no children; they loved my father. If my world came undone, I would go to them.
I blew out the lantern, braver now, and tiptoed over to peer outside. I could just see the moon, halved in a sky full of torn clouds. Across it sailed a shape I knew too well-no, it was just for a moment, and it was only a cloud, wasn’t it? The spread wings, the curling tail? It dissolved at once, but I went to Barley’s bed instead, and lay shivering for hours against his oblivious back.
“The business of transporting Mr. Erozan and settling him in Turgut’s Oriental parlor-where he lay pale but composed on one of the long divans-took much of the morning. We were still there when Mrs. Bora returned at noon from her school. She came in briskly, carrying a bag of produce in each little gloved hand. She was wearing a yellow dress and flowered hat today, so that she looked like a miniature daffodil. Her smile was fresh and sweet, too, even when she saw us all in her living room standing around a prostrate man. Nothing her husband did seemed to surprise her, I thought; perhaps that was one of the keys to a successful union.
“Turgut explained the situation to her in Turkish, and her cheerful expression was replaced first by obvious skepticism and then by a blossoming horror when he gently showed her the wound in her newest guest’s throat. She gave Helen and me a look of mute dismay, as if this was for her the initial wave of an evil knowledge. Then she took the librarian’s hand, which I knew from a moment before was not only white but cold. She held it briefly, wiped her eyes, and went quickly across to the kitchen, where we heard the distant rattle of her pots and pans. Whatever else happened, the afflicted man would have a good meal. Turgut prevailed upon us to stay for it, and Helen, to my surprise, followed Mrs. Bora to help.
“When we had made sure Mr. Erozan was resting comfortably, Turgut took me into his eerie study for a few minutes. To my relief, the curtains over the portrait were firmly closed. We sat there a while discussing the situation. ‘Do you think it’s safe for you and your wife to house this man here?’ I couldn’t help asking it.
“‘I will arrange every precaution. If he is better in a day or two, I will find a place for him to stay, with someone to watch him.’ Turgut had drawn up a chair for me and settled himself behind his desk. It was almost, I thought, like being with Rossi again in his university office, except that Rossi’s office was so determinedly cheerful, with its burgeoning plants and simmering coffee, and this one was so eccentrically somber. ‘I do not expect any further attack here, but if there is one, our American friend will face a formidable defense.’ Looking at his solid bulk behind the desk, I could easily believe him.
“‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We seem to have brought you a lot of trouble, Professor, right down to importing this menace to your door.’ I outlined for him briefly our encounters with the corrupted librarian, including my sighting of him in front of the Hagia Sophia the night before.
“‘Extraordinary,’ Turgut said. His eyes were alight with a grim interest, and he drummed his fingertips on the top of his desk.
“‘I have a question for you, too,’ I confessed. ‘You said in the archive this morning that you’d seen a face like his before. What did you mean by that?’
“‘Ah.’ My erudite friend folded his hands on his desk. ‘Yes, I will tell you about this. It has been many years since, but I remember it vividly. In fact, it happened a few days after I received the letter from Professor Rossi explaining to me that he knew nothing about the archive here. I had been at the collection in the late afternoon, after my classes-this was when it was housed in the old library buildings, before it was moved to its present location. I remember I was doing some research for an article on a lost work of Shakespeare,The King of Tashkani, which some believe was set in a fictional version of Istanbul. Perhaps you have heard of it?’
“I shook my head.
“‘It is quoted in the work of several English historians. From them we know that in the original play, an evil ghost called Dracole appears to the monarch of a beautiful old city that he- the monarch-has taken by force. The ghost says he was once the monarch’s enemy but that he now comes to congratulate him on his bloodthirstiness. Then he urges the monarch to drink deeply of the blood of the city’s inhabitants, who are now the monarch’s minions. It is a chilling passage. Some say it is not even Shakespeare, but I’-he slapped a confident hand on the edge of his desk-‘I believe that the diction, if quoted accurately, can only be Shakespeare’s, and that the city is Istanbul, renamed with the pseudo-Turkic title Tashkani.’ He leaned forward. ‘I also believe that the tyrant to whom the spirit appears was none other than Sultan Mehmed II, conqueror of Constantinople.’
“Chills crawled on the back of my neck. ‘What do you think the significance of this could be-where Dracula’s career is concerned, I mean?’
“‘Well, my friend, it is very interesting to me that the legend of Vlad Dracula penetrated even to Protestant England by-let us say-1590, so powerful it was. Furthermore, if Tashkani was indeed Istanbul, it shows how real a presence Dracula was here in Mehmed’s day. Mehmed entered the city in 1453. That was only five years after the young Dracula returned to Wallachia from his imprisonment in Asia Minor, and there is no certain evidence he ever returned to our region in his lifetime, although some scholars think he paid tribute to the sultan in person. I do not think that can be proved. I have a theory that he left a legacy of vampirism here, if not during his life then after his death. But’-he sighed-‘the line between literature and history is often a wobbling one, and I am not an historian.’
“‘You are a fine historian indeed,’ I said humbly. ‘I am overwhelmed by how many historical leads you have followed, and with such success.’
“‘You are kind, my young friend. In any case, one evening I was working on my article for this theory-it was never published, alas, because the editors of the journal to which I submitted it proclaimed that it was too superstitious in content-I was working well into the evening, and after about three hours at the archive I went to a restaurant across the street to have a littleborek. You have hadborek? ’
“‘Not yet,’ I admitted.
“‘You must try it as soon as possible-it is one of our delectable national specialities. So I went to this restaurant. It was already dark outside because this was in winter. I sat down at a table, and while I waited I took Professor Rossi’s letter out of my papers and reread it. As I mentioned, I had had it in my possession only a few days, and I was most perplexed by it. The waiter brought my meal, and I happened to see his face as he put down the dishes. His eyes were lowered, but it seemed to me that he suddenly noticed the letter I was reading, with Rossi’s name at the top. He glanced sharply at it once or twice, then appeared to erase all expression from his face, but I noticed that he stepped behind me to put another dish down on the table, and seemed to look at the letter again from over my shoulder.
“‘I could not explain this behavior, and it gave me a most uncomfortable feeling, so I quietly folded the letter up and prepared to eat my supper. He went away without speaking, and I could not help watching him as he moved around the restaurant. He was a big, broad-shouldered, heavy man with dark hair swept back from his face and large dark eyes. He would have been handsome if he had not looked-how do you say?-rather sinister. He seemed to ignore me throughout an hour, even after I’d finished my meal. I took out a book to read for a few minutes, and then he suddenly came to the table again and set a steaming cup of tea in front of me. I had ordered no tea, and I was surprised. I thought it might be a sort of gift, or a mistake. ”Your tea,“ he said as he put it down. ”I made sure that it is very hot.“
“‘Then he looked me right in the eyes, and I cannot explain how terrifying his face was to me. It was pale, almost yellow, in complexion, as if he had-how to say?-decayed inside. His eyes were dark and bright, almost like the eyes of an animal, under big eyebrows. His mouth was like red wax, and his teeth were very white and long-they looked oddly healthy in a sick face. He smiled as he bent over with the tea, and I could smell his strange odor, which made me feel sick and faint. You may laugh, my friend, but it was a little like an odor that I have always found pleasant under other circumstances-the smell of old books. You know that smell-it is parchment and leather, and-something else?’
“I knew, and I did not feel like laughing.
“‘He was gone a second later, moving without any hurry back toward the restaurant kitchen, and I was left there with a feeling that he had meant to show me something-his face, perhaps. He had wanted me to look carefully at him, and yet there was nothing specific I could name that would justify my terror.’ Turgut looked pale himself now, as he sat back in his medieval chair. ‘To settle my nerves, I put
