and we want to know if a group of pilgrims came here from Wallachia by way of Constantinople in the late fifteenth century, carrying a holy relic.’
“Ranov shrugged but made the attempt, and Brother Angel responded with a snarl of syllables, shaking his head. Did that mean yes or no? I wondered. ‘More nonsense,’ Ranov noted. ‘This time it sounds like something about the invasion of Constantinople by the Turks, so at least he understood that much.’
“Suddenly the old man’s eyes seemed to clear, as if their crystalline focus had really taken us in for the first time. In the midst of his strange flow of sounds-language, was it?-I distinctly heard the nameAtanas Angelov.
“‘Angelov!’ I cried, speaking directly to the old monk. ‘Did you know Atanas Angelov? Do you remember working with him?’
“Ranov listened with care. ‘It is still mostly nonsense, but I will try to tell you what he is saying. Listen carefully.’ He began to translate, quickly and dispassionately; much as I disliked him, I had to admire his skill. ”I worked with Atanas Angelov. Years ago, maybe centuries. He was crazy. Turn off that light over there-it hurts my legs. He wanted to know everything about the past, but the past does not want you to know her. She says no no no. She springs up and injures you. I wanted to take the number eleven, but that does not go to our neighborhood anymore. In any case, Comrade Dimitrov canceled the pay we were going to receive, for the good of the people. Good people.“‘
“Ranov took a breath, during which he must have missed something, since Brother Angel’s flow of words continued. The old monk was still motionless in his chair from the neck down, but his head wagged and his face contracted. ‘”Angelov found a dangerous place, he found a place called Sveti Georgi, he heard the singing. That is where they buried a saint and danced on his grave. I can offer you some coffee, but it is only ground wheat, wheat and dirt. We don’t even have any bread.“’
“I knelt in front of the old monk and took his hand, although Helen seemed to want to hold me back. His hand was as limp as a dead fish, white and puffy, the nails yellow and weirdly long. ‘Where is Sveti Georgi?’ I pleaded. I felt that in another minute I might begin to cry, in front of Ranov and Helen and these two desiccated creatures in their prison.
“Ranov crouched next to me, trying to catch the monk’s wandering eyes.‘K’de e Sveti Georgi?’But Brother Angel had followed his own gaze into a faraway world again. ‘”Angelov went to Athos and saw thetypikon, he went into the mountains and found the terrible place. I took the number eleven to his apartment. He said, ’Come quickly I have found out something. I am going back there to dig in the past.‘ I would give you some coffee, but it is only dirt. Oh, oh, he was dead in his room, and then his body was not in the morgue.“’ Brother Angel broke into a smile that made me back away. He had two teeth and his gums were ragged. The breath that spilled from his mouth would have killed the devil himself. He began to sing in a high, trembling voice.
The dragon came down our valley.
He burned the crops and took the maidens.
He frightened the Turkish infidel and protected our villages.
His breath dried up the rivers and we walked across them.
“As Ranov finished translating, Brother Ivan, the librarian, spoke up with some animation. He still had his hands in his sleeves, but his face was bright and interested. ‘What’s he saying?’ I asked quickly.
“Ranov shook his head. ‘He says he has heard this song before. He collected it from an old woman in the village of Dimovo, Baba Yanka, who is a great singer there, where the river dried up long ago. They have several festivals there where they sing these old songs, and she is the leader of the singers. One of these will be in two days, the festival of Saint Petko, and you may wish to hear her.’
“‘More folk songs,’ I groaned. ‘Please ask Mr. Pondev-Brother Angel-if he knows what this song means.’
“Ranov put the question with considerable patience, but Brother Ivan sat grimacing and twitching and said nothing. After a moment, the silence drove me to the very edge of my feelings. ‘Ask him if he knows anything about Vlad Dracula!’ I shouted. ‘Vlad Tepes! Is he buried in this region? Has he ever heard that name? The nameDracula? ’ Helen had seized my arm, but I was beside myself. The librarian stared at me, although he seemed to feel no alarm, and Ranov gave me what I might have called a pitying look if I’d wanted to pay closer attention.
“But the effect on Pondev was horrifying. He turned very pale and his eyes rolled back in his head like great blue marbles. Brother Ivan leaped forward and grabbed him as he slumped from the chair, and he and Ranov managed to get him onto the cot. He was a clumsy mass, swollen white feet protruding from the bedclothes, arms dangling around their necks. When they had him safely prone, the librarian fetched water from a pitcher and trickled some on the poor man’s face. I stood aghast; I hadn’t meant to cause such anguish, and perhaps now I’d killed one of our only remaining sources of information. After an endless moment, Brother Angel stirred and opened his eyes, but now they were wild eyes, wary as a hunted beast’s, and they flickered in terror around the room as if he couldn’t see us at all. The librarian patted his chest and tried to make him more comfortable on the cot, but the old monk pushed his hands away, trembling. ‘Let us leave him,’ Ranov said somberly. ‘He is not going to die-of this, at least.’ We followed the librarian out of the room, all of us silent and chastened.
“‘I’m sorry,’ I said, in the reassuring brightness of the courtyard.
“Helen turned to Ranov. ‘Could you ask the librarian if he knows anything more about that song, or what valley it came from?’
“Ranov and the librarian conferred, the librarian glancing at us. ‘He says it comes from Krasna Polyana, the valley on the other side of those mountains, to the northeast. You may come with him to the saint’s festival in two days if you wish to stay here. This old singer might know something about it-she will at least be able to tell you where she learned it.’
“‘Do you think that would be helpful?’ I murmured to Helen.
“She gave me a sober look. ‘I don’t know, but it is all we have. Since it mentions a dragon, we should pursue it. In the meantime, we can explore Bachkovo thoroughly, and perhaps use the library if this librarian will help us.’
“I sat wearily down on a stone bench at the edge of the galleries. ‘All right,’ I said.”
Chapter 68
September 1962
My beloved daughter:
Damn this English! But when I try to write to you in Hungarian, a few lines, I know at once that you are not listening. You are growing up in English. Your father, who believes that I am dead, speaks to you in English as he swings you up onto his shoulder. He speaks to you in English as he puts your shoes on-you have been wearing real shoes for years now-and in English as he holds your hand in a park. But if I speak to you in English, I feel that you cannot hear me. I didn’t write to you at all for a long time, because I could not hear you listening in any language. I know your father believes I am dead, because he has never tried to find me. If he had tried to, he would have succeeded. But he cannot hear me in any language.
Your loving mother,
Helen
May 1963
My beloved daughter:
I do not know how many times I have silently explained to you that in the first few months you and I were very happy together. The sight of you waking from your nap, your hands moving before any other part of you stirred, your dark lashes fluttering next, and then your stretching, your
