“‘The dragon has slain-wait,’ I said. ‘You mean that line about the monster and the saint? Kiril said they were looking for a monastery with a sign that the saint and the monster were equal.’
“‘Saint George is one of our most important figures in Bulgarian iconography,’ Stoichev said quietly. ‘It would be a strange reversal indeed for the dragon to overcome Saint George. But you remember that the Wallachian monks were looking for a monastery that already had that sign, because that would be the correct place to bring Dracula’s body to reunite it with his head. Now I am beginning to wonder if there was a larger heresy we do not know about-one that might have been known in Constantinople, or Wallachia, or even by Dracula himself. Did the Order of the Dragon have its own spiritual beliefs, outside the order of the Church? Could it have created a heresy somehow? I have never thought of such a possibility before today.’ He shook his head. ‘You must go to Bachkovo and ask the abbot there if he knows anything about this equality or reversal of monster and saint. You must ask him in secret. My letter to him-which your guide will take from you and read-will imply only that you wish to do research about pilgrimage routes, but you must find a way to talk with him in secret. Also, there is a monk there who used to be a scholar, a noted investigator of the history of Sveti Georgi. He worked with Atanas Angelov and was the second person to see the ”Chronicle“ of Zacharias. His name was Pondev when I knew him, but I do not know what it is now that he is a monk. The abbot can help you identify him. There is something else. I do not have here a map of the area near Bachkovo, but I believe that to the northeast of the monastery somewhere there is a long, winding valley that probably once contained a river. I remember seeing this once and speaking with the monks about it when I visited the region, although I do not remember now what they called it. Could this be our dragon’s tail? But what, then, would be the wings of the dragon? Perhaps the mountains? You must look for them, also.’
“I wanted to kneel before Stoichev and kiss his foot. ‘But won’t you come with us?’
“‘I would defy even my niece to do that,’ he replied, smiling up at her, ‘but I fear it would only raise more suspicion. If your guide thinks that I am still interested in this research, he will be even more attentive. Come to see me as soon as you return to Sofia, if you can. I will think of you all the time and wish for your safe journey and the discovery of what you seek. Here-you must take this.’ He put into Helen’s hand a little object, but she closed her fingers quickly over it, and I didn’t see what it was or where she’d put it.
“‘Mr. Ranov has been gone a long time, for him,’ she observed softly.
“I looked quickly at her. ‘Shall I go check on him?’ I had learned to trust Helen’s instincts, and I walked to the main gate without waiting for an answer.
“Just outside the great complex, I saw Ranov standing with another man near a long blue car. The other fellow was tall and graceful in his summer suit and hat, and something about him made me stop short in the shadow of the gate. They were in the middle of an earnest discussion, which broke off suddenly. The handsome man gave Ranov a slap on the back and swung into the seat of the car. I felt the jolt of that friendly cuff, myself-I knew that gesture-it had landed on my own shoulder once. Surely, incredible as it seemed, the man now driving swiftly out of the dusty parking area was Géza József. I shrank back into the courtyard and returned to Helen and Stoichev as quickly as I could. Helen eyed me keenly; perhaps she was learning to trust my instincts, too. I drew her aside for a moment, and Stoichev, although he looked puzzled, was too polite to question me. ‘I think József is here,’ I whispered quickly. ‘I didn’t see his face, but someone who looked like him was talking with Ranov just now.’
“‘Shit,’ Helen said softly. I think that was the first and last time I ever heard her swear.
“A moment later, Ranov came hurrying up. ‘It is time for supper,’ he said flatly, and I wondered if he was regretting having left us alone with Stoichev for a few minutes. I felt sure from his tone that he hadn’t seen me outside. ‘Come with me. We will eat.’
“The silent monastery supper was delicious, a homemade meal served by two monks. A handful of tourists was apparently staying in the hostel with us, and I noted that some of them spoke languages other than Bulgarian. The German-speakers must be on vacation from East Germany, I thought, and perhaps that other sound was Czech. We ate greedily, sitting at a long wooden table, with the monks lined up at another table nearby, and I anticipated with pleasure the narrow cots that awaited us. Helen and I had no moment alone, but I knew she must be thinking about József’s presence. What did he want with Ranov? Or, rather, what did he want from us? I remembered Helen’s warning that we were being followed. Who had told him where we were?
It had been an exhausting day, but I was so anxious to get to Bachkovo that I would gladly have set out on foot if that could have gotten me there faster. Instead we would sleep, to prepare for the next day’s travel. Mingled with the snores from East Berlin and Prague, I would hear Rossi’s voice musing over some controversial point in our work, and Helen saying, half amused at my lack of perspicacity, ‘Of course I will marry you.’“
Chapter 65
June 1962
My beloved daughter:
We are wealthy, you know, because of some terrible things that happened to me and your father. I left most of that money with your father, for your care, but I have enough to last me through a long search, a siege. I exchanged some of it in Zurich almost two years ago, and opened a bank account there under a name I will never tell anyone. My bank account is deep. I draw from that money once a month, to pay for the rented rooms, the archival fees, the meals in restaurants. I spend as little as possible so that one day I can give to you everything that remains, my little one, when you are a woman.
Your loving mother,
Helen Rossi
June 1962
My beloved daughter:
Today was one of the bad days. (I will never send this card. If I ever send any of them, it will not be this one.) Today was one of the days when I cannot remember if I am seeking this devil or simply running from him. I stand before the mirror, an old mirror in my room at the Hotel d’Este; the glass has spots like moss, creeping up its curved surface. I pull off my scarf, I stand here and finger the scar on my neck, a redness that never fully heals. I wonder if you will find me before I can find him. I wonder if he will find me before I can find him. I wonder why he has not found me already. I wonder if I will ever see you again.