Turkish government to examine these materials. Is this true?’
“‘It most certainly is not.’ I produced for him a letter from the National Library, stating that I was to be permitted research rights in any of its divisions in Istanbul.
“‘Not good enough,’ he said, tossing it down on my papers. ‘Maybe you will need to come with me.’
“‘Where?’ I stood up, feeling safer on my feet now, but hoping he would not take my rising as compliance.
“‘To police, if necessary.’
“‘This is outrageous.’ When in bureaucratic doubt, I had learned, raise your voice. ‘I am a doctoral candidate at Oxford University and a citizen of the United Kingdom. I registered with the university here the day I arrived and received this letter as proof of my status. I will not be questioned by the police-or by you.’
“‘I see.’ He smiled in a way that curled my stomach into a knot. I had read a little about Turkish prisons and their occasionally Western inmates, and my situation struck me as precarious, although I didn’t understand what kind of trouble I could possibly be in. I hoped one of the shuffling librarians had heard me and would come in to quiet us down. Then I realized that they would certainly have been responsible for admitting this character, with his intimidating business card, into my presence. Perhaps he was actually someone important. He leaned forward. ‘Let me see what you are doing here. Move, please.’
“I stepped aside, reluctantly, and he bent over my work, slapping shut my dictionaries to read their covers, still with that disquieting smile. He was a massive presence across the table, and I noticed he had an odd smell, like a cologne used not quite successfully to cover something disagreeable. At last he picked up the map I had been working over, his hands suddenly gentle, handling it almost tenderly. He looked at it as if he didn’t need to examine it long to know what it was, although I thought that must be a bluff. ‘This is your archival material, yes?’
“‘Yes,’ I said angrily.
“‘This is very valuable possession of Turkish state. I do not believe that you will be needing it for foreign purposes. And this piece of paper, this little map, brings you whole way from your English university to Istanbul?’
“I considered retorting that I had other business as well, to throw him off my scholar’s track, but realized at once that this might invite further questioning. ‘Yes, in a nutshell.’
“‘Nutshell?’ he said, more mildly. ‘Well, I think you will find this temporarily confiscated. What a shame for foreign researcher.’
“I boiled, standing there, so close to my solution, and felt thankful that I hadn’t brought with me that morning any of my own careful copies of old maps of the Carpathians, which I’d meant to start comparing to this map the next day. They were hidden in my suitcase at the hotel. ‘You have absolutely no right to confiscate material I’ve already been given permission to work on,’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘I will certainly take this up with the National Library immediately. And with the British embassy. Anyway, what possible objection can you have to my studying these documents? They are obscure pieces of medieval history. They have nothing to do with the interests of the Turkish government, I’m sure.’
“The bureaucrat stood looking away from me, as if the spires of Hagia Sophia presented an interesting new angle he’d never had occasion to see before. ‘It is for your own good,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Much better to let someone else work on that. Some other time.’ He remained quite still there, head turned toward the window, almost as if he wanted me to follow his gaze to something. I had a childish feeling that I shouldn’t, because it might be a trick, so I looked at him, instead, waiting. And then I saw, as if he meant the greasy daylight to fall on it, his neck above his expensive shirt collar. On the side of it, in the deepest flesh of a muscular throat, were two brown-scabbed puncture marks, not fresh but not fully healed, as if he had been stabbed by twin thorns, or mutilated at knifepoint.
“I stepped back, away from the table, thinking I’d lost my mind with all my morbid readings, that I’d actually come unhinged. But the daylight was quite ordinary, the man in his dark wool suit perfectly real, down to the smell of unwash and perspiration and something else under his cologne. Nothing disappeared or changed. I couldn’t drag my eyes from those two half-healed little wounds. After a few seconds he turned back from the absorbing view, as if satisfied with what he had seen-or what I had-and smiled again. ‘For your own good, Professor.’
“I stood there wordlessly while he left the room with the map rolled up in his hand, and listened to his steps dying away on the stairs. A few minutes later one of the elderly librarians came in, a man with bushy gray hair, carrying two old folios, which he began to put away on a low shelf. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to him, my voice almost stuck in my throat. ‘Excuse me, but this is perfectly outrageous.’ He looked up at me, puzzled. ‘Who was that man? That bureaucrat?’
“‘Bureaucrat?’ The librarian faltered over my word.
“‘I must have an official letter from you at once about my right to work in this archive.’
“‘But you have all the right to work here,’ he said soothingly. ‘I have registered you here myself.’
“‘I know, I know. So you must catch him and make him return the map.’
“‘Catch who?’
“‘The man from the Ministry of-the man who just came up here. Didn’t you let him in?’
“He looked at me curiously from under his gray thatch. ‘Someone came in now? No one has come in for the last three hours. I am down at the entrance myself. Unfortunately we have few who do research here.’
“‘The man -’ I said, and stopped. I saw myself, suddenly, a crazy gesturing foreigner. ‘He took my map. I mean the archive’s map.’
“‘Map, Herr Professor?’
“‘I was working on a map. I signed it out this morning, at the desk.’
“‘Not that map?’ He pointed to my worktable. In the middle of it lay an ordinary road map of the Balkans that I had never seen in my life. It certainly hadn’t been there five minutes before. The librarian was putting away his second folio.
“‘Never mind.’ I gathered my books as quickly as I could and left the library. In the busy, traffic-filled street there was no sign of the bureaucrat, although several men of his build and height in similar suits hurried past me carrying briefcases. When I reached the room where I was staying, I found that my belongings had been moved, owing to some practical problems with the room. My first sketches of the old maps, as well as the completed notes I hadn’t needed that day, were gone. My suitcase had been perfectly repacked. The hotel staff said they knew nothing about it. I lay awake all night listening to every sound outside. The next morning I gathered up my unwashed clothes and my dictionaries and took the boat back to Greece.”
Professor Rossi folded his hands again and looked at me, as if waiting patiently for my disbelief. But I was suddenly shaken by belief, not doubt. “You went back to Greece?”
“Yes, and I spent the rest of the summer ignoring the memory of my adventure in Istanbul, although I couldn’t ignore its implications.”
“You left because you were-frightened?”
“Terrified.”
“But later you did all that research-or had it done-on your strange book?”
“Yes, mainly the chemical analysis at the Smithsonian. But when it was inconclusive-and under some other influences-I dropped the whole thing and put the book on my shelf. Up there, eventually.” He nodded to the highest roost in his cage. “It’s odd-I think about these events occasionally, and I seem to remember them very clearly sometimes and then only in fragments at other times. I suppose familiarity erodes even the most awful memories, though. And there are certainly periods-years at a time-when I don’t want
