“At last the musicians struck up a new tune—lively but somber at the same time, I thought—and one by one the villagers who could dance, or at least walk, fell into a long snaking line that made its way slowly around the fire. As the line wound around in front of the church, Baba Yanka and another woman—not her sister, this time, but an even more weather-beaten woman whose clouded eyes looked nearly blind—came forward and bowed to the priest and to the icons. They took their shoes and socks off and set them carefully by the church steps, kissed Sveti Petko’s forbidding face, and received the priest’s blessing. The priest’s young helpers gave an icon to each woman, pulling off the silk covers. The music surged higher; the gaida player was sweating profusely, his face scarlet, his cheeks enormous.
“Next Baba Yanka and the woman with the clouded eyes danced forward, never losing their step, and then, while I held myself very still, watching, they danced barefoot into the fire. Each woman held her icon up in front of her as she entered the ring; each held her head high, staring with dignity into another world. Helen’s hand tightened on mine until my fingers ached. Their feet rose and fell in the coals, brushing up living sparks; once I saw Baba Yanka’s striped skirt smolder at the hem. They danced through embers to that mysterious rhythm of drum and bagpipe, and each went a different direction inside the circle of the fire.
“I hadn’t been able to see the icons as they’d entered the ring, but now I noted that one, in the hands of the blind woman, showed the Virgin Mary, her child on her knee, her head tilted under a heavy crown. I couldn’t see the icon Baba Yanka carried until she came around the circle again. Baba Yanka’s face was startling, her eyes enormous and fixed, her lips slack, her weathered skin glowing from the terrible heat. The icon she carried in her arms must have been very old, like that of the Virgin, but through its smoke stains and the wavering heat I could make out an image quite distinctly: it showed two figures facing each other in a sort of dance of their own, two creatures equally dramatic and forbidding. One was a knight in armor and red cape, and the other was a dragon with a long, looping tail.”
Chapter 70
December 1963
My beloved daughter:
I am in Naples now. This year, I am trying to be more systematic about my search. Naples is warm in December, and I am grateful because I have a bad cold. I never knew what it meant to be lonely before I left you, because I had never been loved as your father loved me—and you, too, I think. Now I am a woman alone in a library, wiping my nose and making notes. I wonder if anyone has ever been so alone as I am there, and in my hotel room. In public I wear my scarf or a high-necked blouse. As I cut up my lunch, and eat it alone, someone smiles at me and I smile back. Then I look away. You are not the only person with whom I am not fit to associate.
Your loving mother,
Helen
February 1964
My beloved daughter:
Athens is dirty and noisy, and it is difficult for me to get access to the documents I need at the Institute for Medieval Greece, which seems to be as medieval as its contents. But this morning, as I sit on the Acropolis, I can almost imagine that one day our separation will be over, and we will sit—you a grown woman, perhaps—on these fallen stones and look out over the city. Let’s see: you will be tall, like me, like your father, with cloudy dark hair—very short or in a thick braid?—and wear sunglasses and walking shoes, perhaps a scarf over your head if the wind is as rough as it is today. And I will be aging, wrinkled, proud only of you. The waiters at the cafés will stare at you, not at me, and I will laugh proudly, and your father will glare at them over his newspaper.
Your loving mother,
Helen
March 1964
My beloved daughter:
My fantasy about the Acropolis was so strong yesterday that I went there again this morning, just to write to you. But once I was sitting up there, gazing out over the city, the wound on my neck began to throb, and I thought that a presence close by was catching up with me, so that I could only look around and around trying to see among the crowds of tourists anyone suspicious. I cannot understand why this fiend has not come down the centuries to find me yet. I am his for the taking already, polluted already, longing slightly for him. Why does he not make his move and put me out of this misery? But as soon as I think this, I realize that I must continue to resist him, to surround and guard myself with every charm against him, and to find his many haunts in the hope of catching him in one of them, catching him so completely unaware that I can perhaps make history by destroying him. You, my lost angel, are the fire behind this desperate ambition.
Your loving mother,
Helen
Chapter 71
“When we saw the icon that Baba Yanka carried, I don’t know who gasped first, me or Helen, but each of us suppressed the reaction at once. Ranov was leaning against a tree not ten feet away, and to my relief I perceived that he was looking out over the valley, bored and contemptuous, busy with his cigarette, and had apparently not noticed the icon. A few seconds later Baba Yanka had turned away from us, and then she and the other old woman danced with the same lively, dignified step out of the fire and toward the priest. They returned the icons to the two boys, who covered them again at once. I kept my eye on Ranov. The priest was blessing the old women now, and they were led away by Brother Ivan, who gave them a drink of water. Baba Yanka cast us a proud glance as she went by, flushed, smiling and almost winking, and Helen and I bowed to her, out of a single awe. I looked carefully at her feet as she passed; her worn, bare feet appeared completely undamaged, as did the other woman’s. Only their faces showed the heat of the fire, like a sunburn.
“‘The dragon,’ Helen murmured to me as we watched them.
“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have to find out where they keep this icon and how old it is. Come on. The priest promised us a tour of the church.’
“‘What about Ranov?’ Helen didn’t look around.
“‘We’ll just have to pray he doesn’t decide to follow us,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he saw the icon.’
“The priest was returning to the church, and the people had started to drift away. We followed him slowly, and found him setting the icon of Sveti Petko back on its podium. The other two icons were nowhere to be seen. I bowed my thanks and told him in English how beautiful the ceremony had been, waving my hands and pointing outside. He seemed pleased. Then I gestured around the church and raised my eyebrows. ‘May we take a tour?’
“‘Tour?’ He frowned for a second, and then smiled again. Wait—he needed only to disrobe. When he returned in his everyday black garb, he took us carefully into every niche, pointing out ‘ikoni’ and ‘Hristos’ and some other things we more or less understood. He seemed to know a great deal about the place and its history, if only we’d been able to understand him. At last I asked him where the other icons were, and he pointed to the yawning hole I’d noticed earlier in one of the side chapels. They had apparently already been returned to the crypt, where they were kept. He fetched his lantern, obligingly, and led us down.
“The stone steps were steep, and the breath of cold that reached us from below made the church itself seem warm. I gripped Helen’s hand tightly as we picked our way down after the priest’s lantern, which illuminated the old stones around us. The small room below was not completely dark, however; two stands of candles blazed next to an altar, and after a moment we could see, if dimly, that it was not an altar but an elaborate brass reliquary, partly covered with richly embroidered red damask. On it stood the two icons in silver frames, the Virgin and—I took a step forward—the dragon and the knight. ‘Sveti Petko,’ the priest said cheerfully, touching the casket.
“I pointed to the Virgin, and he told us something that had to do with Bachkovski manastir, although we couldn’t understand more than that. Then I pointed to the other icon, and the priest beamed. ‘Sveti Georgi,’ he said, indicating the knight. He pointed to the dragon. ‘Drakula.’
“‘That prob
ably just means dragon,’ Helen warned me.
“I nodded. ‘How can we ask him how old he thinks it is?’
“‘Star? Staro?’ Helen guessed.
“The priest shook his head in agreement. ‘Mnogo star,’ he said solemnly. We stared at him. I held up my hand and counted fingers. Three? Four? Five? He smiled. Five. Five fingers—about five hundred years.
“‘He thinks it’s fifteenth century,’ Helen said. ‘God, how are we going to ask him where it’s from?’ I pointed to the icon, gestured around at the crypt, pointed up to the church above us. But when he understood he gave the universal gesture of ignorance; his shoulders and eyebrows rose and fell together. He didn’t know. He seemed to try to tell us that the icon had been here at Sveti Petko for hundreds of years—beyond that, he didn’t know.
“At last he turned, smiling, and we prepared to follow him and his lantern back up the steep steps. And we would have left that place forever, and in complete hopelessness, if Helen had not suddenly caught the narrow heel of her pump between two of the stones underfoot. She gasped with annoyance—I knew she did not have another pair of shoes with her—and I bent quickly to free her. The priest was nearly out of sight, but the candles blazing next to the reliquary afforded me enough light to see what was engraved on the vertical of the bottom step, right next to Helen’s foot. It was a small dragon, crude but unmistakable, and unmistakably the same design as the one in my book. I dropped to my knees on the stones and traced it with one hand. It was so familiar to me that I could have carved it there myself. Helen crouched next to me, her shoe forgotten. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘What is this place?’
“‘Sveti Georgi,’ I said slowly. ‘This must be Sveti Georgi.’
“She peered at me in the dim light, her hair falling into her eyes. ‘But the church is eighteenth century,’ she objected. Then her face cleared. ‘You think that —’
“‘Lots of churches have much older foundations, right? And we know this one was rebuilt after the Turks burned the original. Couldn’t it have been a monastery church, for a monastery everyone forgot long ago?’ I was whispering in my excitement. ‘It could have been rebuilt decades or centuries later, and renamed for the martyr they did remember.’
“‘Helen turned in horror and stared at the brass reliquary behind us. ‘Do you also think —’
“‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘It seems unlikely to me they could have confused one set of relics with another, but how recently do you think that box has been opened?’
“‘It does not look big enough,’ she said. She seemed unable to say more.
“‘It doesn’t,’ I agreed, ‘but we have got to try it. At least, I’ve got to. I want you to stay out of this, Helen.’
“She gave me a quizzical look, as if puzzled by the idea that I would even try to send her away. ‘It is very serious to break into a church and desecrate the grave of a saint.’
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘But what if this isn’t the grave of a saint?’
“There were two names neither of us could have managed to utter in that dark, cold place with its flickering lights and smell of beeswax and earth. One of those names was Rossi.
“‘Right now? Ranov will be looking for us,’ Helen said.
“When we emerged from the church, the shadows of the trees around it were lengthening, and Ranov was looking for us, his face impatient. Brother Ivan stood by, although I noticed they hardly spoke to each other. ‘Did you have a good nap?’ Helen asked politely.
“‘It is time for us to go back to Bachkovo.’ Ranov’s voice was curt again; I wondered if he was disappointed that we had apparently found nothing here. ‘We will leave for Sofia in the morning. I have business to take care of there. I hope you are satisfied with your research.’
“‘Almost,’ I said. ‘I would like to visit Baba Yanka one more time and thank her for her help.’
“‘Very well.’ Ranov looked annoyed, but he led the way back down into the village, Brother Ivan walking silently behind us. The street was quiet in the golden evening light, and everywhere there was a smell of cooking. I saw an old man come out to the central water pump and fill a bucket. At the far end of Baba Yanka’s little street, a herd of goats and sheep was being led in; we could hear their plaintive voices and see them crowding one another between the houses before a boy whisked them around the corner.
“Baba Yanka was delighted to see us. We congratulated her, through Ranov, on her wonderful singing and on the fire dance. Brother Ivan blessed her with a silent gesture. ‘How is it that you don’t get burned?’ Helen asked her.
“‘Oh, that is the power of God,’ she said softly. ‘I do not remember later how it happened. Sometimes my feet feel hot afterward, but I never burn them. It is the most beautiful day of the year for me, even though I do not remember much of it. For months I am as peaceful as a lake.’
“She took an unlabeled bottle from her cupboard and poured us glasses of a clear brown liquor. The bottle had long weeds floating in it, which Ranov explained were herbs, for flavor. Brother Ivan declined, but Ranov accepted a glass. After a few sips he began to question Brother Ivan about something in a voice as friendly as nettles. They were soon deep in a debate we could not follow, although I frequently caught the word politicheski.
“When we had sat listening for a while, I interrupted for a moment to get Ranov’s help in asking Baba Yanka if I could use her bathroom. He laughed unpleasantly. He was certainly back in his old humor, I thought. ‘I am afraid it is not so nice here,’ he said. Baba Yanka laughed, too, and pointed to the back door. Helen said she would follow me and wait her turn. The outhouse in Baba Yanka’s backyard was even more dilapidated than her cottage, but wide enough to hide our quiet flight among the trees and beehives and through the back gate. There was no one in sight, but we strolled when we reached the road, went quietly into the bushes, and scrambled up the hill. Mercifully, there was no one around the church, either, which already lay in deep shadow. The fire pit glowed faintly red under the trees.
“We didn’t bother to try the front door, where we could be seen from the road; instead we hurried around the back. There was a low window there, covered on the inside with purple curtains. ‘That will lead into the sanctuary,’ Helen said. But the wooden frame was only latched, not bolted shut, and with a little splintering we got it open and crawled in between the curtains, closing everything carefully behind us. Inside, I saw that Helen was right; we were behind the iconostasis. ‘Women are not allowed here,’ she said in a low voice, but she was looking around her with a scholar’s curiosity as she spoke.
“The room behind the iconostasis was dominated by a tall altar covered in fine cloths and candles. Two ancient books stood on a brass stand nearby, and hooks along the walls held the gorgeous vestments we had seen the priest wearing earlier. Everything was terribly still, terribly quiet. I found the holy gate through which the priest appeared to his congregation, and we pushed our way guiltily into the dark church. There was a little illumination from the narrow windows, but all the candles had been extinguished, probably from fear of fire, and it took me a while to locate a box of matches on a shelf. I selected a candle for each of us from one of the candelabra and lit them. Then we made our way with great caution down the stairs. ‘I hate this,’ I heard Helen murmur behind me, but I knew she didn’t mean she would stop, under any circumstances. ‘How soon do you think Ranov will miss us?’
“The crypt was the darkest place I’d ever been, all its candles firmly extinguished, and I was grateful for the two spots of light we carried. I lit the extinguished candles from the one I held. They blazed up, catching a sparkle of gold embroidery on the reliquary. My hands had begun to shake pretty badly, but I managed to take Turgut’s little dagger in its sheath out of my jacket pocket, where I had been keeping it since we’d left Sofia. I set it on the floor near the reliquary, and Helen and I gently lifted the two icons from their places—I found myself averting my eyes from the dragon and Saint George—an
d propped them against one wall. We removed the heavy cloth and Helen folded it out of the way. All this time I was listening with every fiber of my body for any sound, here or in the church above, so that the silence itself began to thrum and whine in my ears. Once Helen caught my sleeve, and we listened together, but nothing stirred.
“When the reliquary lay bare, we looked down on it, trembling. The top was beautifully molded with bas-relief—a long-haired saint with one hand raised to bless us, presumably a portrait of the martyr whose bones we might find inside. I caught myself hoping that we would indeed find just a few holy shards of bone, and then close the whole thing up. But then there was the emptiness that would follow—the lack of Rossi, the lack of revenge, the loss. The reliquary lid seemed nailed down, or bolted, and I couldn’t for the life of me pry it open. We tipped it a little in the process, and something shifted inside, gruesomely, and seemed to tap against the interior. It was indeed too small for anything but a child’s body, or some odd parts, but it was very heavy. It occurred to me for a horrible moment that perhaps only Vlad’s head had ended up here after all, although that would leave a lot of other matters unexplained. I began to sweat and to wonder if I should go back up and hunt for some tool in the church above, although I wasn’t very hopeful of finding anything.
“‘Let’s try to put it on the floor,’ I said through gritted teeth, and together we somehow slid the box safely down. There I might be able to get a better look at the hasps and hinges of the top, I thought, or even brace myself to yank it open.
“I was about to attempt this when Helen gave a little cry. ‘Paul, look!’ I turned quickly and saw that the dusty marble on which the reliquary had rested was not a solid block; the top had shifted a little with our struggle to move the reliquary off it. I don’t believe I was breathing anymore, but together, without words, we managed to remove the marble slab. It was not thick, but it weighed a fortune, and we were both panting by the time it was leaning against the back wall. Underneath lay a long slab of rock, the same rock as the floor and walls, a stone the length of a man. The portrait on it was crude in the extreme, chiseled directly into the hard surface—not the face of a saint but of a real man, a hard-faced man with staring almond eyes, a long nose, a long mustache—a cruel face topped with a triangular hat that managed to look jaunty even in this rough outline.