“‘The one whose bones were brought here eight years before our Wallachian friend entered Bulgaria? The ”Chronicle“ mentioned him.’
“‘Yes.’ Helen brooded over the image, as if she thought it might speak to us if she stood there long enough.
“The endless waiting was starting to tell on my nerves. ‘Helen,’ I said, ‘let’s go for a walk. We can climb up the mountain there and get a view.’ If I didn’t exert myself a little, the thought of Rossi was going to drive me crazy.
“‘All right,’ Helen agreed, and she gave me a hard look, as if reading my impatience. ‘If it is not too far. Ranov will never let us go far.’
“The path up the mountain wound through dense forest that shielded us from the afternoon heat almost as well as the church had. It was so good to be free of Ranov that for a few minutes I simply swung Helen’s hand back and forth as we walked. ‘Do you think it was hard for him to choose between us and Stoichev?’
“‘Oh, no,’ Helen said flatly. ‘He certainly has someone else following us. We will encounter whoever it is after a while, especially if we are gone more than half an hour. He can’t possibly keep up with us alone, and he has to tend to Stoichev carefully, to find out what our research will lead to.’
“‘You sound so matter-of-fact,’ I told her, glancing at her profile as she strode along the dirt track. She had pushed her hat back on her head, and her face was a little flushed. ‘I can’t imagine having grown up knowing all these cynical things, being under surveillance.’
“Helen shrugged. ‘It did not seem so terrible because I did not know anything different.’
“‘And yet you wanted to leave your country and go to the West.’
“‘Yes,’ she said, looking sideways at me. ‘I wanted to leave my country.’
“We stopped to rest for a few minutes on a fallen tree near the road. ‘I’ve been thinking about why they let us come into Bulgaria,’ I told Helen. Even here, out in the woods, I was lowering my voice.
“‘And why they are letting us wander around by ourselves at all.’ She nodded. ‘Have you thought about that?’
“‘It seems to me,’ I told her slowly, ‘that if they aren’t stopping us from finding whatever we’re looking for-which they could do so easily-it’s because theywant us to find it.’
“‘Good, Sherlock.’ Helen fanned my face with her hand. ‘You are learning a great deal.’
“‘So, let’s say they actually know or suspect what we’re looking for. Why would they think it was valuable or even possible that Vlad Dracula is undead?’ It cost me an effort to say this aloud, although I’d dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘You’ve told me many times yourself that communist governments hold peasant superstition in contempt. Why would they encourage us like this, by not preventing us? Do they think they’re going to get some kind of supernatural power over the Bulgarian people if we find his tomb here?’
“Helen shook her head. ‘That would not be it. Their interest is certainly based in power, but it is always scientific in approach. Besides, if there is to be a discovery of anything interesting, they do not want an American to have the credit for it.’ She mused a little. ‘Think-what would be more powerful to science than the discovery that the dead can be brought to life, or to undeath, in any case? Especially for the East Bloc, with its great leaders embalmed in their own tombs?”
“A vision of Georgi Dimitrov’s yellow face, in the mausoleum in Sofia, flashed on me. ‘Then we have all the more reason to destroy Dracula,’ I said, but I could feel the perspiration break out on my forehead.
“‘And I wonder,’ Helen added somberly, ‘if destroying him would make that much difference in the future. Think of what Stalin did to his people, and Hitler. They did not need to live five hundred years to accomplish these horrors.’
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought about that, too.’
“Helen nodded. ‘The strange thing, you know, is that Stalin openly admired Ivan the Terrible. Two leaders who were willing to crush and kill their own people-to do anything necessary-in order to consolidate their power. And whom do you think Ivan the Terrible admired?’
“I felt the blood draining from my heart. ‘You told me there were many Russian tales about Dracula.’
“‘Yes. Exactly.’
“I stared at her.
“‘Can you imagine a world in which Stalin could live for five hundred years?’ She was scraping a soft place on the log with her fingernail. ‘Or perhaps forever?’
“I found myself clenching my fists. ‘Do you think we can find a medieval grave without leading anyone else to it?’
“‘It will be very difficult, perhaps impossible. I am certain they have people watching us everywhere.’
“At this moment a man came around the bend in the path. I was so startled by his sudden appearance that I almost swore aloud. But he was a simple-looking person, roughly dressed and with a bundle of branches on his shoulder, and he waved a hand to us in greeting and passed on. I looked at Helen.
“‘You see?’ she said quietly.”
“Partway up the mountain we found a steep outcropping of rock. ‘Look,’ Helen said. ‘Let’s sit here for a few minutes.’
“The steep, wooded valley lay directly below us, almost filled by the walls and red roofs of the monastery. I could see clearly now the enormous size of the complex. It formed an angular shell around the church, whose domes glowed in the afternoon light, and Hrelyo’s Tower rose in its midst. ‘You can tell from up here how well-fortified the place was. Imagine how often enemies must have looked down on it like this.’
“‘Or pilgrims,’ Helen reminded me. ‘For them it would have been a spiritual destination, not a military challenge.’ She leaned back against a tree trunk, smoothing her skirt. She had dropped her handbag, taken off her hat, and rolled up the sleeves of her pale blouse for relief from the heat. Fine perspiration stood out on her forehead and cheeks. Her face wore the expression I loved best-she was lost in thought, gazing inward and outward at the same time, her eyes wide and intent, her jaw firm; for some reason I valued this look even more than the ones she turned directly on me. She wore her scarf around her neck, although the librarian’s mark had faded to a bruise, and the little crucifix glinted below it. Her harsh beauty sent a pang through me, not of mere physical longing but of something akin to awe at her completeness. She was untouchable, mine but lost to me.
“‘Helen,’ I said, without taking her hand. I hadn’t meant to speak, but I couldn’t stop myself. ‘I’d like to ask you something.’
“She nodded, her eyes and thoughts still on the tremendous sanctuary below us.
“‘Helen, will you marry me?’
“She turned slowly in my direction, and I wondered if I was seeing astonishment, amusement, or pleasure on her face. ‘Paul,’ she said sternly. ‘How long have we known each other?’
“‘Twenty-three days,’ I admitted. I realized now that I hadn’t thought carefully about what I would do if she said no, but it was too late to retract the question, to save it for another moment. And if she said no I couldn’t throw myself off a mountain in the middle of my search for Rossi, although I might be tempted to.
“‘Do you think you know me?’
“‘Not at all,’ I countered staunchly.
“‘Do you think I know you?’
“‘I’m not sure.’
“‘We have so little experience of each other. We come from completely different worlds.’ She smiled this time, as if to take some of the sting out of her words. ‘Besides, I have always thought I would not get married. I am not the sort who marries. And what about this?’ She touched the scarf on her neck. ‘Would you marry a woman who has been marked by hell?’