The Historian Read Online Free PDF Page A

standstill. Rossi left no stone unpublished; it was part of his productivity, his lavish genius. He sternly instructed his students to do the same, to waste nothing.
    ―What I found in Istanbul was too serious not to be taken seriously. Perhaps I was wrong in my decision to keep this information—as I can honestly call it—to myself, but each of us has his own superstitions. Mine happen to be an historian‘s. I was afraid.‖
    I stared and he gave a sigh, as if reluctant to go on. ―You see, Vlad Dracula had always been studied in the great archives of Central and Eastern Europe or, ultimately, in his home region. But he began his career as a Turk-killer, and I discovered that no one had ever looked in the Ottoman world for material on the Dracula legend. That was what took me to Istanbul, a secret detour from my research on the early Greek economies. Oh, I published all the Greek stuff, with a vengeance.‖
    For a moment he was silent, turning his gaze toward the window. ―And I suppose I should just tell you, straight out, what I discovered in the Istanbul collection and tried not to think about afterward. After all, you‘ve inherited one of these nice books.‖ He put his hand gravely on the stack of two. ―If I don‘t tell you all this myself, you will probably simply retrace my steps, maybe at some added risk.‖ He smiled a little grimly at the top of the desk. ―I could save you a great deal of grant writing, anyway.‖
    I couldn‘t bring the dry chuckle out of my throat. What on earth was he driving at? It occurred to me that perhaps I‘d underestimated some peculiar sense of humor in my mentor. Maybe this was an elaborate practical joke—he‘d had two versions of the menacing old book in his library and had planted one in my stall, knowing I‘d bring it to him, and I‘d obliged, like a fool. But in the ordinary lamplight from his desk he was suddenly gray, unshaven at the end of the day, with dark hollows draining the color and humor from his eyes. I leaned forward. ―What are you trying to tell me?‖
    ―Dracula—‖ He paused. ―Dracula—Vlad Tepes—is still alive.‖
    ―Good Lord,‖ my father said suddenly, looking at his watch. ―Why didn‘t you tell me?
    It‘s almost seven o‘clock.‖

    I put my cold hands inside my navy jacket. ―I didn‘t know,‖ I said. ―But please don‘t stop the story. Please don‘t stop there.‖ My father‘s face looked momentarily unreal to me; I‘d never before considered the possibility that he might be—I didn‘t know what to call it.
    Mentally unbalanced? Had he lost his balance for a few minutes, in the telling of this story?
    ―It‘s late for such a long tale.‖ My father picked up his teacup and put it down again. I noticed that his hands were shaking.
    ―Please go on,‖ I said.
    He was ignoring me. ―Anyway, I don‘t know whether I‘ve scared you or simply bored you. You probably wanted a good straightforward tale of dragons.‖
    ―There was a dragon,‖ I said. I wanted, too, to believe he had made the story up. ―Two dragons. Will you at least tell me more tomorrow?‖
    My father rubbed his arms, as if to warm himself, and I saw that for now he was fiercely unwilling to talk about it further. His face was dark, closed. ―Let‘s go get some dinner.
    We can leave our luggage at Hotel Turist first.‖
    ―All right,‖ I said.
    ―They‘re going to throw us out in a minute, anyway, if we don‘t leave.‖ I could see the light-haired waitress leaning against the bar; she didn‘t seem to care whether we stayed or went. My father got out his wallet, smoothed flat some of those big faded bills, always with a miner or farmworker smiling heroically off the back, and put them in the pewter tray. We worked our way around wrought-iron chairs and tables and went out the steamy door.
    Night had come down hard—a cold, foggy, wet, East European night, and the street was almost deserted. ―Keep your hat on,‖ my father said, as he always