Nothing, in fact, went well with me until after I reached England, which I did in a terrible rainy gale that caused me the most gruesome seasickness I have ever experienced.
I note down these circumstances in case they have some bearing on other aspects of my case. At the very least, they will explain to you my state of mind when I arrived in Oxford: I was exhausted, dejected, fearful. In my mirror I looked pale and thin. Whenever I cut myself shaving, which I did frequently in my nervous clumsiness, I winced, remembering those half-congealed little wounds on the Turkish bureaucrat’s neck and doubting more and more the sanity of my own recollection. Sometimes I had the sense, which haunted me almost to madness, of some purpose unfulfilled, some intention whose form I could not reconstruct. I was lonely and full of longing. In a word, my nerves were in a state I’d never known before.
Of course, I attempted to carry on as usual, saying nothing of these matters to anyone and preparing for the upcoming term with my usual care. I wrote to the American classicists I’d met in Greece, intimating that I would be interested in at least a brief appointment in the States, if they could help me acquire one. I was nearly done with my degree, I felt more and more the need to start afresh, and I thought the change would do me good. I also completed two short articles on the juncture of archaeological and literary evidence in the study of Crete’s pottery production. With effort, I brought my natural self-discipline to bear on each day, and each day calmed me further.
For the first month after my return, I tried not only to stifle all memory of my unpleasant journey but also to avoid any renewal of my interest in the odd little book in my luggage, or in the research it had precipitated. However, my confidence reasserting itself and my curiosity growing again—perversely—within me, I picked up the volume one evening and reassembled my notes from England and Istanbul. The consequence—and from then on I did view it as a consequence—was immediate, terrifying, and tragic.
I must pause here, brave reader; I cannot bring myself to write more, for the moment. I beg you not to desist in these readings but to pursue them further, as I will try to, myself, tomorrow.
Yours in profoundest grief, Bartholomew Rossi
Chapter 10
As an adult, I have often known that peculiar legacy time brings to the traveler: the longing to seek out a place a second time, to find deliberately what we stumbled on once before, to recapture the feeling of discovery. Sometimes we search out again even a place that was not remarkable in itself—we look for it simply because we remember it. If we do find it, of course, everything is different. The rough-hewn door is still there, but it’s much smaller; the day is cloudy instead of brilliant; it’s spring instead of autumn; we’re alone instead of with three friends. Or, worse, with three friends instead of alone.
The very young traveler knows little of this phenomenon, but before I knew it in myself, I saw it in my father, at Saint-Matthieu-des-Pyrénées-Orientales. I sensed in him, rather than read clearly, the mystery of repetition, already knowing he had been there years before. And, oddly, this place drew him into abstraction in a way no other we’d visited had done. He had been to the region of Emona once before our visit, and to Ragusa several times. He had visited Massimo and Giulia’s stone villa for other happy suppers, in other years. But at Saint-Matthieu I sensed that he had actually longed for this place, thought it through over and over for some reason I could not excavate, relived it without telling anyone. He did not tell me now, except to recognize aloud the curve of the road before it finally ran up against the abbey wall, and to know, later, which door opened into sanctuary, cloister, or—finally—crypt. This memory for detail was nothing new to me; I had seen him reach for the right door in famous old churches before, or take the correct turn to the ancient refectory, or stop to buy tickets at the right guardhouse in the right shady gravel drive, or recall, even, where he had previously had the finest cup of coffee.
The difference at Saint-Matthieu was a difference of alertness, an almost cursory scanning of walls and cloistered walkways. Instead of seeming to say to himself, “Ah, there’s that fine tympanum above the doors; I thought I remembered it was on this side,” my father appeared to be checking off views he could already have described with his eyes closed. It came over me gradually, even before we had finished climbing the steep, cypress-shaded grounds to the main entrance, that what he remembered here were not architectural details, but events.
A monk in a long brown habit stood by the wooden doors, quietly handing brochures to the tourists. “As I told you, it’s a working monastery still,” my father was saying in an ordinary voice. He had put on his sunglasses, although the monastery wall threw a deep shade over us. “They keep the crowds down to a dull roar by letting everyone in for only a few hours a day.” He smiled at the man as we approached, then stretched his hand out for a pamphlet. “Merci beaucoup—we’ll take just one,” he was saying in his courteous French. But this time, with the intuitive accuracy the young turn on their parents, I knew even more surely that he had not merely seen this place before, camera in hand. He hadn’t just “done” it properly, even if he knew all its art-historical coordinates from his guidebook. Instead, something, I felt sure, had happened to him here.
My second impression was as fleeting as my first, but sharper: when he opened the pamphlet and put one foot on the stone threshold, bending his head too casually to the words instead of to the beasts in relief overhead (which would normally have caught his eye), I saw that he hadn’t lost some old emotion for the sanctuary we were about to enter. That emotion, I realized without breathing between my intuition and the thought that followed it—that emotion was either grief or fear, or some terrible blend of the two.
Saint-Matthieu-des-Pyrénées-Orientales sits at a height of four thousand feet above sea level—and the sea is not as distant as this walled-in landscape with its wheeling eagles would have you believe. Red-roofed and precariously high at the summit, the monastery seems to have grown directly out of a single pinnacle of mountain rock, which is true, in a way, since the earliest incarnation of its church was hewed straight down into the rock itself in the year 1000. The main entrance to the abbey is a later expression of the Romanesque, influenced by the art of the Muslims who fought over the centuries to take the peak: a squared-off stone portal crowned by geometric, Islamic borders and two grimacing, groaning Christian monsters in bas-relief, creatures that might be lions, bears, bats, or griffins—impossible animals whose lineage could be anything.
Inside lies the tiny abbey church of Saint-Matthieu and its wonderfully delicate cloister, hedged in by rosebushes even at that tremendous altitude, surrounded by twisted single columns of red marble so fragile in appearance that they could have been corkscrewed into shape by an artistic Samson. Sunlight splashes onto the flagstones of the open courtyard, and blue sky arches suddenly overhead.
But the thing that caught my attention as soon as we entered was the sound of trickling water, unexpected and lovely in that high, dry place and yet as natural as the sound of a mountain stream. It came from the cloister fountain, around which the monks had once paced their meditations: a six-sided red marble basin, decorated on its flat exterior with chiseled relief that showed a miniature cloister, a reflection of the real one around us. The fountain’s great basin stood on six columns of red marble (and one central support through which the springwater rose, I think). Around its exterior, six spigots burbled water into a pool below. It made an enchanting music.
When I went to the outside edge of the cloisters and sat down on a low wall there, I could look out over a drop of several thousand feet and see thin mountain waterfalls, white against the vertical blue forest. Already perched on a peak, we were surrounded by the looming, unscalable walls of the highest Pyrénées-Orientales. At this distance, the waterfalls plunged downward in silence, or appeared as mere mist, while the living fountain behind me trickled and dripped audibly without pause.
“The cloistered life,” my father murmured, settli
ng down next to me on the wall. His face was strange, and he put one arm around my shoulders, something he rarely did. “It looks peaceful, but it’s very hard. And wicked, sometimes, too.” We sat gazing across that gulf, which was so deep that morning light hadn’t yet reached the chasm below. Something hung and glinted in the air beneath us, and I realized even before my father pointed to it what it was: a bird of prey, hunting slowly along the pinnacle walls, suspended like a drifting flake of copper.
“Built higher than the eagles,” my father mused. “You know, the eagle is a very old Christian symbol, the symbol of Saint John. Matthew—Saint Matthieu—is the angel, and Luke is the ox, and Saint Mark of course is the winged lion. You see that lion all over the Adriatic, because he was Venice’s patron saint. He holds a book in his paws—if the book is open, that statue or relief was carved at a moment when Venice was at peace. Closed, it means Venice was at war. We saw him at Ragusa—remember?—with his book closed, over one of the gates. And now we’ve seen the eagle, too, guarding this place. Well, it needs its guards.” He frowned, stood up, and swung away. It struck me that he regretted, almost to tears, our visit here. “Shall we take a tour?”
It was not until we were descending the steps to the crypt that I saw again in my father that indescribable attitude of fear. We had finished our attentive pacing through cloisters, chapels, nave, wind-worn kitchen buildings. The crypt was the last item on our self-guided tour, dessert for the morbid, as my father said in some churches. At a yawning stairwell he seemed to go forward a little too deliberately, keeping me behind him without even raising an arm as we stepped down into the hold of the rock. A stunningly cold breath reached up for us from the earthy dark. The other tourists had moved on, finished with this attraction, and left us there alone.
“This was the nave of the first church,” my father explained again, unnecessarily, in his thoroughly ordinary voice. “When the abbey grew stronger and they could continue building, they simply burst into the open air up there and built a new church on top of the old.” Candles interrupted the darkness from stone sconces on the heavy pillars. A cross had been cut into the wall of the apse; it hovered, like a shadow, above the stone altar, or sarcophagus—it was hard to tell which—that stood in the apse’s curve. Along the sides of the crypt lay two or three other sarcophagi, small and primitive, unmarked. My father drew a long breath, looking around that great cold hole in the rock. “The resting place of the founding abbot and of several later abbots. And that completes our tour. All right. Let’s go get some lunch.”
I paused on the way out. The urge to ask my father what he knew about Saint-Matthieu, what he remembered, even, came over me in a wave, almost a panic. But his back, broad in a black linen jacket, said as clearly as spoken words, “Wait. Everything in its time.” I looked quickly toward that sarcophagus at the far end of the ancient basilica. Its form was crude, stolid in the unflickering light. Whatever it hid was part of the past, and guessing would not unbury it.
And I knew something else already, without having to guess. The story that I would hear over lunch on the monastic terrace, a tactful drop below the monks’ quarters, might turn out to be about someplace very distant from this one, but like our visit here, it would certainly be another step toward that fear I had begun to see brooding in my father. Why had he not wanted to tell me about Rossi’s disappearance until Massimo had blundered into it? Why had he choked, white, when the maître d’ of the restaurant had told us a legend about the living dead? Whatever haunted my father’s memory was brought out for him vividly by this place, which should have been more sacred than horrible and yet was horrible to him, so much so that his shoulders were squared against it. I would have to work, as Rossi had, to collect my own clues. I was becoming wise in the way of the story.
Chapter 11
On my next visit to the library in Amsterdam, I found that Mr. Binnerts had actually looked some things up for me during my absence. When I went into the reading room straight from school, my book bag still on my back, he glanced up with a smile. “So it’s you,” he said in his nice English. “My young historian. I have something for you, for your project.” I followed him to his desk and he took out a book. “This is not such an old book,” he told me. “But it has some very old stories in it. They are not very happy reading, my dear, but maybe they will help you write your paper.” Mr. Binnerts settled me at a table, and I looked gratefully at his retreating sweater. It touched me to be trusted with something terrible.
The book was called Tales from the Carpathians, a dingy nineteenth-century tome published privately by an English collector named Robert Digby. Digby’s preface outlined his wanderings among wild mountains and wilder languages, although he had also gone to German and Russian sources for some of his work. His tales had a wild sound, too, and the prose was romantic enough, but examining them long afterward, I found his versions of them compared favorably to those of later collectors and translators. There were two tales about “Prince Dracula,” and I read them eagerly. The first recounted how Dracula liked to feast out of doors among the corpses of his impaled subjects. One day, I learned, a servant complained openly in front of Dracula about the terrible smell, whereupon the prince ordered his men to impale the servant above the others, so the smell would not offend the dying servant’s nose. Digby presented another version of this, in which Dracula shouted for a stake three times the length of the stakes on which the others had been impaled.
The second story was equally gruesome. It described how Sultan Mehmed II had once sent two ambassadors to Dracula. When the ambassadors came before him, they did not remove their turbans. Dracula demanded to know why they were dishonoring him in this way, and they replied that they were simply acting in accordance with their own customs. “Then I shall help you to strengthen your customs,” replied the prince, and he had their turbans nailed to their heads.
I copied Digby’s versions of these two little tales into my notebook. When Mr. Binnerts came back to see how I was getting along, I asked him if we might look for some sources on Dracula by his contemporaries, if there were any. “Certainly,” he said, nodding gravely. He was going off his desk then, but he would look around for something as soon as he had time. Perhaps after that—he shook his head, smiling—perhaps after that I would find some pleasanter topic, such as medieval architecture. I promised—smiling, too—that I would think about it.
There is no place on earth more exuberant than Venice on a breezy, hot, cloudless day. The boats rock and swell in the Lagoon as if launching themselves, crewless, on adventure; the ornate facades brighten in the sunlight; the water smells fresh, for once. The whole city puffs up like a sail, a boat dancing unmoored, ready to float off. The waves at the edge of the Piazza di San Marco become raucous in the wake of the speedboats, producing a festive but vulgar music like the clash of cymbals. In Amsterdam, Venice of the North, this jubilant weather would have made the city sparkle with renewed purpose. Here, it ended by showing cracks in the perfection—a weedy fountain in one back square, for example, whose water should have been on full spray and instead made a rusty dribble over the lip of the basin. Saint Mark’s horses pranced shabbily in the glittering light. The columns of the doge’s palace looked disagreeably unwashed.
I commented on this air of dilapidated celebration, and my father laughed. “You’ve got an eye for atmosphere,” he said. “Venice is famous for her stage show, and she doesn’t mind if she gets a little run-down, as long as the world pours in here to worship her.” He gestured around the outdoor café—our favorite place after Florian’s—at the perspiring tourists, their hats and pastel shirts flapping in the breeze off the water. “Wait till evening and you won’t be disappointed. A stage set needs a softer kind of light than this. You’ll be surprised by the transformation.”
For now, sipping my orangeade, I was too comfortable to move, anyway; waiting for a pleasant surprise suited my aims exactly. It was the last hot spell of summer before autumn blew in. With autumn would come
more school and, if I was lucky, a little peripatetic studying with my father as he roamed a map of negotiation, compromise, and bitter bargains. This fall he would be in Eastern Europe again, and I was already lobbying to be taken along.
My father drained his beer and flipped through a guidebook. “Yes.” He pounced suddenly. “Here’s San Marco. You know, Venice was a rival of the Byzantine world for centuries, and a great sea power, too. In fact, Venice stole some remarkable things from Byzantium, including those carousel animals up there.” I looked out from under our awning at Saint Mark’s, where the coppery horses seemed to be dragging the weight of the dripping leaden domes behind them. The whole basilica looked molten in this light—garishly bright and hot, an inferno of treasure. “Anyway,” said my father, “San Marco was designed partly in imitation of Santa Sophia, in Istanbul.”
“Istanbul?” I said slyly, dredging my glass for ice. “You mean it looks like the Hagia Sophia?”
“Well, of course the Hagia Sophia was overrun by the Ottoman Empire, so you see those minarets guarding the outside, and inside there are huge shields bearing Muslim holy texts. You really see East and West collide in there. But then there are the great domes on the top, distinctly Christian and Byzantine, like San Marco’s.”
“And they look like these?” I pointed across the piazza.