The Historian

by Elizabeth Kostova

  “‘After that there were three nights until he left. We met earlier each evening. I told my mother and father any excuse I could think of, and I always came home with herbs from the woods as if I had gone there to gather them. Every night Bartolomeo told me he loved me and begged me to come with him when he left the village. I wanted to, but I was afraid of the large world he came from, and I could not imagine how I would escape my father. Every night I asked him why he couldn’t stay with me in the village, and he shook his head and said he had to return to his home and his work.

  “‘On the last night before he left the village, I began to cry as soon as we touched each other. He held me and kissed my hair. I had never met any man so gentle and kind. When I had stopped crying, he drew from his finger a little silver ring with a seal on it. I don’t know for certain, but I think now it was the seal of his university. He wore it on the smallest finger of his left hand. He took it off and put it on my ring finger. Then he asked me to marry him. He must have been studying his dictionary, because I understood him right away.

  “‘At first it seemed so impossible an idea that I simply began to cry again—I was very young—but then I agreed. He made me understand that he would return for me in four weeks. He would go to Greece to take care of something there—what, I could not understand. Then he would come back for me and would give my father some money to make him happy. I tried to explain that I had no dowry, but he would not listen. Smiling, he showed me the dagger and coin I had given him, and then made a circle of his hands around my face and kissed me.

  “‘I should have felt happy, but I had a sense that evil spirits were present, and I was afraid something might happen to keep him from returning. Every moment we spent together that evening was very sweet, because I thought each was the last. He was so confident, so sure that we would see each other again soon. I could not say good-bye until it was almost dark in the woods, but I began to fear my father’s anger and at last I kissed Bartolomeo one more time, made sure the garlic flowers were in his pocket, and left him. I turned back again and again. Each time I looked back, I saw him standing in the woods, holding his hat in his hand. He looked very lonely.

  “‘I cried as I walked along, and I took the little ring off my finger, kissing it, and knotted it in my kerchief. When I reached home my father was angry and wanted to know where I had been after dark without permission. I told him that my friend Maria had lost a goat and I had been helping her search for it. I went to bed with a heavy heart, feeling sometimes hopeful and then sad again.

  “‘The next morning I heard that Bartolomeo had left the village, traveling with a farmer in his cart toward Târgoviste. The day was very long and sad for me, and in the evening I went to our meeting place in the woods, to be alone there. Seeing it made me weep again. I sat on our rocks and finally lay down where we had lain every evening. I put my face against the earth and sobbed. Then I felt my hand brush against something among the ferns, and to my surprise I found there a package of letters in envelopes. I could not read the handwriting on them, where they were addressed to someone, but on the flap of each his beautiful name was printed, as in a book. I opened some of them and kissed his writing, although I could see that they were not addressed to me. I wondered for a moment if they could have been written to another woman, but I put this thought out of my mind as soon as it came. I realized the letters must have fallen out of his knapsack when he had opened it to show me he had the dagger and coin I’d given him.

  “‘I thought of trying to mail them to Oxford in the island of England, but I could not think of any way to send them unnoticed. Also, I didn’t know how I could pay to send something. It would cost money to mail a package to his faraway island, and I had never owned any money apart from the little coin I had given to Bartolomeo. I decided to save the letters to give him when he returned for me.

  “‘Four weeks passed very, very slowly. I made notches on a tree near our secret place, so that I could keep track of the days. I worked in the field, helped my mother, spun and wove for our next winter’s clothing, went to church, and listened wherever I could for news of Bartolomeo. At first the old men talked about him a little, and shook their heads over his interest in vampires. “No good can come of that,” one of them would say, and the rest would agree. It gave me a terrible mixture of happiness and pain to hear this. I was glad to listen to someone else talking about him, since I could never speak a word to anyone, but it also sent a chill through me to think that he might be attracting the attention of pricolici.

  “‘I wondered constantly what would happen when he came back. Would he walk up to my father’s door, knock on it, and ask my father for my hand in marriage? I imagined how surprised my family would be. They would all gather at the door and stare while Bartolomeo gave them gifts and I kissed them good-bye. Then he would lead me away to a waiting wagon, maybe even to an automobile. We would ride out of the village and across lands I could not imagine, beyond the mountains, beyond the great city where my sister Éva lived. I hoped we would stop to see Éva, because I had always loved her best. Bartolomeo would love her, too, because she was strong and brave, a traveler like him.

  “‘I passed four weeks in this way, and by end of the fourth week I was tired and could not eat or sleep very much. When I had cut almost four weeks of notches in my tree, I began to wait and watch for a sign of his return. Whenever a wagon came into the village, the sound of its wheels made my heart jump. I went for water three times a day, watching and listening for news. I told myself that he probably would not come after exactly four weeks, and that I should wait a week more. After the fifth week, I felt ill and I was certain that the prince of the pricolici had killed him. Once I even had the thought that my beloved might return to me in the form of a vampire himself. I ran to the church in the middle of the day and prayed in front of the icon of the blessed Virgin to take away this horrible idea.

  “‘In the sixth and seventh weeks I began to give up hope. In the eighth week I knew suddenly by many signs I had heard about among the married women that I would have a child. Then I cried silently in my sisters’ bed at night and I felt the whole world, even God and the Holy Mother, had forgotten about me. I did not know what had happened to Bartolomeo, but I believed it must have been something terrible, because I knew he had truly loved me. In secret I gathered the herbs and roots that were said to prevent a child from coming into the world, but it was no use. My child was strong inside me, stronger than I was, and I began to love that strength in spite of myself. When I secretly placed my hand on my belly, I felt Bartolomeo’s love and I believed he could not have forgotten about me.

  “‘I knew I had to leave the village before I brought shame on my family and my father’s anger on myself. I thought of trying to find the old woman who had given me the coin. Perhaps she would take me in and let me cook and clean for her. She had come from one of the villages above the Arges, near the castle of the pricolic, but I did not know which village, or whether she was still alive. There were bears and wolves in the mountains, and many evil spirits, and I did not dare wander through the forest all alone.

  “‘At last I decided to write my sister Éva, something I had done once or twice before. I took some paper and an envelope from the house of the priest, where I worked in the kitchen sometimes. In the letter, I told her my situation and begged her to come for me. It took another five weeks for her answer to arrive. Thank the Lord, the farmer who brought it in with some supplies gave it to me and not to my father, and I read it in secret, in the woods. The middle of my body was growing round already, so that it felt strange when I sat down on a log, although I could still hide my roundness with my apron.

  “‘There was some money in the letter, Romanian money, more than I had ever seen, and Éva’s note was short and practical. She said I should leave the village on foot, walk to the next village, about five kilometers away, and then get a ride in a wagon or truck to Târgoviste. From there I could find a ride to Bucharest, and from Bucha
rest I could travel by train to the Hungarian border. Her husband would meet me at the border office in T— on September 20—I still remember the date. She said I should plan my travel as well as I could to arrive there on that day. Enclosed in her letter I would find a stamped invitation from the government of Hungary, which would help me enter the country. She sent me love, told me to be very careful, and wished me a safe journey. When I came to the end of the letter, I kissed her signature and blessed her with all my heart.

  “‘I packed my few belongings in a little bag, including my good shoes to save for the train journey, the letters Bartolomeo had lost, and his silver ring. One morning as I was leaving our cottage, I hugged and kissed my mother, who was getting old and sicker. I wanted her to know later that I had said good-bye to her in some way. I think she was surprised, but she didn’t ask me any questions. Instead of going to the fields that morning, I set out through the woods, avoiding the road. I stopped to say good-bye to the secret place in the woods where I had lain with Bartolomeo. The four weeks of notches on the tree were already fading. At that spot I put his ring on my finger and tied a kerchief over my head, like a married woman. I could feel winter coming in the yellowing leaves and cool air. I stood there for a few moments, and then I set out along the path to the next village.

  “‘I don’t remember all of that trip, only that I was very tired and sometimes very hungry. One night I slept in the house of an old woman who gave me a good soup and told me my husband should not let me travel alone. Another time I had to sleep in a barn. At last I found a ride to Târgoviste, and then another to Bucharest. When I could I bought bread, but I did not know how much money I would need for the train, so I was very careful. Bucharest was very large and beautiful, but it frightened me because there were so many people, all in fine clothes, and men who looked boldly at me on the street. I had to sleep in the train station. The train was frightening, too, a huge black monster. Once I was sitting inside, next to a window, I felt my heart lifting a little bit. We rode past many wonderful sights—mountains and rivers and open fields, very different from our Transylvanian forests.

  “‘At the border station, I learned that it was September 19, and I slept on a bench until one of the guards let me come into his booth and gave me some hot coffee. He asked me where my husband was, and I said I was going to Hungary to see him. The next morning a man in a black suit and hat came looking for me. He had a very kind face and he kissed me on both cheeks and called me “sister.” I loved my brother-in-law from that moment until the day he died, and I love him still. He was more my brother than any brother in my own family. He took care of everything, buying me a hot dinner on the train, which we ate at a table with a tablecloth. We could eat and look out the train window at everything passing by.

  “‘At the Budapest station, Éva was waiting for us. She wore a suit and a beautiful hat, and I thought she looked like a queen. She hugged and kissed me many times. My baby was born at the best hospital in Budapest. I wanted to name her Éva, but Éva said she would rather name her herself, and she called her Elena. She was a lovely baby, with big dark eyes, and she smiled very early, when she was only five days old. People said they had never seen a baby smile so young. I had hoped she would have Bartolomeo’s blue eyes, but she looked only like my family.

  “‘I waited to write to him until after the baby was born, because I wanted to tell him about a real baby, not to tell him only about my pregnancy. When Elena was one month old, I asked my brother-in-law to help me find an address for Bartolomeo’s university, Oxford, and I wrote the strange words myself on the envelope. My brother-in-law penned the letter for me in German, and I signed it with my own hand. In the letter I told Bartolomeo that I had waited for him for three months and then had left the village because I knew I would have his child. I told him about my travels and about my sister’s home in Budapest. I told him about our Elena, how sweet she was, how happy. I told him I loved him and was frightened that something terrible had happened to prevent his returning. I asked him when I would see him, and whether he could come to Budapest to get me and Elena. I told him that no matter what had happened, I would love him to the end of my life.

  “‘Then I waited again, this time a long, long time, and when Elena was already taking her first steps, a letter came from Bartolomeo. It was from America, not from England, and it was written in German. My brother-in-law translated it for me in a very gentle voice, but I saw that he was too honest to change anything it said. In his letter Bartolomeo said he had received a letter from me that had gone first to his former home in Oxford. He told me politely that he had never heard of me or seen my name before, and that he had never been to Romania, so that the child I described could not be his. He was sorry to hear such a sad story and he wished me better fortunes. It was a short letter and very kind, not harsh, and in it there was no sign that he knew me.

  “‘I cried for a long time. I was young and I did not understand that people can change, that their minds and feelings can change. When I had been in Hungary for several years, I began to understand that you can be one person at home and a different person when you are in a different country. I realized that something like this had happened to Bartolomeo. In the end, my only wish was that he had not lied, had not said he didn’t know me at all. I wished that because I had felt when we were together that he was an honorable person, a truthful person, and I did not want to think badly of him.

  “‘I raised Elena with the help of my relatives, and she became a beautiful and brilliant girl. I know this is because she has Bartolomeo’s blood in her. I told her about her father—I never lied to her. Maybe I didn’t tell her enough, but she was too young to understand that love makes people blind and foolish. She went to the university and I was very proud of her, and she told me that she had heard her father was a great scholar in America. I hoped someday she might meet him. But I did not know he was at the university you went to there,’ Helen’s mother added, turning almost reproachfully to her daughter, and in this abrupt way she finished her story.

  “Helen murmured something that could have been either apology or self-defense, and shook her head. She looked as stunned as I felt. Throughout the story she had sat quiet, translating as if barely breathing, murmuring something else only when her mother described the dragon on her shoulder. Helen told me much later that her mother had never undressed in front of her, never taken her to the public baths as Éva had.

  “At first we sat in silence at the table, the three of us, but after a moment Helen turned to me, gesturing helplessly toward the package of letters that lay before us on the table. I understood; I’d been thinking the same thing. ‘Why didn’t she send some of these to Rossi to prove he had been with her in Romania?’

  “She looked at her mother—with a profound hesitation in her eyes, I thought—and then apparently put this question to her. Her mother’s answer, when she translated it for me, brought a lump to my throat, a pain that was partly for her and partly for my perfidious mentor. ‘I thought about doing that, but from his letter I understood that he had changed his mind completely. I decided it would make no difference for me to send him these letters, except to bring me more pain, and then I would have lost some of the few pieces of him that I could keep.’ She extended her hand as if to touch his handwriting, then withdrew it. ‘I only regretted not returning to him what was really his. But he had kept so much of me—perhaps it was not wrong for me to keep these for myself?’ She glanced from Helen to me, her eyes suddenly a little less tranquil. It was not defiance I saw there, I thought, but the flare of some old, old devotion. I looked away.

  “Helen was defiant, even if her mother was not. ‘Then why didn’t she at least give these letters to me long ago?’ Her question was fierce, and she turned it on her mother the next second. The older woman shook her head. ‘She says,’ Helen reported, her face hardening, ‘that she knew I hated my father and she was waiting for someone who loved him.’ As she still does herself, I could have added, f
or my own heart was so full that it seemed to give me an extra perception of the love buried for years in this bare little house.

  “My feelings were not for Rossi alone. Sitting there at the table, I took Helen’s hand in one of mine, and her mother’s work-worn hand in the other, and held them tightly. At that moment, the world in which I had grown up, its reserve and silences, its mores and manners, the world in which I had studied and achieved and occasionally attempted to love, seemed as far off as the Milky Way. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to, but if my throat had cleared I might have found some way to tell these two women, with their so different but equally intense attachments to Rossi, that I felt his presence among us.

  “After a moment Helen quietly withdrew her hand from my grasp, but her mother held on to me as she had before, asking something in her gentle voice. ‘She wants to know how she can help you find Rossi.’

  “‘Tell her she has helped me already, and that I will read these letters as soon as we leave to see if they can guide us further. Tell her we will let her know when we find him.’

  “Helen’s mother inclined her head humbly at this, and rose to check the stew in the oven. A wonderful smell drifted from it and even Helen smiled, as if this return to a home not her own had its compensations. The peace of the moment emboldened me. ‘Please ask her if she knows anything about vampires that might help us in our search.’

  “When Helen translated this, I saw I had shattered our fragile calm. Her mother looked away and crossed herself, but after a moment she seemed to muster her forces to speak. Helen listened intently and nodded. ‘She says you must remember that the vampire can change his shape. He can come to you in many forms.’