“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 littlebörek. You have hadbörek? ’

“‘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 some sugar into my tea from a bowl on the table, picked up my spoon, and stirred it. I had every intention of calming myself with the hot drink, but then something very-very peculiar happened.’

“His voice trailed off as if he almost regretted having begun the story. I knew that feeling all too well, and nodded to encourage him. ‘Please, continue.’

“‘It sounds strange to say it now, but I am speaking truthfully. The steam rose up from the cup-you know how steam swirls when you stir something hot?-and when I stirred my tea, the steam rose up in the form of a tiny dragon, swirling above my cup. It hovered there for a few seconds before vanishing. I saw it very clearly with my own eyes. You can imagine how I felt, for a moment not trusting myself, and then I quickly gathered my papers, paid, and went out.’

“My mouth was dry. ‘And did you ever see that waiter again?’

“‘Never. I did not go back to the restaurant for some weeks, and then curiosity came over me, and I went in again after dark, but there was no sign of him. I even asked one of the other waiters about him, and that waiter said the man had worked there only a short while, and he did not know his last name. The man’s first name, he said, was Akmar. I never saw any other sign of him.’

“‘And did you think his face showed that he was -’ I trailed off.

“‘I was terrified by it. That is all I could have told you at that time. When I saw the face of the librarian you have-as you say-imported, I felt I knew it already. It is not simply the look of death. There is something in the expression -’ He turned uneasily and glanced toward the curtained niche where the portrait hung. ‘One thing that bludgeons me about your story, the information that you have just given me, is that this American librarian has progressed further toward his spiritual doom since you first saw him.’

“‘What do you mean?’

“‘When he attacked Miss Rossi in your library at home, you were able to knock him down. But my friend from the archive, whom he assaulted this morning, says he was very strong, and my friend is not so much slighter than you. The fiend also was already able to draw considerable blood from my friend, alas. And yet this vampire was out in the daylight when we saw him, so he cannot be yet completely corrupted. I conjecture the creature was drained of life a second time either at your university or here in Istanbul, and if he has connections here he will receive his third evil benediction soon and become forever undead.’

“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There is nothing we can do about the American librarian without being able to find him, so you will have to guard your friend here very carefully.’

“‘I shall,’ Turgut said with grim emphasis. He fell silent for a moment, and then turned to his bookcase again. Without a word he pulled from his collection a large album with Latin letters across the front. ‘Romanian,’ he told me. ‘This is a collection of images from churches in Transylvania and Wallachia, by an art historian who died only recently. He reproduced many images from churches that were later destroyed in the war, I am sorry to say. So this book is very precious.’ He put the volume into my hand. ‘Why don’t you turn to page twenty-five?’

“I did. There I found a spread across two pages-a colored engraving of a mural. The church that had once housed it was displayed in a little black-and-white photograph, inset: an elegant building with twisted bell towers. But it was the larger picture that caught my attention. To the left loomed a ferocious dragon in flight, its tail looped not once but twice, its golden eye rolling maniacally, its mouth spewing flame. It seemed about to swoop down to attack the figure on the right, a cowering man in chain mail and striped turban. The man crouched in fear, his curved scimitar in one hand and a round shield in the other. At first I thought he was standing in a field of strange plants, but when I looked carefully I saw that the objects around his knees were people, a tiny forest of them, and that each was writhing, impaled upon a stake. Some were turbaned, like the giant in their midst, but others were dressed in some sort of peasant garb. Still others wore flowing brocades and tall fur hats. There were blond heads and dark; noblemen with long brown mustaches; and even a few priests or monks in black robes and tall hats. There were women with dangling braids, naked boys, infants. There was even an animal or two. All were in agony.