“I am afraid we cannot help you,” the interpreter said for him. “The records you seek are not kept at the Palast. The person you spoke with at the cathedral was mistaken.”
“Does he know where we might look next?” Sam said.
The interpreter put the question to the priest, who pursed his lips, stroked his beard a bit more, then picked up the phone and spoke to someone on the other end. After some back and forth, he hung up. The translator told Sam and Remi,
“Personnel records for that period are housed in the Sveta Sofia . . . I’m sorry, the Hagia Sophia Church.”
“And where would we find that?” asked Remi.
“Directly east of here,” the translator replied. “One hundred meters, on the other side of the square.”
Sam and Remi were there ten minutes later, where they again waited, this time for a mere forty minutes, before being ushered into yet another priest’s office. This one spoke English very well, so they had their answer in short order: not only was the guide at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral mistaken but the priest at the Palast of Synode was as well.
“Records prior to the first Bulgarian Exarch, Antim I, who reigned until the outbreak of the Russo-Turkish War in 1787, are maintained in the Methodius.”
Sam and Remi looked at each other, took a breath, and asked, “What exactly is the Methodius?”
“Why, it’s the National Library of Bulgaria.”
“And where would we find it?”
“Just east of here, opposite the National Gallery of Foreign Art.”
Two hours after leaving their car, Sam and Remi found themselves back standing beside it and standing across the street from the Bulgarian National Library. Without realizing it, they’d parked ten paces from their ultimate destination.
Or so they thought.
This time, after a mere twenty minutes with a librarian, they learned that the Methodius had no record of a Metropolitan named Arnost Deniv dying in the early fifteenth century.
After apologizing, the librarian left them sitting alone at a reading table.
“Our shell game with the coffins on Sazan is starting to feel like a cakewalk,” Sam said.
“This can’t be the end,” Remi said. “We know Arnost Deniv existed. How can there be no record of him?”
From the table beside theirs, a smooth, basso voice said, “The answer, my dear, is there are several Arnost Denivs in the history of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church and most of them lived prior to the Russo-Turkish War.”
Sam and Remi turned and found themselves looking at a silver-haired man with twinkling green eyes. He gave them an easy, open smile and said, “Apologies for eavesdropping.”
“Not at all,” Remi replied.
The man said, “The trouble with the library is, they’re in the middle of digitizing their records. They haven’t fully cross-referenced the catalog. Consequently, if your request is not painstakingly specific, you miss the mark.”
“We’re open to any and all advice,” Sam said.
The man gestured for them to move to his table. Once they were seated, and he had restacked the books piled around him, he said, “As it happens, I’m working on a little history myself.”
“Of the Eastern Orthodox Church?” asked Remi.
The man smiled knowingly. “Among other things. My interests are . . . eclectic, I suppose you could say.”
“Interesting that our paths would cross here,” Sam said, studying the man’s face.
“Truth is stranger than fiction, I believe. This morning, while I was researching the Ottoman rule of Bulgaria, I came across the name Arnost Deniv-a Metropolitan from the fifteenth century.”
Remi replied, “But the librarian said there was no-”
“She said they had no record of a Metropolitan by that name dying during that period. The book in which I found him hasn’t been digitized yet. You see, when the Ottoman Empire-which was devoutly Muslim-conquered Bulgaria, thousands of clergy were killed. Often, those who survived were demoted or exiled, or both. This was the case with Arnost Deniv. He was quite influential, and this worried the Ottomans.”
“In 1422, after returning from missionary work in the East, he ascended to the level of Metropolitan, but four years later he was demoted and exiled. Under pain of death, he was ordered by the Ottomans to restrict his ministrations to the village in which he died two years later.”
“And let me guess,” Sam said. “The Ottomans did their best to destroy much of the EOC’s history during that period.”
“Correct,” the man said. “As far as many of the history texts of that time are concerned, Arnost Deniv was never more than a lowly priest in a tiny hamlet.”
“Then you can tell us where he’s buried?” asked Remi.
“Not only can I tell you that but I can show you where all his worldly possessions are on public display.”
26
Their benefactor’s instructions were simple: drive ten miles north to the town of Kutina, in the foothills of the Stara Planina Mountains. Find the Kutina Cultural History Museum, and ask to see the Deniv exhibit.
They pulled into Kutina shortly after one in the afternoon and stopped at a cafe for lunch. Using cobbled- together phrases, Sam and Remi were able to get directions to the museum.
“By the way,” Sam said as he opened the Fiat’s driver’s door, “did you get that man’s name? For the life of me, I can’t remember.”
With her own door half open, Remi paused. Her brows furrowed. “That’s funny . . . neither can I. Something that began with a
Sam nodded. “Yes, but was that his first name or his last name? Or both?”
Having seen more than their fair share of Eastern Orthodox churches, Sam and Remi were relieved to find the museum was located in an old butter yellow farmhouse overlooking the Iskar River. On either side of the structure was lush green horse pasture.
They parked in the museum’s gravel turnaround, got out, and climbed the porch steps. In the front door’s mullioned window was a universal “Be Back At” clock sign but in Cyrillic. The hands were pointed at two-thirty.
“Twenty minutes,” Sam said.
They sat down on the porch swing and rocked back and forth, chatting and killing time. A light rain began to fall, pattering on the roof above.
Remi asked, “Why don’t we have one of these? It’s relaxing.”
“We do,” Sam replied. “I bought it for you for Arbor Day four years ago.” Sam liked to surprise his wife with gifts on obscure holidays. “I haven’t had the time to put it together yet. I’ll move it to the top of my to do list.”
Remi hugged his arm. “Oh, that’s right. Arbor Day? Are you sure it wasn’t Groundhog Day?”
“No, we were in Ankara on Groundhog Day.”
“Are you sure? I could have sworn Ankara was in March . . .”
At 2:28 an old green Bulgaralpine coasted into the turnaround and pulled to a stop on the lawn. A lanky woman in granny glasses and a beret climbed out, saw them on the porch, and waved.
Sam now used the second phrase as the woman started up the porch steps. She replied, “Yes, I speak English. My sister, she lives in America-Dearborn, Michigan, America. She teaches me over the Internets. I am Sovka.”
Sam and Remi introduced themselves.
Sovka asked, “You have come to see the museums?”
“Yes,” said Remi.
