The Historian (68 page)

‗We would like very much to finish our research here in Bulgaria, and we thought you might well be able to help us.‘

―‗Of course,‘ Stoichev said patiently. ‗Perhaps you could tell me exactly what interests you most about the history of our medieval monasteries and the routes of pilgrimages, and about the fifteenth century in particular. It is a fascinating century in Bulgarian history. You know that after 1393 most of our country was under the Ottoman yoke, although some parts of Bulgaria were not conquered until well into the fifteenth century.

Our native intellectual culture was preserved from that time on very much by the monasteries. I am glad you are interested in the monasteries because they are one of the richest sources of our heritage in Bulgaria.‘ He paused and refolded his hands, as if waiting to see how familiar this information was to us.

―‗Yes,‘ I said. There was no help for it. We would have to talk about some aspect of our search with Ranov sitting right there. After all, if I asked him to leave, he would immediately become suspicious about our purpose here. Our only hope was to make our questions sound as scholarly and impersonal as possible. ‗We believe there are some interesting connections between the Orthodox community in fifteenth-century Istanbul and the monasteries of Bulgaria.‘

―‗Yes, of course that is true,‘ said Stoichev, ‗especially since the Bulgarian church was placed by Mehmed the Conqueror under the jurisdiction of the patriarch of Constantinople. Before that, of course, our church was independent, with its own patriarch in Veliko Trnovo.‘

―I felt a wave of gratitude toward this man with his erudition and wonderful ears. My comments had been close to inane, and yet he was answering them with circumspect—

not to mention informative—politeness.

―‗Exactly,‘ I said. ‗And we‘re especially interested—we found a letter—that is, we were recently in Istanbul ourselves‘—I was careful not to glance at Ranov—‗and we found a letter that has to do with Bulgaria—with a group of monks who traveled from Constantinople to a monastery in Bulgaria. We‘re interested for the purposes of one of our articles in tracing their route through Bulgaria. Perhaps they were on pilgrimage—

we‘re not quite sure.‘

―‗I see,‘ said Stoichev. His eyes were warier and more luminous than ever. ‗Is there any date on this letter? Can you tell me a little about its contents or who wrote it, if you know that, and where you found it? To whom it was addressed, and so on, if you know these things?‘

―‗Certainly,‘ I said. ‗In fact, we have a copy of it here. The original letter is in Slavonic, and a monk in Istanbul wrote it out for us. The original resides in the state archive of Mehmed II. Perhaps you would like to read the letter for yourself.‘ I opened my briefcase and got the copy out, handing it to him, hoping Ranov would not ask for it next.

―Stoichev took the letter and I saw his eyes flash over the opening lines. ‗Interesting,‘ he said, and to my disappointment he set it down on the table. Perhaps he was not going to help us after all, or even read the letter. ‗My dear,‘ he said, turning to his niece, ‗I don‘t think we can look at old letters without offering these guests something to eat and drink.

Would you bring usrakiya and a little lunch?‘ He nodded with particular politeness toward Ranov.

―Irina rose promptly, smiling. ‗Certainly, Uncle,‘ she said, in beautiful English. There was no end, I thought, to the surprises in this household. ‗But I would like some help to bring it up the stairs.‘ She gave Ranov the slightest glance from her clear eyes and he got up, smoothing his hair.

―‗I will be glad to help the young lady,‘ he said, and they went downstairs together, Ranov thumping noisily on the steps and Irina chattering to him in Bulgarian.

―As soon as the door closed behind them, Stoichev leaned forward and read the letter with greedy concentration. When he was done, he looked up at us. His face had lost ten years, but it was tense, too. ‗This is remarkable,‘ he said in a low voice. We rose out of the same instinct and came to sit close to him at his end of the long table. ‗I am astonished to see this letter.‘

―‗Yes—what?‘ I said eagerly. ‗Do you have any sense of what it might mean?‘

―‗A little.‘ Stoichev‘s eyes were enormous and he looked intently at me. ‗You see,‘ he added, ‗I, too, have one of Brother Kiril‘s letters.‘‖

I remembered all too well the bus station in Perpignan, where I had stood with my father the year before, waiting for a dusty bus to the villages. The bus pulled up again now, and Barley and I boarded it. Our ride to Les Bains, along broad rural roads, was also familiar to me. The towns we passed were girded with square, shorn plane trees. Trees, houses, fields, and old cars all seemed made of the same dust, a café-au-lait cloud that covered everything.

The hotel in Les Bains was much as I remembered it, too, with its four stories of stucco, its iron window grills and boxes of rosy flowers. I found myself longing for my father, breathless with the thought that we‘d see him soon, perhaps in a few minutes. For once I led Barley, pushing the heavy door open and putting my bag down in front of the marble-topped desk inside. But then that desk seemed so extremely high and dignified that I felt shy again and had to force myself to tell the sleek old man behind it that I thought my father might be staying here. I didn‘t remember the old man from our visit here, but he was patient, and after a minute he said there was indeed a foreign monsieur by that name staying there,
butla clé
—his key—was not in, and therefore he himself must be out. He showed us the empty hook. My heart leaped, and leaped again a moment later when a man I did remember opened the door behind the counter. It was the maître d‗ from the little restaurant, poised and graceful and in a hurry. The old man arrested him with a question and he turned to me
étonné
, as he said at once that the young lady was here, and how she had grown, how grown-up and lovely. And her—friend?

―Cousin,‖Barley said.

But monsieur had not mentioned that his daughter and nephew would be joining him, what a nice surprise. We must all dine there that evening. I asked where my father was, if anybody knew, but no one did. He had left early, the older man contributed, perhaps to take a morning walk. The maître d‗ said they were still full, but if we needed other rooms he could see to that. Why didn‘t we go up to my father‘s room and leave our bags, at least? My father had taken a suite with a nice view and a little parlor to sit in. He—the maître d‘—would give us
l’autre clé
and make us some coffee. My father would be back soon, probably. We agreed gratefully to all these suggestions. The creaking elevator took us up so slowly that I wondered if the maître d‗ was pulling the chain himself down in the cellar.

My father‘s room, when we got the door open, was spacious and pleasant, and I would have enjoyed every nook of it if I hadn‘t felt, uncomfortably, that I was invading his sanctuary for the third time in a week. Worse was the sudden sight of my father‘s suitcase, his familiar clothes around the room, his battered leather shaving kit and good shoes. I‘d seen these objects only a few days ago, in his room at Master James‘s house in Oxford, and their familiarity hit me hard.

But even this was eclipsed by another shock. My father was by nature an orderly man; any room or office he inhabited, however briefly, was a model of neatness and discretion.

Unlike many of the bachelors, widowers, divorcés whom I later met, my father never sank into that state that makes solo men drop the contents of their pockets in piles on tables and bureaus, or store their clothes in piles over the backs of chairs. Never before had I seen my father‘s possessions in rank disorder. His suitcase sat half unpacked by the bed. He had apparently rummaged through it and pulled out one or two items, leaving a trail of socks and undershirts on the floor. His light canvas coat sprawled across the bed.

In fact, he had changed clothes, also in a great hurry, and deposited his suit in a heap by the suitcase. It occurred to me that perhaps this was not my father‘s doing, that his room had been searched while he was not in it. But that pile of his suit, shed like a snake‘s skin onto the floor, made me think otherwise. His walking shoes were not in their usual place in the suitcase and the cedar shoe trees he kept in them had been flung aside. He had clearly been in the greatest hurry of his life.

―When Stoichev told us he had one of Brother Kiril‘s letters, Helen and I looked at each other in amazement. ‗What do you mean?‘ she said finally.

―Stoichev tapped Turgut‘s copy with excited fingers. ‗I have a manuscript that was given to me in 1924 by my friend Atanas Angelov. It describes a different part of the same journey, I am certain. I did not know that any other documents from these travels were in existence. In fact, my friend died suddenly just after he gave them to me, poor fellow.

Wait—‘ He rose, swaying in his haste, so that both Helen and I leaped up to catch him in case he fell. He righted himself without assistance, however, and went into one of the smaller rooms, gesturing for us to follow and to avoid tripping on the piles of books that lined it. There he scanned the shelves and then reached for a box, which I helped him take down. From it he pulled a cardboard file tied with fraying cord. He brought this back to the table and opened it under our eager eyes, drawing out a document so fragile that I shuddered to watch him handling it. He stood looking at it for a long minute, as if paralyzed, and then sighed. ‗This is the original, as you can see. The signature—‘

We bent over it, and there, with a rush of gooseflesh over my arms and neck, I saw an exquisitely penned Cyrillic name that even I could read—Kiril—and the year: 6985. I looked at Helen, and she bit her lip. The faded name of this monk was terribly real. So was the fact that he had once been as alive as we were, had set a quill to this parchment with a warm, living hand.

―Stoichev looked almost as awed as I felt, although the sight of such an old manuscript must have been his daily fare. ‗I have translated it into Bulgarian,‘ he said, after a moment, and drew out another sheet, this one typed onionskin. We sat down. ‗I will try to read it to you.‘ He cleared his throat and gave us a rough but competent version of a letter that has since been widely translated.

Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

I take my pen in hand to fulfill the task you have in your wisdom put upon me, and to tell you the particulars of our mission as we come to them. May I do justice to them and to your wishes, with God‘s assistance. We sleep this night near Virbius, two days‘ journey from you, at the monastery of Saint Vladimir, where the holy brothers have welcomed us in your name. As you have instructed, I went alone to the lord abbot and told him our mission in the greatest secrecy, with not even a novice or servant present. He has commanded our wagon to remain under lock in the stables within the courtyard, with two guards from among his monks and two from among our number. I hope we may meet often with such understanding and safekeeping, at least until we cross into the infidel lands. As you have instructed, I placed one book in the lord abbot‘s hands, with your injunctions, and saw that he hid it forthwith, not even opening it before me.

The horses are tired after our climb through the mountains and we will sleep here yet another night after this one. We ourselves are now well refreshed by the services of their church here, in which two icons of the most pure Virgin have performed miracles as recently as eighty years ago. One of them still shows the miraculous tears she wept for a sinner, which are now turned to rare pearls. We have offered earnest prayers to her for protection in our mission, that we may safely reach the great city and even in the capital of the enemy find a haven from which to attempt our task.

I am yours most humbly in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Br. Kiril

April, the Year of Our Lord 6985

―I think Helen and I hardly breathed as Stoichev read this aloud. He translated slowly and methodically, and with no small skill. I was just about to exclaim aloud over the indubitable connection between the two letters when a thud of feet on the wooden stairs below made us all look up. ‗They are coming back,‘ Stoichev said quietly. He put the letter away, and I placed ours with it for the time being, in his safekeeping. ‗Mr. Ranov—

he was assigned to you as your guide?‘

―‗Yes,‘ I said quickly. ‗And he seems far too interested in our work here. There is a lot more we must tell you about our research, but it‘s rather private and also—‘ I paused.

―‗Dangerous?‘ inquired Stoichev, turning his wonderful old face toward us.

―‗How did you guess?‘ I couldn‘t hide my amazement. Nothing we had said so far implied danger.

―‗Ah.‘ He shook his head, and I heard in his sigh a depth of experience and regret I couldn‘t begin to fathom. ‗There are some things I should tell you, also. I never expected to see another of these letters. Talk to Mr. Ranov as little as possible.‘

―‗Don‘t worry.‘ Helen shook her head and they regarded each other for a second with a smile.

―‗Quiet,‘ Stoichev said softly. ‗I will take care that we can talk again.‘

―Irina and Ranov came into the sitting room with a clash of plates, and Irina began setting out glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. Ranov came behind her bearing a loaf of bread and a dish of white beans. He was smiling and he looked almost domesticated. I wished I could thank Stoichev‘s niece. She settled her uncle comfortably in his chair and made us sit down, and I realized that the morning‘s excursion had left me terribly hungry.