The Historian

I stood perfectly still on the street, while a feeling of unreality broke over me; the cars, passing, were just as solid as before, a car horn honked somewhere, a man with a dog on a leash was trying to get around me, between me and the ginkgo tree. I looked quickly up at the museum windows, thinking of the librarian, but they reflected only the houses opposite. No lace curtain moved there, either, and no door closed quietly as I looked around. Nothing was wrong on this street.

In my hotel room, I set my book on the glass-topped table and washed my face and hands. Then I went to the windows and stood looking out over the city. Down the block I could see the patrician ugliness of Philadelphia City Hall, with its statue of peace-loving William Pe

But it was not this scene that filled my gaze. I was thinking, in spite of myself, of another one, which I seemed to have watched before. I leaned against the window, feeling the summer sun, feeling oddly safe despite my great height from the ground, as if unsafety lay for me in a completely different realm.

Iwas imagining a clear autumn morning in 1476, a morning just cool enough to make mist rise from the surface of the lake. A boat runs aground at the edge of the island, below the walls and domes with their iron crosses. There is the gentle scraping of a wooden bow on rocks, and two monks hurry out from beneath the trees to pull it ashore. The man who steps out of it is alone, and the feet he sets on the stone embankment are clad in finely made boots of red leather, each with a sharp spur clamped to it. He is shorter than both of the young monks but seems to tower over them. He is dressed in purple and red damask under a long black velvet cloak, which is pi

The abbot has been notified already and hurries to meet him under the trees. “We are honored, my lord,” he says, extending his hand. Dracula kisses his ring and the abbot makes the sign of the cross over him. “Bless you, my son,” he adds, as if in spontaneous thanksgiving. He knows that the prince’s appearance is just short of miraculous; Dracula has probably crossed Turkish holdings to get here. This is not the first time the abbot’s patron has appeared as if by divine transport. The abbot has heard that the metropolitan at Curtea de Arges will soon reinvest Dracula as ruler of Wallachia, and then, no doubt, the Dragon will at last wrest all Wallachia from the Turks. The abbot’s fingers touch his prince’s broad forehead in benediction. “We thought the worst when you did not come in the spring. God be praised.”

Dracula smiles but says nothing, giving the abbot a long look. They have argued about death before, the abbot recalls; Dracula has asked the abbot several times in confession whether he, the holy man, thinks every si

In the abbot’s chamber they drink tea and then Dracula sets a velvet bag before the abbot. “Open it,” he says, smoothing his mustache. His muscular legs are braced far apart in his chair; the ever-present sword still hangs at his side. The abbot wishes Dracula would give his gifts with more humility, but he quietly opens the sack. “Turkish treasure,” Dracula says, his smile broadening. One of his lower teeth is missing, but the rest are strong and white. Inside the bag the abbot finds jewels of infinite beauty, large clusters of emeralds and rubies, heavy gold rings and brooches of an Ottoman make, and among them other items, including a fine cross of chased gold with dark sapphires. The abbot doesn’t want to know where these have come from. “We will furnish the sacristy and put in a new baptismal font,” Dracula says. “I want you to order artisans from wherever you want. This will easily pay for it, with enough left over for my grave.”

“Your grave, my lord?” The abbot looks respectfully at the floor.

“Yes, Eminence.” His hand goes to his sword hilt again. “I have been thinking about it and I would like to be placed before the altar, with a marble stone above. You will give me the finest sung services, of course. Bring in a second choir for that.” The abbot bows, but he is u

The abbot looks up, startled. “No cross, my lord?”

“No cross,” the prince says firmly. He looks the abbot full in the face, and for a moment the abbot does not dare to ask more. But he is this man’s spiritual adviser, and after another moment he speaks up. “Every grave is marked with the suffering of our Savior, and yours must have the same honor.”

Dracula’s face darkens. “I do not plan to subject myself long to death,” he says in a low voice.

“There is only one way in which to escape death,” the abbot says bravely, “and that is through the Redeemer, if He grants us His grace.”

Dracula stares at him for a few minutes and the abbot tries not to look away. “Perhaps,” he says finally. “But recently I met a man, a merchant who has traveled to a monastery in the West. He said there is a place in Gaul, the oldest church in their part of the world, where some of the Latin monks have outwitted death by secret means. He offered to sell me their secrets, which he has inscribed in a book.”

The abbot shudders. “God preserve us from such heresies,” he says hastily. “I am certain, my son, that you refused this temptation.”

Dracula smiles. “You know I am fond of books.”

“There is only one true Book, and that is the one we must love with all our hearts and all our souls,” the abbot says, but at the same moment he is unable to take his eyes off the prince’s scarred hand and the inlaid hilt with which it plays. Dracula wears a ring on his little finger; the abbot well knows, without looking closer, the ferociously curling symbol on it.

“Come.” To the abbot’s relief, Dracula has apparently tired of this debate, and he stands up suddenly, vigorously. “I want to see your scribes. I will have a special job for them soon.”

They go together into the tiny scriptorium, where three of the monks sit copying manuscripts, according to the old way, and one carves letters to print a page of the life of Saint Anthony. The press itself stands in one corner. It is the first printing press in Wallachia, and Dracula runs a proud hand over it, a heavy, square hand. The oldest of the scriptorium monks stands at a table near the press, chiseling a block of wood. Dracula leans over it. “And what will this be, Father?”