The Historian
Chapter 75

"After our adventure in a crypt, the Boras' front parlor looked like heaven on earth. It was an exquisite relief to be there again, with cups of hot tea in our hands - the weather had taken a rare cool turn that week, although it was June already - and Turgut smiling at us from the cushions of the divan. Helen had slipped off her shoes at the door to the apartment and put on some tasseled red slippers Mrs. Bora brought her. Selim Aksoy was there, too, sitting quietly in the corner, and Turgut made sure that he and Mrs. Bora got a fair translation of everything.
"'Are you certain that the tomb was empty?' Turgut had asked it once already, but seemed unable to refrain from asking again.
"'Quite sure.' I glanced at Helen. 'What we don't know is whether the noise we heard was the sound of Dracula escaping somehow as we came in. It was probably dark outside by then, and easy for him to move around.'
"'And he could have changed shape, of course, if the legend is correct.' Turgut sighed. 'Damn his eyes! You were very close to catching him, my friends, closer than the Crescent Guard has come in five centuries. I am passing glad you were not killed, but terribly sorry also that you were not able to destroy him.'
"'Where do you think he went?' Helen leaned forward, her eyes intensely dark.
"Turgut stroked his big chin. 'Well, my dear, I cannot guess. He can travel far and fast, but I do not know how far he would go. To another ancient site, I am sure, some hiding place that has been undisturbed for centuries. It must have been a blow for him to leave Sveti Georgi, but he would understand that this site will be guarded now for a long time to come. I would give my right hand to know whether he has remained somewhere in Bulgaria or left the country altogether. Borders and politics do not mean very much to him, I am certain.' Turgut's frown was harsh on his kind face.
"'You do not think he would follow us?' Helen asked simply, but something in the angle of her shoulders made me think that the very simplicity with which she asked this question cost her an effort.
"Turgut shook his head. 'I hope not, Madam Professor. I should think he would be a little afraid of you two by now, since you found him when no one else could.'
"Helen was silent, and I didn't like the doubt in her face. Selim Aksoy and Mrs. Bora watched her with a particular tenderness, too, I thought; maybe they were wondering how I could have allowed her to go into such a dangerous situation in the first place, even if we'd managed to return whole.
"Turgut turned to me. 'And I am deeply sorry about your friend Rossi. I would have liked to meet him.'
"'And I know you would have enjoyed each other's company,' I said sincerely, taking Helen's hand. Her eyes filled whenever Rossi's name came up, and now she looked away, as if for privacy.
"'I wish I could have met Professor Stoichev, also.' Turgut sighed again and set his cup down on the brass table before us.
"'That would have been magnificent,' I said, smiling at the picture of the two scholars comparing notes. 'You and Stoichev could have explained the Ottoman Empire and the medieval Balkans to each other. Maybe you will meet someday.'
"Turgut shook his head. 'I do not think so,' he said. 'The barriers between us are as high and - prickly - as they were between any tsar and pasha. But if you ever speak with him again, or write to him, by all means give him my regards.'
"It was an easy promise to make.
"Selim Aksoy wanted Turgut to put a question to us, and Turgut listened to him gravely. 'We are wondering,' he told us, 'if in the midst of all that danger and chaos you saw the book that Professor Rossi described - a life of Saint George, was it not? Did the Bulgarians take it to the university in Sofia?'
"Helen's laugh could be surprisingly girlish when she was really delighted, and I refrained from kissing her soundly in front of all of them. She had barely smiled since we'd left Rossi's grave. 'It is in my briefcase,' I said. 'For the moment.'
"Turgut stared, astounded, and it took him a long minute to recollect his duties as interpreter. 'And how did it find a home there?'
"Helen was mute, smiling, so I explained. 'I didn't think of it again myself until we were back in Sofia, at the hotel.' No, I couldn't tell them the whole truth, so I gave them a polite version.
"The whole truth was that when we had finally been alone together for ten minutes in Helen's hotel room, I took her into my arms and kissed her smoky dark hair, pulled her against my shoulder, fitting her to me through our soiled travel clothes like the other part of myself - Plato's missing half, I thought - and then I felt not only the relief of our having survived together to embrace there, and the beauty of her long bones, her breath against my neck, but also something inexplicably wrong about her body, something lumpy and hard. I drew back and looked at her, fearful, and saw her wry smile. She laid her finger to her lips. It was merely a reminder; we both knew the room was probably bugged.
"After a second she put my hands on the buttons of her blouse, which was now shabby and dirty from our adventures. I unbuttoned it without letting myself dare to think, and drew it off. I've said that women's undergarments were more complicated in those days, with secret wires and hooks and strange compartments - an inner armor. Wrapped in a handkerchief and warmed against Helen's skin was a book - not the great folio I'd imagined when Rossi had told us about its existence, but a volume small enough to fit in my hand. Its casing was elaborately patterned gold over painted wood and leather. The gold was set with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, lapis, fine pearls - a little firmament of jewels, all to honor the face of the saint at the center. His delicate Byzantine features looked as if they'd been painted a few days earlier, rather than centuries, and his wide, sad, dragon-forgiving eyes seemed to follow mine. His eyebrows rose in fine arches above them, the nose was long and straight, his mouth sadly severe. The portrait had a roundness, a fullness, a realism I hadn't seen in Byzantine art before, a look of Roman ancestry. If I had not been in love already, I would have said this was the most beautiful face I'd ever seen, human but also celestial, or celestial but also human. Across the neck of his robe I saw finely inked words. 'Greek,' Helen said. Her voice was less than a whisper, hovering at my ear. 'Saint George.'
"Inside were small sheets of parchment in breathtakingly good condition, each covered in a fine medieval hand, also Greek. Here and there I saw exquisite pages of illustration: Saint George driving his spear into the maw of a writhing dragon while a crowd of nobles looked on; Saint George receiving a tiny gilded crown from Christ, who reached down with it from his heavenly throne; Saint George on his deathbed, mourned by red-winged angels. Each was filled with astounding, miniature detail. Helen nodded and drew my ear close to her mouth again, barely breathing. 'I am no expert on this,' she whispered, 'but I think it might have been made for the emperor of Constantinople - exactly which one remains to be seen. This is the seal of the later emperors.' Sure enough, on the inside front cover was painted a double-headed eagle, the bird that looked backward into Byzantium's august past and forward into its limitless future; it hadn't been sharp-eyed enough to see ahead to the toppling of the Empire by an upstart infidel.
"'That means it dates at least from the first half of the fifteenth century,' I breathed. 'Before the conquest.'
"'Oh, I think it is much older than that,' Helen whispered, gently touching the seal. 'My father - my father said it was very old. And you see the insignia here indicates Constantine Porphyrogenitus. He reigned in' - she searched an inner file - 'the first half of the tenth century. He was in power before Bachkovski manastir was founded. The eagle must have been added later.'
"I scarcely breathed the words. 'You mean that this is more than a thousand years old?' Holding the book carefully in both hands, I sat down on the edge of the bed next to Helen. Neither of us made a sound; we were speaking more or less with our eyes. 'It's in nearly perfect condition. And you intend to smuggle such a treasure out of Bulgaria? Helen,' I told her with a glance, 'you are out of your mind. And what about the fact that it belongs to the Bulgarian people?'
"She kissed me, took the book out of my hands, and opened it to the front. 'It was a gift from my father,' she whispered. The inside front cover had a deep flap of leather over it, and she reached carefully inside this. 'I have waited to look at this until we could open it together.' She drew out a packet of thin paper covered with dense typing. Then we read together, in silence, Rossi's agonized journal. When we were done, neither of us spoke, although we were both weeping. At last Helen wrapped the book in the handkerchief again and put it carefully back in its hiding place against her skin.
"Turgut smiled as I finished a diluted version of this story. 'But there is more I have to tell you, and it is very important,' I said. I described Rossi's terrible imprisonment in the library. They listened with still, grave faces, and when I came to the fact that Dracula knew of the continued existence of a guard formed by the sultan to pursue him, Turgut drew a sharp breath. 'I am sorry,' I said.
"He translated quickly for Selim, who bowed his head and then said something in a soft voice. Turgut nodded. 'He says the thing I most feel. This terrible news only means we must be the more diligent in pursuing the Impaler, and in keeping his influence from our city. His Gloriousness the Refuge of the World would command us in just this way, if he were alive. This is true. And what will you do with this book when you go home?'
"'I know someone who has a connection with an auction house,' I said. 'We will be very careful, of course, and we'll wait a while before we do anything. I expect some museum will get it, sooner or later.'
"'And the money?' Turgut shook his head. 'What will you do with so much?'
"'We're thinking it over,' I said. 'Something in the service of good. We don't yet know what.'
"Our plane to New York left at five, and Turgut began looking at his watch as soon as we'd finished our last enormous lunch on the divans. He had an evening class to teach, alas, alack, but Mr. Aksoy would ride with us to the airport in a taxicab. When we stood to go, Mrs. Bora brought out a scarf of the finest cream-colored silk, embroidered with silver, and put it around Helen's neck. It hid the shabbiness of her black jacket and soiled collar and we all gasped - at least I did, and I can't have been alone. Her face above the scarf was the countenance of an empress. 'For your marriage day,' Mrs. Bora said, standing on tiptoe to kiss her.
"Turgut kissed Helen's hand. 'It belonged to my mother,' he said simply, and Helen could not speak. I spoke for both of us, shaking their hands. We would write, we would think of them. Life being long, we would see one another again."