said in a low voice. We rose out of the same instinct and came to sit close to him at his end of the long table. ‘I am astonished to see this letter.’

  “‘Yes—what?’ I said eagerly. ‘Do you have any sense of what it might mean?’

  “‘A little.’ Stoichev’s eyes were enormous and he looked intently at me. ‘You see,’ he added, ‘I, too, have one of Brother Kiril’s letters.’”

  Chapter 56

  I remembered all too well the bus station in Perpignan, where I had stood with my father the year before, waiting for a dusty bus to the villages. The bus pulled up again now, and Barley and I boarded it. Our ride to Les Bains, along broad rural roads, was also familiar to me. The towns we passed were girded with square, shorn plane trees. Trees, houses, fields, and old cars all seemed made of the same dust, a café-au-lait cloud that covered everything.

  The hotel in Les Bains was much as I remembered it, too, with its four stories of stucco, its iron window grills and boxes of rosy flowers. I found myself longing for my father, breathless with the thought that we’d see him soon, perhaps in a few minutes. For once I led Barley, pushing the heavy door open and putting my bag down in front of the marble-topped desk inside. But then that desk seemed so extremely high and dignified that I felt shy again and had to force myself to tell the sleek old man behind it that I thought my father might be staying here. I didn’t remember the old man from our visit here, but he was patient, and after a minute he said there was indeed a foreign monsieur by that name staying there, but la clé—his key—was not in, and therefore he himself must be out. He showed us the empty hook. My heart leaped, and leaped again a moment later when a man I did remember opened the door behind the counter. It was the maître d’ from the little restaurant, poised and graceful and in a hurry. The old man arrested him with a question and he turned to me étonné, as he said at once that the young lady was here, and how she had grown, how grown-up and lovely. And her—friend?

  “Cousin,” Barley said.

  But monsieur had not mentioned that his daughter and nephew would be joining him, what a nice surprise. We must all dine there that evening. I asked where my father was, if anybody knew, but no one did. He had left early, the older man contributed, perhaps to take a morning walk. The maître d’ said they were still full, but if we needed other rooms he could see to that. Why didn’t we go up to my father’s room and leave our bags, at least? My father had taken a suite with a nice view and a little parlor to sit in. He—the maître d’—would give us l’autre clé and make us some coffee. My father would be back soon, probably. We agreed gratefully to all these suggestions. The creaking elevator took us up so slowly that I wondered if the maître d’ was pulling the chain himself down in the cellar.

  My father’s room, when we got the door open, was spacious and pleasant, and I would have enjoyed every nook of it if I hadn’t felt, uncomfortably, that I was invading his sanctuary for the third time in a week. Worse was the sudden sight of my father’s suitcase, his familiar clothes around the room, his battered leather shaving kit and good shoes. I’d seen these objects only a few days ago, in his room at Master James’s house in Oxford, and their familiarity hit me hard.

  But even this was eclipsed by another shock. My father was by nature an orderly man; any room or office he inhabited, however briefly, was a model of neatness and discretion. Unlike many of the bachelors, widowers, divorcés whom I later met, my father never sank into that state that makes solo men drop the contents of their pockets in piles on tables and bureaus, or store their clothes in piles over the backs of chairs. Never before had I seen my father’s possessions in rank disorder. His suitcase sat half unpacked by the bed. He had apparently rummaged through it and pulled out one or two items, leaving a trail of socks and undershirts on the floor. His light canvas coat sprawled across the bed. In fact, he had changed clothes, also in a great hurry, and deposited his suit in a heap by the suitcase. It occurred to me that perhaps this was not my father’s doing, that his room had been searched while he was not in it. But that pile of his suit, shed like a snake’s skin onto the floor, made me think otherwise. His walking shoes were not in their usual place in the suitcase and the cedar shoe trees he kept in them had been flung aside. He had clearly been in the greatest hurry of his life.

  Chapter 57

  “When Stoichev told us he had one of Brother Kiril’s letters, Helen and I looked at each other in amazement. ‘What do you mean?’ she said finally.

  “Stoichev tapped Turgut’s copy with excited fingers. ‘I have a manuscript that was given to me in 1924 by my friend Atanas Angelov. It describes a different part of the same journey, I am certain. I did not know that any other documents from these travels were in existence. In fact, my friend died suddenly just after he gave them to me, poor fellow. Wait —’ He rose, swaying in his haste, so that both
Helen and I leaped up to catch him in case he fell. He righted himself without assistance, however, and went into one of the smaller rooms, gesturing for us to follow and to avoid tripping on the piles of books that lined it. There he scanned the shelves and then reached for a box, which I helped him take down. From it he pulled a cardboard file tied with fraying cord. He brought this back to the table and opened it under our eager eyes, drawing out a document so fragile that I shuddered to watch him handling it. He stood looking at it for a long minute, as if paralyzed, and then sighed. ‘This is the original, as you can see. The signature —’

  We bent over it, and there, with a rush of gooseflesh over my arms and neck, I saw an exquisitely penned Cyrillic name that even I could read—Kiril—and the year: 6985. I looked at Helen, and she bit her lip. The faded name of this monk was terribly real. So was the fact that he had once been as alive as we were, had set a quill to this parchment with a warm, living hand.

  “Stoichev looked almost as awed as I felt, although the sight of such an old manuscript must have been his daily fare. ‘I have translated it into Bulgarian,’ he said, after a moment, and drew out another sheet, this one typed onionskin. We sat down. ‘I will try to read it to you.’ He cleared his throat and gave us a rough but competent version of a letter that has since been widely translated.

  Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

  I take my pen in hand to fulfill the task you have in your wisdom put upon me, and to tell you the particulars of our mission as we come to them. May I do justice to them and to your wishes, with God’s assistance. We sleep this night near Virbius, two days’ journey from you, at the monastery of Saint Vladimir, where the holy brothers have welcomed us in your name. As you have instructed, I went alone to the lord abbot and told him our mission in the greatest secrecy, with not even a novice or servant present. He has commanded our wagon to remain under lock in the stables within the courtyard, with two guards from among his monks and two from among our number. I hope we may meet often with such understanding and safekeeping, at least until we cross into the infidel lands. As you have instructed, I placed one book in the lord abbot’s hands, with your injunctions, and saw that he hid it forthwith, not even opening it before me.