“‘’Ranov has been told to give us whatever we want,‘ Helen remarked quietly when we had a moment alone, outside the hotel. ’Why is that? Why does someone think that is a good idea?‘ We looked fearfully at each other.
“‘I wish I knew,’ I said.
“‘We are going to have to be very careful here.’ Helen’s face was grave, her voice low, and I didn’t dare to kiss her in public. ‘Let us have an agreement from this moment that we will never reveal anything but our scholarly interests, and those as little as possible, if we have to discuss our work in front of him.’
“‘Agreed.’”
Chapter 55
“In these last years, I’ve found myself remembering over and over my first sight of Anton Stoichev’s house. Perhaps it made such a deep impression on me because of the contrast between urban Sofia and his haven just outside it, or perhaps I remember it so often because of Stoichev himself-the particular and subtle nature of his presence. I think, however, that I feel a keen, almost breathless anticipation when I recall the sight of Stoichev’s front gate because our meeting with him was the turning point in our search for Rossi.
“Much later, when I read aloud about the monasteries that lay outside the walls of Byzantine Constantinople, sanctuaries where their inhabitants sometimes escaped citywide edicts about one point of church ritual or another, where they were not protected by the great walls of the city but were a degree removed from the state’s tyrannical reach, I thought of Stoichev-his garden, its leaning apple and cherry trees starred with white, the house settled into a deep yard, its new leaves and blue beehives, the old double wooden gate with the portal above it that kept us out, the air of quiet over the place, the air of devotion, of deliberate retreat.
“We stood before that gate while the dust settled around Ranov’s car. Helen was the first to press the handle of one of the old latches; Ranov hung sullenly back as if he hated being seen there, even by us, and I felt strangely rooted to the ground. For a moment I was hypnotized by the midmorning vibration of leaves and bees, and by an unexpected, sickening feeling of dread. Stoichev, I thought, might well prove no help, a final dead end, in which case we would return home having walked a long path to nowhere. I’d imagined it a hundred times already: the silent flight back to New York from Sofia or Istanbul-I would like to see Turgut one more time, I thought-and the reorganization of my life at home without Rossi, the questions about where I had been, the problems with the department over my long absence, the resumption of my writing about those Dutch merchants-placid, prosaic people-under the guidance of some vastly inferior new adviser, and the closed door to Rossi’s office. Above all, I dreaded that closed door, and the ongoing investigation, the inadequate questioning of the police-‘So-Mr.-er-Paul, is it? You took a trip two days after your adviser disappeared?’-the small and puzzled gathering at a memorial service of sorts, eventually the question of Rossi’s works, his copyrights, his estate.
“Returning with my hand intertwined with Helen’s would be a great consolation, of course. I intended to ask her, when this horror was somehow over, to marry me; I would have to save a little money first, if I could, and take her to Boston to meet my parents. Yes, I would return with her hand in mine, but there would be no father from whom to request it in marriage. I watched through a shimmer of grief as Helen opened the gate.
“Inside, Stoichev’s house was sinking softly into an uneven ground-part yard and part orchard. The foundation of the house was built from a brownish-gray stone held together with white stucco; I later learned that this stone was a kind of granite, out of which most of Bulgaria ’s old buildings have sprung. Above the foundation the walls were brick, but brick of the softest, mellowest red-gold, as if they had been soaking in sunlight for generations. The roof was of fluted red ceramic tiles. Roof and walls were a little dilapidated. The whole house looked as if it had grown slowly out of the earth and was now slowly returning to it, and as if the trees had grown above it simply to shade this process. The first floor had put out a rambling wing on one side, and on the other stretched a trellis, which was covered with the tendrils of grapevines above and walled with pale roses below. Under the trellis sat a wooden table and four rough chairs, and I imagined how the shadow of the grape leaves would deepen there as summer progressed. Beyond this, and beneath the most venerable of the apple trees, hovered two ghostly beehives; near them, in full sun, lay a little garden where someone had already coaxed up translucent greens in neat rows. I could smell herbs and perhaps lavender, fresh grass and frying onions. Someone tended this old place with care, and I half expected to get a glimpse of Stoichev in monk’s habit, kneeling with his trowel in the garden.
“Then a voice began to sing inside, perhaps in the vicinity of the crumbling chimney and first-floor windows. It was not the baritone chant of the hermit, but a sweet, strong feminine voice, an energetic melody that made even Ranov, sulking next to me with his cigarette, look interested.‘Izvinete!’ he called.‘Dobar den!’The singing stopped abruptly and was followed by a clatter and a thump. Stoichev’s front door opened and the young woman who stood there stared hard at us, as if the last thing she’d imagined in her yard was people.
“I would have stepped forward, but Ranov cut me off, removing his hat, nodding, bowing, greeting her in a flow of Bulgarian. The young woman had put her hand to her cheek, regarding Ranov with a curiosity that seemed to me mingled with wariness. At second glance, she was not quite as young as I’d thought, but there was an energy and vigor about her that made me think she might be the author of the resplendent little garden and the good smells from the kitchen. Her hair was brushed back from a round face; she had a dark mole on her forehead. Her eyes, mouth, and chin looked like a pretty child’s. She had an apron over her white blouse and blue skirt. She surveyed us with a sharp glance that had nothing to do with the innocence of her eyes, and I saw that under her quick interrogations Ranov even opened his wallet and showed her a card. Whether she was Stoichev’s daughter or his housekeeper-did retired professors have housekeepers, in a communist country?-she was no fool. Ranov seemed to be making an uncharacteristic effort at charm; he turned, smiling, to introduce us to her. ‘This is Irina Hristova,’ he explained as we shook hands. ‘She is the ness of Professor Stoichev.’
“‘The nest?’ I said, thinking for a second that this was some elaborate metaphor.
“‘The daughter of his sister,’ Ranov said. He lit another cigarette and offered one to Irina Hristova, who refused with a decided nod. When he explained that we were from America, her eyes widened and she looked us over very carefully. Then she laughed, although I never knew what that meant. Ranov scowled again-I don’t think he was capable of looking pleasant for more than a few minutes at a time-and she turned and led us in.
“Again the house took me by surprise; it might be a sweet old farm outside, but inside, in a dusk that contrasted strongly with the sunlight of the front walk, it was a museum. The door opened directly onto a large room with a fireplace, where sunlight fell across the stones in place of fire. The furniture-dark, intricately carved bureaus set with mirrors, princely chairs and benches-would have been arresting in itself, but what drew my eye and Helen’s murmur of admiration was the rare mix of folk textiles and primitive paintings-icons, mainly, of a quality that in many cases seemed to me to surpass what we’d seen in the churches in Sofia. There were luminous-eyed Madonnas and thin-lipped, sad saints, large and small, highlighted with gilt paint or encased in beaten silver, apostles standing in boats, and martyrs patiently undergoing their martyrdoms. The rich, smoke-tinted, ancient colors were echoed on all sides by rugs and aprons woven in geometrical patterns, and even an embroidered vest and a couple of scarves trimmed with tiny coins. Helen pointed to the vest, which had strips of horizontal pockets sewn down each side. ‘For bullets,’ she said, simply.