“At this moment a man came around the bend in the path. I was so startled by his sudden appearance that I almost swore aloud. But he was a simple-looking person, roughly dressed and with a bundle of branches on his shoulder, and he waved a hand to us in greeting and passed on. I looked at Helen.

“‘You see?’ she said quietly.”

“Partway up the mountain we found a steep outcropping of rock. ‘Look,’ Helen said. ‘Let’s sit here for a few minutes.’

“The steep, wooded valley lay directly below us, almost filled by the walls and red roofs of the monastery. I could see clearly now the enormous size of the complex. It formed an angular shell around the church, whose domes glowed in the afternoon light, and Hrelyo’s Tower rose in its midst. ‘You can tell from up here how well-fortified the place was. Imagine how often enemies must have looked down on it like this.’

“‘Or pilgrims,’ Helen reminded me. ‘For them it would have been a spiritual destination, not a military challenge.’ She leaned back against a tree trunk, smoothing her skirt. She had dropped her handbag, taken off her hat, and rolled up the sleeves of her pale blouse for relief from the heat. Fine perspiration stood out on her forehead and cheeks. Her face wore the expression I loved best-she was lost in thought, gazing inward and outward at the same time, her eyes wide and intent, her jaw firm; for some reason I valued this look even more than the ones she turned directly on me. She wore her scarf around her neck, although the librarian’s mark had faded to a bruise, and the little crucifix glinted below it. Her harsh beauty sent a pang through me, not of mere physical longing but of something akin to awe at her completeness. She was untouchable, mine but lost to me.

“‘Helen,’ I said, without taking her hand. I hadn’t meant to speak, but I couldn’t stop myself. ‘I’d like to ask you something.’

“She nodded, her eyes and thoughts still on the tremendous sanctuary below us.

“‘Helen, will you marry me?’

“She turned slowly in my direction, and I wondered if I was seeing astonishment, amusement, or pleasure on her face. ‘Paul,’ she said sternly. ‘How long have we known each other?’

“‘Twenty-three days,’ I admitted. I realized now that I hadn’t thought carefully about what I would do if she said no, but it was too late to retract the question, to save it for another moment. And if she said no I couldn’t throw myself off a mountain in the middle of my search for Rossi, although I might be tempted to.

“‘Do you think you know me?’

“‘Not at all,’ I countered staunchly.

“‘Do you think I know you?’

“‘I’m not sure.’

“‘We have so little experience of each other. We come from completely different worlds.’ She smiled this time, as if to take some of the sting out of her words. ‘Besides, I have always thought I would not get married. I am not the sort who marries. And what about this?’ She touched the scarf on her neck. ‘Would you marry a woman who has been marked by hell?’

“‘I would protect you from any hell that could ever come near you.’

“‘Would that not be a burden? And how could we have children’-her look was hard and direct-‘knowing they might be affected somehow by this contamination?’

“It was hard for me to speak through the burning in my throat. ‘Then is your answer no, or shall I just ask you again another time?’

“Her hand-I couldn’t imagine doing without that hand, with its square-tipped fingernails and soft skin over hard bone-closed over mine, and I thought fleetingly that I didn’t have a ring to put on it.

“Helen glanced gravely at me. ‘The answer is that of course I will marry you.’

“After weeks of futile search for the other person I loved best, I was too stunned by the ease of this discovery to speak or even to kiss her. We sat close together in silence, looking down at the red and gold and gray of the vast monastery.”

Chapter 63

Barley stood beside me in my father’s hotel room, contemplating the mess, but he was quicker to see what I had missed-the papers and books on the bed. We found a tattered copy of Bram Stoker’sDracula, a new history of medieval heresies in southern France, and a very old-looking volume on European vampire lore.

Among the books lay papers, including notes in his own hand, and among these a scattering of postcards in a hand completely unfamiliar to me, a fine dark ink, neat and minute. Barley and I began of one accord-again, how glad I was not to be alone-to search through everything, and my first instinct was to gather up the postcards. They were ornamented with stamps from a rainbow of countries: Portugal, France, Italy, Monaco, Finland, Austria. The stamps were pristine, without postmarks. Sometimes the message on a card ran over onto four or five more, neatly numbered. Most astonishingly, each was signed “Helen Rossi.” And each was addressed to me.

Barley, looking over my shoulder, took in my astonishment, and we sat down together on the edge of the bed. The first was from Rome-a black-and-white photograph of the skeletal remains of the Forum.

May 1962

My beloved daughter:

In what language should I write to you, the child of my heart and my body, whom I have not seen in more than five years? We should have been speaking together all this time, a no-language of small sounds and kisses, glances, murmuring. It is so difficult for me to think about, to remember what I have missed, that I have to stop writing today, when I have only started trying.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

The second was a color postcard, already fading, of flowers and urns-“Jardins de Boboli-The Gardens of Boboli-Boboli.”

May 1962

My beloved daughter:

I will tell you a secret: I hate this English. English is an exercise in grammar, or a class in literature. In my heart, I feel I could speak best with you in my own language, Hungarian, or even in the language that flows inside my Hungarian-Romanian. Romanian is the language of the fiend I am seeking, but even that has not spoiled it for me. If you were sitting on my lap this morning, looking out at these gardens, I would teach you a first lesson:“Ma numesc…”And then we would whisper your name over and over in the soft tongue that is your mother tongue, too. I would explain to you that Romanian is the language of brave, kind, sad people, shepherds and farmers, and of your grandmother, whose life he ruined from a distance. I would tell you the beautiful things she told me, the stars at night above her village, the lanterns on the river.“Ma numesc…”Telling you about that would be unbearable happiness for one day.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

Barley and I looked at each other, and he put his arm softly around my neck.

Chapter 64

“We found Stoichev in a state of excitement at the library table. Ranov sat across from him, drumming his fingers and occasionally glancing at a document as the old scholar set it aside. He looked as irritated as I’d seen him yet, which suggested that Stoichev hadn’t been answering his questions. When we came in, Stoichev looked up eagerly. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said in a whisper. Helen sat down next to him and I leaned over the manuscripts he was examining. They were similar to Brother Kiril’s letters in design and execution, written in a beautifully close, neat hand on leaves that were faded and crumbling at the edges. I recognized the Slavonic script from the letters. Next to them he had laid out our maps. I found myself hardly breathing, hoping against hope that he would tell us something of real import. Perhaps the tomb was even here at Rila, I thought suddenly-perhaps that’s why Stoichev insisted on coming here, because he suspected as much. I was surprised and uneasy, though, that he wanted to make any announcement in front of Ranov.