“At the edge of the road, I turned back to see her again. She was standing in the doorway, one hand against the frame, as if our visit had weakened her. I put my briefcase down in the dust and went back to her so quickly that I didn’t know for a moment I had moved at all. Then, remembering Rossi, I took her in my arms and kissed her soft, lined cheek. She clung to me, a head shorter than I, and buried her face in my shoulder. Suddenly she pulled away and vanished into the house. I thought she wanted to be alone with her emotions and I turned away, too, but in a second she was back. To my astonishment, she grasped my hand and closed it over something small and hard.

“When I opened my fingers I saw a silver ring with a tiny coat of arms on it. I understood at once that it was Rossi’s, which she was returning to him through me. Her face shone above it; her eyes glowed lustrously dark. I bent and kissed her again, but this time on the mouth. Her lips were warm and sweet. As I released her, turning swiftly back to my briefcase and to Helen, I saw on the older woman’s face the gleam of a single tear. I’ve read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn’t, since hers was simply companion to my own.

“As soon as we were settled in the bus, I got out Rossi’s letters and carefully opened the first one. In recording it here, I will honor Rossi’s desire to protect his friend’s privacy with a nom de plume-a nom de guerre, he’d called it. It was very strange to see Rossi’s handwriting again-that same younger, less cramped version of it-on the yellowing pages.

“‘You’re going to read them here?’ Helen, leaning almost against my shoulder, looked startled.

“‘What, can you wait?’

“‘No,’ she said.”

Chapter 45

June 20, 1930

My dear friend,

I haven’t a soul in the world to talk to at this moment, and I find myself with pen in hand wishing for your company, in particular-you would be full of your usual mild amazement at the scene I’m enjoying just now. I’ve been in a state of disbelief myself today-as you would be if you could see where I am-on a train, although that’s hardly a clue in itself. But the train is puffing towards Bucarest. Good God, man, I hear you say through its whistle. But it is true. I hadn’t planned to come here, but something quite remarkable has brought me. I was in Istanbul until just a few days ago, on a bit of research I’ve been keeping under my hat, and I found something there that made me want to come here. Not want to, actually; it would be more accurate to say I’m terrified to, and yet feel compelled. You are such an old rationalist-you aren’t going to care for all this a bit, but I wish like the devil I had your brains along on my jaunt; I’m going to need every scrap of mine and more to find what I’m looking for.

We’re slowing for a town, with a chance to buy breakfast-I’ll desist for the moment and come back to this later.

Afternoon-Bucarest

I’m down for what would be a siesta if my mind weren’t in such a state of unrest and excitement. It’s accursedly hot here-I thought this would be a land of cool mountains, but if it is I haven’t reached any yet. Nice hotel, Bucarest is a sort of tiny Paris of the East, grand and small and a little faded, all at the same time. It must have been dashing in the Eighties and Nineties. It took me forever to find a cab, and then a hotel, but my rooms are fairly comfortable and I can rest and wash and think about what to do. I’m half inclined not to set down here what I’m about, but you’ll be so very perplexed by my ravings if I don’t that I think I must. To make it short and shocking, I’m on a quest of sorts, an historian’s hunt for Dracula-not Count Dracula of the romantic stage, but a real Dracula-Drakulya-Vlad III, a fifteenth-century tyrant who lived in Transylvania and Wallachia and dedicated himself to keeping the Ottoman Empire out of his lands as long as possible. I stopped in Istanbul the better part of a week to see an archive there that contains some documents about him collected by the Turks, and while there I found a most remarkable set of maps that I believe to be clues to the whereabouts of his tomb. I’ll explain to you at greater length when I’m home what sent me on this chase, and I simply have to beg your indulgence in the meantime. You can chalk it up to youth, you old sage, my setting out on this chase at all.

In any case, my stay in Istanbul turned dark at the end and has rather frightened me, although that will surely sound foolish at a distance. But I’m not easily put off a quest once I’ve begun, as you know, and I couldn’t help coming on here with copies I’ve made of those maps, to look for more information about Drakulya’s tomb. I should explain to you, at the very least, that he is supposed to have been buried in an island monastery in Lake Snagov, in western Roumania- Wallachia, the region is called. The maps I found in Istanbul, with his tomb clearly marked on them, show no island, no lake, and nothing that looks like western Roumania, as far as I can tell. It always seems to me a good idea to check the obvious first, since the obvious is sometimes the right answer. I’ve resolved, therefore-but here I’m sure you’re shaking your head over what you will call foolish stubbornness-to make my way to Lake Snagov with the maps and ascertain for myself that the tomb is not there. How I will go about that, I don’t yet know, but I can’t begin to be satisfied hunting elsewhere until I have ruled out this possibility. And, perhaps, after all, my maps are some kind of ancient hoax and I will find ample proof that the tyrant sleeps there and always has.

I must be in Greece by the fifth, so I have precious little time for this whole excursion. I only want to know if my maps fit anything at the site of the tomb. Why I need to know this, I cannot tell even you, dear man-I wish I knew, myself. I intend to conclude my Roumanian journey by visiting as much as I can of Wallachia and Transylvania. What comes to your mind when you think of the wordTransylvania,if you ponder it at all? Yes, as I thought-wisely, you don’t. But what comes tomymind are mountains of savage beauty, ancient castles, werewolves, and witches-a land of magical obscurity. How, in short, am I to believe I will still be in Europe, on entering such a realm? I shall let you know if it’s Europe or fairyland when I get there. First, Snagov-I set out tomorrow.

Your devoted friend,

Bartholomew Rossi

June 22

Lake Snagov

My dear friend,

I haven’t yet seen any place to post my first letter-to post it with the confidence, that is, that it will ever reach your hands-but I’ll go hopefully on here despite that, since a great deal has happened. I spent all day yesterday in Bucarest trying to locate good maps-I now have at least some road maps of Wallachia and Transylvania-and talking with everyone I could find at the university who might have some interest in the history of Vlad Tepes. No one here seems to want to discuss the subject, and I have the sense of their inwardly, if not outwardly, crossing themselves when I mention Dracula’s name. After my experiences in Istanbul, this makes me a little nervous, I confess, but I will press on for now.

In any case, yesterday I found a young professor of archaeology at the university who was kind enough to inform me that one of his colleagues, a Mr. Georgescu, has made a speciality of the history of Snagov and is digging out there this summer. Of course, I was tremendously excited to learn this and have decided to put myself, maps and bags and all, into the hands of a driver who can take me out there today; it is only some hours’ drive from Bucarest, he says, and we leave at one o’clock. I must go now to lunch somewhere-the little restaurants here are uncommonly nice, with glimpses of an Oriental luxury in their cuisine-before we depart.