The Shadow Land

by Elizabeth Kostova

  She took it out and brought up the picture. Looking at the younger man’s face, the peculiar sorrow in his smile, she told herself that at least she finally knew his name.

  Bobby handed the camera to the old lady. “Can you see this photo?”

  She held it close, studied it. “Yes, of course. That is my sister, and Neven. And, I suppose, Radev, inside the car. I am Irina Georgieva, by the way.” The glance she gave Bobby was sharp and quick; he need not have worried about her eyesight. “You took the picture?”

  “I did,” Alexandra said. “They were the first people I met in Bulgaria and they were kind to me, so I asked them if I could photograph them.”

  “I see.” Irina Georgieva returned the camera and studied Alexandra’s face with the same thoroughness. “Do you have the bag? Perhaps I can give it to them.” She pointed. “Is it that one, there?”

  “Yes.” Alexandra got up. She stood next to Irina Georgieva’s chair for a moment and then set the bag on the old lady’s lap. She unzipped the canvas for her, thinking that perhaps this would be hard for gnarled hands.

  Irina Georgieva kept an arm around the bag and drew back the velvet inside. Her fingers touched the lid, and then Alexandra helped her tip the urn toward the light. In the sun from the windows, the name etched into the side had a benign look, softened.

  Irina held the bag firmly in her arms, but Alexandra saw her tremble.

  “Oh, my dear,” the old woman said. “What a terrible mistake.”

  Tears sprang to Alexandra’s eyes, but she felt somehow better than if the woman had told her it was nothing, really nothing, being handed the remains of her brother-in-law by an idiotic stranger. She felt that this old woman had spoken justly and would punish her now, and with the greatest fairness.

  “Help me to put it down,” Irina Georgieva said, with a quivering mouth.

  Alexandra took the urn from Irina Georgieva’s hands and gave it to Bobby. She waited, still standing; she wondered if she should excuse herself, if they should quit the house and drive away. But the old woman appeared to be thinking, and after a moment Alexandra sat down again. Irina’s fingers tapped her brooch, which had gone green in the sunlight.

  “You know, I am an artist,” she said. “These paintings are all my own work, every painting in this house. I have been selfish. I never allowed any others in, because it is my—temple, you might say. The only other artist I ever truly loved to have here was this musician, Stoyan Lazarov, the husband of my sister. He brought his violin many times, and he filled this house with his art.”

  She paused, breathing audibly. “All my paintings have listened to him, his Mozart and his Paganini, and his Bach. He taught me about music. My own brother died very young, and Stoyan was a brother for me, in his place.”

  Alexandra sat with her head bowed, hoping no sob would escape her.

  But Irina Georgieva’s voice went on, implacable. “I am sure you understand how serious this is. You did the right thing to come and find me, but my sister must be terribly upset.”

  She was silent again. Bobby touched Alexandra’s arm. Then Irina Georgieva stood, with difficulty, holding the back of her chair. Alexandra and Bobby rose to their feet, too, ready for dismissal, but the old lady came toward her and took her hand. She could feel long fingers like branches, closing gently around her bones.

  “My dear child,” she said. “Now I must thank you for your kindness. This strange thing has happened, but it was not your fault. And often we don’t know the reason for things when they happen. You did not have to bring me the urn, but you did, with a long trip to come here. Tell me your name again.”

  Alexandra told her, and Irina kept her hand captive. “What a nice one it is—an old Russian name, you know. I am pleased to meet you, my dear, even in this difficult situation. As I have said, we do not know why fate has brought us together, but you can be sure there is a reason. Do stop crying, now.”

  Alexandra had no tissue, but Irina Georgieva apparently kept a supply in her sweater pockets. She dealt them out slowly, like cards, then gave her hand with equal formality to Bobby. “Let us put this very special object in a good place. Then we will have some lunch and I will call my sister.”

  She directed Bobby to take the urn from the bag and set it on a shelf nearby. The helper in blue jeans appeared immediately with a tray of lunch dishes, which smelled to Alexandra like the return of something normal. Irina Georgieva moved a candle from another part of the room and put it in front of the urn. She stood contemplating the polished wood for a moment, then touched the carved border around its top edge.

  “This is quite interesting,” she said. “Beautiful work, and by hand.”

  “Yes,” said Alexandra. “You see, there are a couple of animal faces in the leaves, kind of like in your—” She pointed at Irina Georgieva’s brooch, but saw that she had been wrong; there were only flowers and vines on it.

  Irina touched the urn again. “My sister must have paid someone to make this. What are these animals, do you think?”

  Alexandra had not looked carefully, before; she had always kept the urn in its velvet casing. “One is a bear,” she said. “And this other one might be a cat’s face, but I don’t know.” Bobby leaned close and scrutinized the carvings over her shoulder. She felt uncomfortable, as if they were staring together at the dead.

  Then the three of them sat down at the table. The food was exquisitely good, and Alexandra felt that it fed more than her empty stomach. Irina watched them eat. “After lunch, I will try myself to call my nephew on his mobile. He is probably with them still, wherever they are. I will also call our house in the mountains, where there is a telephone, in case they have returned there already.”

  The helper came in to clear their dishes. Alexandra had begun to feel nervous about Stoycho; Bobby must have been thinking the same thing, because he murmured to her that he hoped his taxi was all right inside. She practiced saying their hostess’s last name to herself before she got up the courage to use it. “Madame Georgieva, I’m sorry to tell you that we must go back to our car for a little while. Our dog is shut in there and we’re worried about him. Would you mind if we took him for a walk and then came back here to say goodbye?”

  The old lady regarded her. She sat easily as tall as Alexandra. “What kind of a dog?”

  “Just a—general dog,” said Alexandra. “Really sweet and nicely behaved, though.”

  “Well, if he is a good one, you could bring him here. Perhaps he needs water, on this warm day? I will call my sister and nephew while you are out.”

  Alexandra thought she would have liked to be there while Irina made those calls, but they assented and Bobby shut the front door quietly behind them. The sunlight was brighter now, even filtered through the trees of the old town, and the air was warm and heavy. They found Stoycho sitting up in the cab, looking out the partly open window. He rushed at them, nose against the window and whip-tail thwacking the seat, then restrained himself and sat down again.

  “See what a fine dog, just like we were saying,” murmured Alexandra. Bobby took the rope and helped him down, and Stoycho went for the nearest bushes and along the old walls. At last he paused under a sycamore and looked up at it, then at Alexandra. His tongue hung out one side of his mouth and his teeth showed white. He sat upright and vigorous, brindled back muscular in the sun, but Alexandra thought his eyes were sad. She bent down and put an arm around his neck. He licked her ear, politely.

  “Let’s take him back to Irina’s,” she told Bobby.

  When they knocked at the door of the little house, it did not fly open as before. They heard soft steps and Irina’s helper let them in; she showed them out into an arbor, with the museum and its courtyard visible beyond. She put glasses of juice for them on a table, under the leaves and tendrils and first tight pendants of green grapes. She brought a bowl full of water for Stoycho, carrying it in both hands. Stoycho waited to be invited, then drank the whole thing. Next she brought him a dish of food scraps; he ate
these more quietly and lay down with his back against a potted lemon tree and his head where Alexandra could reach it with her fingers. Alexandra imagined Vera and old Milen Radev seated at this table, and Neven with his long legs stretched out and the shadow of a tree across his lap. And earlier, a thin-faced man holding a violin in front of him. Soon, she thought, they would leave his ashes here, to be delivered safely to his son. She knew she should feel relieved of a burden, but there was an empty place in her chest that the sunlight couldn’t reach.

  In the warm silence, Bobby offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and smoked one himself. It was the first time she’d seen him smoke, and when she commented on this he explained that he seldom did it, since he was a runner. This reminded her that he was missing not only several days of work in Sofia but also his running routine. Well, he could go back to it soon, and she would check in with the English Institute in person. She hoped again that she and Bobby would keep in touch, that she would see him often.

  When Irina Georgieva came out onto the terrace, holding the back of a chair for a moment to steady herself, they stood up at once, ready to say their goodbyes. Bobby quickly stubbed out his cigarette and kissed Irina’s hand, which didn’t seem to surprise her. Irina had changed her clothes; now she wore a white linen dress, more rough than stylish, and a thin black cardigan, as if no summer weather could ever warm her. Her hair was pinned up, away from her chalky face, and the brooch held her collar shut. It shone under the arbor, and Alexandra noticed that some of the flowers worked into the enamel were actually grape leaves and ripe grapes. Stoycho had gotten to his feet, too. Irina Georgieva seemed to see him for the first time.

  “This is your dog?” she said. She put out her hand. Stoycho touched it with his nose; she stroked his black velour head, and his tail made a powerful circle. “He is a very, very nice dog,” she said. “I would like to paint this dog.” She gestured for them to sit down with her.

  “We want to thank you for all your hospitality,” said Alexandra.

  “Of course, my dear.” Irina Georgieva opened her hands on the table. She wore no rings and Alexandra thought that none would have fitted over those uneven fingers anyway.

  “Did you reach your sister?” Bobby asked. Alexandra held her breath.

  But Irina shook her head. “I have called each of the numbers and there is no answer. I suppose they are traveling by now, maybe coming here with Neven on the train. They may even have gone home to the mountains, although there is no answer there, either. They would not have a place to stay in Sofia, and it is already two nights since they lost the urn. I will call them again this evening.”

  Stoycho had crept to Irina’s knee and was leaning against it, his eyes open but dreamy. Alexandra thought again about the old woman who was Irina’s sister, and the man in the wheelchair. She tried not to think about Neven. She had hoped to see them again, but at least they would know she had returned their treasure.

  “Madame Georgieva,” she said. “Before we go, I wanted to ask if—whether you could please just tell us a little more about Mr. Lazarov.”

  “Gospodin Lazarov,” corrected Bobby. “Alexandra is learning Bulgarian.”

  “Gospodin,” Alexandra said carefully. “It’s none of my business, but we know only that he was a musician—and your brother-in-law.”

  Irina kept her hand on Stoycho’s head. “Yes, of course I can tell you a little. I knew him quite well. He was a great violinist, and a complicated man.” She sighed—Alexandra had never heard such a sound before. “He was a child prodigy, which always makes life hard for people, you know—he played a solo with the orchestra in Sofia when he was only twelve. And then he studied in Vienna before the war. He went there while he was still a teenager.”

  Irina looked up into the leaves of the arbor. “I have always felt certain that he would have been an internationally famous musician—not only a great one, you know—if he had lived in a different time and place. But the regime never allowed him to perform solo, or to make any recordings. Just after the war, he still played in one of the orchestras in Sofia. Also, he played chamber music, mainly with his friends. Later he was in the orchestra in Burgas, but only now and then.”

  She cleared her throat. “He sometimes played here in Plovdiv. They would not let him teach at the music institute, but once in a while he worked in the orchestra when other violinists were sick or on a holiday. Whenever he came here, he would always visit me and we would sit up until very late. Sometimes he would bring Neven, whom he adored, or Vera, if she could leave her job. After dinner, Stoyan would play for us, for hours. It was always worth it, to lose sleep with such a musician in the house.”

  Irina hesitated, stroking the dog’s ears. “For a few years he lived far out in the countryside and he did not play there, I’m sure. He worked in some factories, too, as many people did in those days. But he was always an even better musician when he returned and got back in practice. He loved all the baroque composers, especially the Italians. I had not heard about Geminiani or Corelli until he played them in this house.”

  Bobby leaned toward her. “Why was he not allowed by the regime to perform solo?”

  Irina stroked her brooch and it caught the finely scattered light. Stoycho twitched and shuddered against Alexandra’s feet. Then Irina raised her hand, as if pointing to the sky. “He was very quiet about himself, sometimes in sad moods, or difficult. He told me once that although he had never talked about himself enough, the story of his life could be found in his music. I understood what he meant—I often think the same about my paintings. When Stoyan Lazarov played his violin, it sounded exactly as I think his own voice would have, if he had talked more. He said the violin should be able to tell the truth and it should be able to cry.”

  It seemed to Alexandra that the old lady had not answered Bobby’s question about the regime, but when he spoke up he simply asked a different one. “We were confused to see that gospodin Lazarov died two years ago, but his family did not have a funeral. Why is that? We found his nekrolog in Bovech. Also, I am surprised that after his death he was—Alexandra?”

  “Cremated,” said Alexandra.

  “Yes,” Bobby said. “Is that not unusual, in his generation?” He didn’t say, in your generation.

  Irina nodded. “It is somewhat unusual, and Vera did not tell me why this was done. Perhaps it was her wish. I have never asked.”

  Bobby took the rebuke calmly. “But then she didn’t bury the urn somewhere, in two years?”

  “I suppose she had too much grief to decide where that should be. Or perhaps she had some difficulty saying the last goodbye to him. I was pleased when she told me they would bring him to Velinski manastir, a place he liked and sometimes visited. Perhaps it required a long time. It is not easy to get permission for burial at such a place. Also, my sister can be not so—definite about things, and she has had many troubles. She loved him very much, you know. They met when she was still in high school. They both liked to tell the story of how they first saw each other, although Stoyan told it best. It was one thing he did like to talk about.”

  Alexandra sat on her hands, thinking of the luminous face and marcelled hair in the photograph at Bovech. Had that been Vera Lazarova? “Do you remember it?”

  Irina smiled. “Of course. I have not yet forgotten the important things.”

  The man stepping off a train in Sofia’s central station had a newspaper under one arm, a newspaper already two days old: The Vienna Gazette, May 20, 1940. He had rolled it into a tube like a telescope through which to view the mountains of his home country as they filled the window of the sleeping compartment. Now he held the paper under one arm and gripped the handle of his instrument case a little too tightly.

  The headlines in the Gazette contained all the reasons he was returning. All the reasons except two: his mother and father, waiting at home for him while Europe began to burn. He had sent a telegram to tell them that yes, he was coming back for a while, and the time of the train. He wonde
red if it had reached them in Sofia—there had been no reply. Perhaps the telegraph lines had already been interrupted by all this absurdity. He’d stayed in Vienna as long as he could, not wanting to leave his hard-won seat in the Philharmonic, or his new string quartet. But the last weeks had made him wonder whether he would actually be able to get out of Austria if he waited any longer. It was two years now since the Jewish members of the Vienna Philharmonic had been expelled—Bruno Walter himself, after that, for all intents and purposes. It made Stoyan ill to remember, and maybe the Slavs in the orchestra would be next.

  In his free hand, Stoyan Lazarov carried a leather valise; his father had given it to him seven years before. His other luggage had been shipped and he would never see it again, something he’d guessed while accepting the ticket stub. He had placed in the valise the thing he most cared about, after his violin, folding a clean shirt around it. The valise also contained a shaving kit, two silver-backed brushes, and his address book. At the last minute, he had added a small knife. The knife could have been for cutting up cheese and salami if he hadn’t possessed money for the train’s dining car, which he did.

  Stoyan’s hair was well cut; his lightweight suit—hanging on a tall, thin frame—was a little worn from his years abroad, especially in the right elbow, but it had begun and would end a very good one. Over it he wore a light summer coat and hat. His face was already not quite young. Instead, it was firmly intelligent, carefully clean-shaven, with bright dark eyes and surprising, curly lashes like a little boy’s, his skin pale but not fair—it looked merely in need of more sun. Under the left side of his chin was a red-brown mark like polish on a stone. His mouth was gentle and could have formed a generous smile. Just now his lips were pressed together as he stepped down among the other passengers and glanced around.

  He set his valise on the platform in Sofia—but not his violin, never that—and stood there a moment. People were finding and greeting family members; a nicely coiffed young woman he thought for a moment he recognized—but he was wrong—lost her hat to the embraces of two old people who must be her parents. The father picked her hat up for her, and as he bent over, Stoyan saw the fabric of a homemade shirt rough under a rusty black jacket: villagers. He would never know their story, nor why he could remember them decades later.