“He sighed. ‘Some of these papers mention mysterious occurrences in the city, deaths, rumors of vampirism. I have also collected any information I could from books that might tell me about the Order of the Dragon in Wallachia. But nowhere last night could I find anything new. Then I called my friend Selim Aksoy. He is not at the university—he is a shopkeeper—but he is a very learned man. He knows more about books than anyone in Istanbul, and especially about all books that tell the history and legends of our city. He is a very gracious person, and he gave me much of the evening to look through his own library with me. I asked him to seek for me any trace of a burial of someone from Wallachia here in Istanbul in the late fifteenth century, or any clue that there might be a tomb here somehow connected with Wallachia, Transylvania, or the Order of the Dragon. I also showed him—not for the first time—my copies of the maps, and my dragon book, and I explained to him your theory that those images represent a location, the location of the Impaler’s tomb.
“‘Together we turned through many, many pages about the history of Istanbul, and looked at old prints, and at the notebooks in which he copies so many things he finds in libraries and museums. He is most industrious, is Selim Aksoy. He has no wife, no family, no other interests. The story of Istanbul eats him up. We worked late into the night, because his personal library is so large that even he has never dived to the bottom of it and could not tell me what we might discover. At last we found a strange thing—a letter—reprinted in a volume of correspondence between the ministers of the sultan’s court and many outposts of the Empire in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Selim Aksoy told me that he bought this book from a bookseller in Ankara. It was printed in the nineteenth century, compiled by one of our own historians from Istanbul who was interested in all the records of that period. Selim told me he has never seen another copy of this book.’
“I waited patiently, sensing the importance of all this background, noting Turgut’s thoroughness. For a literary scholar, he made a damned good historian.
“‘No, Selim does not know this book from any other edition, but he believes the documents reproduced in it are not—how do you say?—forgeries, because he has seen one of these letters in the original, in the same collection we visited yesterday. He is also very adoring of that archive, you know, and I often meet him there.’ He smiled. ‘Well, in this book, when our eyes were almost closing with fatigue, and the dawn was about to arrive, we found a letter that may have some importance for your search. The collector who printed it believed it to be from the late fifteenth century. I have translated it for you here.’
“Turgut pulled a sheet of notebook paper from his portfolio. ‘The earlier letter to which this letter refers is not in the book, alas. God knows it is probably not in existence anywhere, or my friend Selim would have found it long ago.’
“He cleared his throat and read aloud. ‘“To the most honored Rumeli Kadiasker —”’ He paused. ‘That was the chief military judge for the Balkans, you know.’ I didn’t know, but he nodded and went on. ‘“Honored One, I have now carried out the further investigation you requested. Some of the monks have been most cooperative for the sum we agreed upon, and I have examined the grave myself. What they reported to me originally is true. They have no further explanation to offer me, only repetitions of their terror. I recommend a new investigation of this matter in Istanbul. I have left two guards in Snagov to watch for any suspicious activity. Curiously, there have been no reports of the plague here. I remain yours in the name of Allah.”’
“‘And the signature?’ I asked. My heart was beating hard; even after my sleepless night, I was wide-awake.
“‘There is no signature. Selim thinks that perhaps it was torn off the original, either accidentally or to protect the privacy of the man who wrote the letter.’
“‘Or perhaps it was unsigned to begin with, for secrecy,’ I suggested. ‘And there are no other letters in the book that refer to this matter?’
“‘None. No previous letters, no subsequent letters. It is a fragment, but the Rumeli Kadiasker was very important, so this must have been a serious matter. We searched long and hard after this in my friend’s other books and papers and found nothing that is relating to it. He told me he has never seen this word Snagov in any other accounts of the history of Istanbul that he can remember. He read these letters once a few years ago—it was my telling him where Dracula is supposed to have been buried by his followers that made him notice it while we were looking through the papers. So perhaps he has indeed seen it elsewhere and cannot remember.’
“‘My God,’ I said, thinking not of the subtle probabilities of Mr. Aksoy’s having seen the word elsewhere but rather of the tantalizing nature of this link between Istanbul, all around us, and faraway Romania.
“‘Yes.’ Turgut smiled as cheerfully as if we’d been discussing a menu for breakfast. ‘The public inspectors for the Balkans were very worried about something here in Istanbul, so worried that they sent someone to the grave of Dracula in Snagov.’
“‘But, goddammit, what did they find?’ I pounded my fist on the arm of my chair. ‘What had the priests there reported? And why were they terrified?’
“‘Exactly my perplexity,’ Turgut assured me. ‘If Vlad Dracula was resting peacefully there, why were they worried about him hundreds of kilometers away, in Istanbul? And if Vlad’s tomb is indeed in Snagov and always was, why do the maps not match that region?’
“I could only respect the precision of his questions. ‘There is another thing,’ I said. ‘Do you think there is indeed the possibility that Dracula was buried here in Istanbul? Would that explain Mehmed’s worry about him after his death, and the presence of vampirism here from that era on?’
“Turgut clasped his hands in front of him and put one large finger on his chin. ‘That is an important question. We will need help with it, and perhaps my friend Selim is the person to help us.’
“For a moment we sat looking silently at each other in the dim hall of the pension, with the smell of coffee drifting across us, new friends united by an old cause. Then Turgut roused himself. ‘Clearly we must search more, further. Selim says he will lead us to the archive as soon as you can be ready. He knows sources there from fifteenth-century Istanbul that I have not much looked at myself because they lie far afield of my own interests in Dracula. We shall look at them together. No doubt Mr. Erozan will be happy to bring out all these materials for us before the public hours if I call him. He lives close to the archive and can open it for us before Selim must go to work himself. But where is Miss Rossi? Has she risen from her chambers yet?’
“This speech prompted a confused rush of thought in my brain, so that I didn’t know which problem to address first. The mention of Turgut’s librarian friend reminded me suddenly again of my librarian enemy, whom I had nearly forgotten in my excitement about the letter. Now I faced the peculiar task of straining Turgut’s credulity by reporting the visitation of a dead man, although surely his belief in historical vampires might be extended to contemporary ones. But his question about Helen reminded me that I had left her alone for an unpardonably long time. I’d wanted to give her privacy as she awoke, and had fully expected her to follow me downstairs as soon as possible. Why hadn’t she reappeared by now? Turgut was still talking. ‘So Selim—he never sleeps, you know—went for his morning coffee, because he did not wish to surprise you right away—ah, here he is!’
“The bell at the pension door rang and a slender man stepped in, pulling the door shut behind him. I think I had expected an august presence, an aging man in a business suit, but Selim Aksoy was young and slight, dressed in loose-fitting and rather shabby dark trousers and a white shirt. He hurried toward us with an eager, intense look on his face that was not quite a smile. It wasn’t until I was shaking his bony hand that I recognized the green eyes and long thin nose. I had seen his face before, and up close. It took me another second to place him, until I had the sudden memory of a slender hand passing me a
volume of Shakespeare. He was the bookseller from the little shop in the bazaar.
“‘But we’ve already met!’ I exclaimed, and he was exclaiming something similar at the same moment, in what I took to be an amalgamation of Turkish and English. Turgut looked from one to the other of us, clearly perplexed, and when I explained, he laughed, then shook his head as if in wonder. ‘Coincidences’ was all he said.
“‘Are you ready to go?’ Mr. Aksoy waved aside Turgut’s offer of a seat in the parlor.
“‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind, I will see where Miss Rossi is and when she can join us.’
“Turgut nodded a little too guilelessly.
“I ran into Helen on the stairs—literally, for I suddenly found myself taking the steps three at a time. She grabbed the railing to keep herself from toppling down the staircase. ‘Ouch!’ she said crossly. ‘What in the name of heaven are you doing?’ She was rubbing her elbow, and I was trying not to keep feeling the brush of her black suit and firm shoulder against my arm.
“‘Looking for you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry—are you hurt? I just got a little worried because I’d left you alone up there so long.’
“‘I’m fine,’ she told me more mildly. ‘I’ve had some ideas. How long before Professor Bora arrives?’
“‘He’s here already,’ I reported, ‘and he brought a friend.’
“Helen recognized the young bookseller, too, and they talked, haltingly, while Turgut dialed up Mr. Erozan and shouted into the receiver. ‘There has been a rainstorm,’ he explained when he returned to us. ‘The lines get a little furry in this part of town when it rains. My friend can meet us at once at the archive. He sounded sick, actually, maybe with a cold, but he said he’d come right away. Do you want coffee, madam? And I will buy you some sesame rolls on the way.’ He kissed Helen’s hand, to my displeasure, and we all hurried out.
“I was hoping to keep Turgut back as we walked so that I could tell him privately about the appearance of the vicious librarian from home; I didn’t think I could explain this in front of a stranger, particularly one Turgut had described as having little real sympathy for vampire hunts. Turgut was deep in conversation with Helen before we’d walked a block, however, and I had the double misery of watching her bestow her rare smile on him and of knowing I was keeping back information I ought to give him at once. Mr. Aksoy walked next to me, casting a glance at me now and then, but for the most part he seemed so lost in his own thoughts that I didn’t feel I should interrupt him with observations on the beauty of the morning streets.
“We found the outer door to the library unlocked—Turgut said with a smile that he’d known his friend would be prompt—and went quietly in, Turgut ushering Helen gallantly before him. The little entrance hall, with its fine mosaics and the registration book lying open and ready for the day’s visitors, was deserted. Turgut held the inner door for Helen, and she had gone well into the hushed, dim hall of the library before I heard her intake of breath and saw her stop so suddenly that our friend almost tripped behind her. Something made the hair on the back of my neck rise even before I could tell what was happening, and then something quite different made me push rudely past the professor to Helen’s side.
“The librarian waiting for us stood motionless in the middle of the room, his face turned, as if eagerly, toward our arrival. He was not, however, the friendly figure we’d expected, nor was he already bringing out the box we’d hoped to examine again, or some pile of dusty manuscripts on Istanbul’s history. His face was pale, as if drained of life—exactly as if drained of life. This was not Turgut’s librarian friend but ours, alert and bright-eyed, his lips unnaturally red and his hungry gaze burning in our direction. At the moment his eyes lit on me, my hand gave a throb where he had bent it back so hard in the library stacks. He was famished for something. Even if I’d had the tranquillity of mind in which to conjecture about that hunger—whether it was a thirst for knowledge or for something else—I would not have had time to form the thought. Before I could so much as step between Helen and the ghoulish figure, she pulled a pistol from her jacket pocket and shot him.”
Chapter 35
“Later, I knew Helen in a great range of situations, including those we call ordinary life, and she never stopped surprising me. Often what astonished me in her were the quick associations her mind made between one fact and another, associations that usually resulted in an insight I would have been slow to reach myself. She dazzled me, too, with the wonderful breadth of her learning. Helen was full of these surprises, and I grew to consider them my daily fare, a pleasant addiction I developed to her ability to catch me off guard. But she never startled me more than at that moment in Istanbul, when she suddenly shot the librarian.
“I had no time for astonishment, however, because he stumbled sideways and hurled a book toward us, just missing my head. It hit a table somewhere to my left, and I heard it fall to the floor. Helen fired again, stepping forward and aiming with a steadiness that took my breath away. Then the oddness of the creature’s reaction struck me. I’d never seen anyone shot before except in the movies, but there, alas, I had seen a thousand Indians die at gunpoint by the time I was eleven, and later every sort of crook, bank robber, and villain, including hosts of Nazis created expressly for shooting by an enthusiastic wartime Hollywood. The strange thing about this shooting, this real one, was that although a dark stain appeared on the librarian’s clothes somewhere below his sternum, he did not clutch the spot with an agonized hand. The second shot grazed his shoulder; he was already running, and then he bolted into the stacks at the rear of the hall.
“‘A door!’ Turgut shouted behind me. ‘There is a door there!’ And we all ran after him, tripping on chairs and darting among the tables. Selim Aksoy, slight and fleet as an antelope, reached the shelves first and disappeared among them. We heard a scuffle and a crash, then indeed the slamming of a door, and found Mr. Aksoy stumbling up out of a drift of fragile Ottoman manuscripts with a purple lump on the side of his face. Turgut ran for the door and I ran after, but it was shut tightly. When we got it open, we discovered only an alley, deserted apart from a pile of wooden boxes. We searched the labyrinthine neighborhood at a trot, but there was no sign of the creature or his flight. Turgut collared a few pedestrians, but no one had seen our man.
“Reluctantly, we returned to the archive through the back door and found Helen holding her handkerchief to Mr. Aksoy’s cheekbone. The gun was nowhere in sight, and the manuscripts were neatly stacked on the shelf again. She looked up when we came in. ‘He fainted for a minute,’ she said softly, ‘but he is all right now.’
“Turgut knelt by his friend. ‘My dear Selim, what a bump you have.’
“Selim Aksoy smiled wanly. ‘I am in good care,’ he said.
“‘I can see that,’ Turgut agreed. ‘Madam, I congratulate you for trying. But it is useless to attempt to kill a dead man.’
“‘How did you know?’ I gasped.
“‘Oh, I know,’ he said grimly. ‘I know the look of that face. It is the expression of the undead. There is no other face like that. I have seen it before.’
“‘It was a silver bullet, of course.’ Helen held the handkerchief more firmly on Mr. Aksoy’s cheek and eased his head back against her shoulder. ‘But, as you saw, he moved, and I missed his heart. I know I took a great risk’—she looked deeply at me for a moment, but I couldn’t read her thoughts—‘but you could see for yourselves that I was right in my calculation. A mortal man would have been seriously wounded by such shots.’ She sighed and adjusted the handkerchief.
“I looked from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘Have you been carrying around that gun all the time?’ I asked Helen.
“‘Oh, yes.’ She pulled Aksoy’s arm over her shoulder. ‘Here, help me get him up.’ Together we lifted him—he was light as a child—and steadied him on his feet. He smiled and nodded, shrugging off our assistance. ‘Yes, I always carry my pistol when I feel any sort of—uneasiness. And i
t is not so difficult to acquire a silver bullet or two.’
“‘That is true.’ Turgut nodded.
“‘But where did you learn to shoot like that?’ I was still stunned by that moment when Helen had drawn and aimed so quickly.
“Helen laughed. ‘In my country, our education is deep as well as narrow,’ she said. ‘I received an award for my shooting in our youth brigade when I was sixteen. I am glad to find I have not forgotten how.’
“Suddenly Turgut gave a cry and struck his forehead. ‘My friend!’ We all stared. ‘My friend—Erozan! I am forgetting him.’
“It took us only a second to grasp his meaning. Selim Aksoy, who seemed recovered now, was the first to hurry into the stacks where he’d received his injury, and the rest of us scattered quickly around the long room, searching under tables and behind chairs. For a few minutes the hunt was fruitless. Then we heard Selim calling us, and we all rushed to his side. He was kneeling in the stacks, at the foot of a high shelf laden with all kinds of boxes, bags, and rolled-up scrolls. The box that housed the papers of the Order of the Dragon lay on the floor beside him, its ornate lid open and some of its contents scattered nearby.
“Among these relics, Mr. Erozan was stretched out on his back, white and still, his head lolling to one side. Turgut knelt and put his ear to the man’s chest. ‘Thank God,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is breathing.’ Then, examining him more closely, he pointed to his friend’s neck. Deep in the loose, pale flesh just above the shirt collar, there was a ragged wound. Helen knelt beside Turgut. We were all silent for a moment. Even after Rossi’s description of the bureaucrat who had confronted him many years before, even after Helen’s injury in the library at home, I found it hard to believe what I was seeing. The man’s face was terribly pale, almost gray, and his breathing came in shallow, short gasps, barely audible until you listened carefully.