Chapter 29
To step off even a modern train into that great arena of travel, the Gare du Nord, with its soaring framework of old iron and glass, its hoopskirted, light-filled beauty, is to step directly into Paris. Barley and I descended from the train, bags in hand, and stood for a couple of minutes drinking it all in. At least, that is what I was doing, although I had been there many times by then, passing through on my travels with my father. Thegare echoed with the sounds of trains braking, people talking, footsteps, whistles, the rush of pigeon wings, the clink of coins. An old man in a black beret passed us with a young woman on his arm. She had beautifully coiffed red hair and wore pink lipstick, and I imagined for a moment trading places with her. Oh, to look like that, to be Parisian, to be grown-up and have high-heeled boots and real breasts and an elegant, aging artist at your side! Then it occurred to me that he might be her father, and I felt very lonely.
I turned to Barley, who had apparently been drinking in the smells rather than the sights. “God, I’m hungry,” he grumbled. “If we’re here, let’s at least eat something good.” He darted off toward a corner of the station as if he knew the way by heart; it turned out, in fact, that he knew not only the way but the mustard and the selection of finely sliced ham by heart, and soon we were eating two large sandwiches in white paper, Barley not even bothering to sit down on the bench I found.
I was hungry, too, but mostly I was worried about what to do next. Now that we were off the train, Barley could go to any public phone in sight and find a way to call Mrs. Clay or Master James or perhaps an army of gendarmes to take me back to Amsterdam in handcuffs. I looked warily up at him, but his face was mostly obscured by the sandwich. When he emerged from it to drink a little orange soda, I said, “Barley, I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“Now what?”
“Please don’t make any phone calls. I mean, please, Barley, don’t betray me. I’m going south from here, no matter what. You can see I can’t go home without knowing where my father is and what’s happening to him, can’t you?”
He sipped gravely. “I can see that.”
“Please, Barley.”
“What do you take me for?”
“I don’t know,” I said, bewildered. “I thought you were angry about my running away and might still feel you had to report me.”
“Just think,” said Barley. “If I were really upstanding, I could be on my way back to tomorrow’s lectures-and a good sound scolding from James-right now, with you in tow. Instead, here I am, forced by gallantry-and curiosity-to accompany a lady to the south of France at the drop of a hat. You think I’d miss out on that?”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, but more gratefully.
“We’d better ask about the next train to Perpignan,” Barley said, folding up his sandwich paper decisively.
“How did you know?” I said, astonished.
“Oh, you think you’re so mysterious.” Barley was looking exasperated again. “Didn’t I translate all that business in the vampire collection for you? Where could you be going if not to that monastery in the Pyrenees-Orientales? Don’t I know my map of France? Come on, don’t start scowling. It makes your face so much less piquant.” And we went to thebureau de change arm in arm, after all.
“When Turgut uttered Rossi’s name in that unmistakable tone of familiarity, I had the sudden sense of a world shifting, of bits of color and shape knocked out of place into a vision of intricate absurdity. It was as if I’d been watching a familiar movie and suddenly a character who had never been part of it before had strolled onto the screen, joining the action seamlessly but without explanation.
“‘Do you know Professor Rossi?’ Turgut repeated in the same tone.
“I was still speechless, but Helen had apparently made a decision. ‘Professor Rossi is Paul’s adviser in the history department of our university.’
“‘But that is incredible,’ Turgut said slowly.
“‘You knew of him?’ I asked.
“‘I have never met him,’ Turgut said. ‘But I heard of him in a most unusual way. Please, this is a story I must tell you, I think. Sit down, my fellows.’ He gestured hospitably, even in the midst of his amazement. Helen and I had leaped to our feet, but now we settled near him. ‘There is something here too extraordinary -’ He broke off, and then seemed to force himself to explain to us. ‘Years ago, when I became enamored of this archive, I asked the librarian for all possible information about it. He told me that in his memory no one else had ever examined it, but that he thought his ancestor-I mean, the librarian before him-knew something about it. I went to see the old librarian.’
“‘Is he alive now?’ I gasped.
“‘Oh, no, my friend. I am sorry. He was terribly old then, and he died a year after I talked with him, I believe. But his memory was excellent, and he told me that he had locked up the collection because he had a bad feeling about it. He said a foreign professor had looked at it once and then become very-how do you say?-upset and almost crazy, and run out of the building suddenly. The old librarian said that a few days after this happened, he was sitting alone in the library one day with some work, and he looked up and suddenly noticed a large man examining the same documents. No one had come in, and the door to the street was locked because it was evening, after the public hours for the library. He could not understand how the man had got in. He thought perhaps he had not locked the door after all, and had not heard the man come up the stairs, although this hardly seemed possible. Then he told me’-Turgut leaned forward and lowered his voice further-‘he told me that when he went close to the man to ask him what he was doing, the man looked up and-you see-there was a little bit of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.’
“I felt a wave of revulsion, and Helen raised her shoulders as if to ward off a shudder. ‘The old librarian did not want to tell me about it, at first. I believe he was afraid I would think he was losing his mind. He told me the sight made him feel faint, and when he looked again the man was gone. But the documents were still scattered on the table, and the next day he bought this holy box in the antiques market and put the documents into it. He kept them locked up, and he said no one troubled them again while he was librarian here. He never saw the strange man again.’
“‘And what about Rossi?’ I demanded.
“‘Well, you see, I was determined to trace every little path of this story, so I asked him for the foreign researcher’s name, but he could not remember anything except that he thought it was Italian. He told me to look in the register for 1930, if I wanted to, and my friend here allowed me to do so. I found Professor Rossi’s name, after some searching, and discovered he was from England, from Oxford. Then I wrote him a letter in Oxford.’
“‘Did he reply?’ Helen was almost glaring at Turgut.
“‘Yes, but he was no longer at Oxford. He had gone to an American university-yours, although I didn’t connect the name when we first talked-and the letter found him there after a long time, and then he wrote back. He told me that he was sorry but he did not know anything about the archive to which I referred and could not help me. I will show you the letter at my apartment when you come for dinner with me. It arrived shortly before the war.’
“‘This is very strange,’ I muttered. ‘I just can’t understand it.’
“‘Well, this is not the strangest thing,’ Turgut said urgently. He turned to the parchment on the table, the bibliography, and his finger traced Rossi’s name at the bottom. Looking at it, I noticed again the words after the name. They were Latin, I was sure, although my Latin, dating back to my first two years of college, had never been impressive and was now rusty, to boot.
“‘What does that say? Do you read Latin?’
“To my relief, Turgut nodded. ‘It says, ”Bartolomeo Rossi, ’The Spirit- the Ghost-in the Amphora.‘“’
“My thoughts whirled. ‘But I know that phrase. I think-I’m sure that’s
