Chapter 2 Chapter One

In 1972, I was sixteen years old.My father said I wasn't old enough to travel with him, he was going on a diplomatic mission.At the time, his foundation was headquartered in Amsterdam, which was my home for such a long time that I almost forgot that I had lived in America as a child.I have always been an obedient child, and have remained so long into puberty.First of all, it should be stated that I am a child without a mother. My father is both father and mother, blindly caring for me meticulously, and hiring me a series of tutors and housekeepers. Never stingy, despite our modest lives.

Mrs. Clay was the last of these housekeepers.She looked after our house on the Ramgrahit canal in the heart of the old city.The beautiful house was empty when my father was away.Whenever my father came back from somewhere on the map that hung on the dining room wall, he smelled of a foreign country, excited but tired.We were always vacationing in Paris or Rome, tirelessly studying the places of interest that my father thought I should know about.But what I most want to visit are those places he has been alone, those strange places that I have never been to. Every time he is not at home, my life is a line between school and home.I was happiest when I was alone in my father's large, elegant study on the ground floor.That evening I took an ancient Indian translation from the shelf, along with an older book and a bag of yellowing papers.

To this day, I still can't understand how I took them down that day, and I was deeply attracted: the illustrations in the middle of the book exude that old smell, and I also found that the yellowed documents are all personal correspondence.I knew I wasn't supposed to be looking at my father's private papers, or anyone else's, and fearing Mrs. Clay was coming any minute to dust the spotless desk, I looked back at the door.But I stood by the bookshelf and couldn't help reading the first paragraph of the top letter for a few minutes. My dear, unfortunate heir: Whoever you are, I am very sorry to think that you are reading the letter I am obliged to leave behind.I'm sorry for myself—if this letter got into your hands, I must have been in trouble, perhaps dead, or worse.But I also feel sorry for you, the friend I never met.Because once you read this letter, someone must need this wicked message.If you are not my heir in any other sense, you are soon to be my heir - I am truly sorry to hand over this unbelievably wicked experience of mine to you.How this evil I have inherited I do not know, but I hope to find out the truth at last - perhaps in the course of writing to you, perhaps in the course of future events.

December 12, 1930 Trinity College, Oxford As I read this, guilt—among other things—urged me to put the letter back in the envelope hastily.But that day, and for many days afterward, I agonized over that letter.When my father came home from yet another diplomatic trip, I kept trying to find an opportunity to ask him about the letters, and that strange book.I wanted to wait until he was free and only the two of us would speak, but he was always busy those days, and what I found was a bit weird, so I hesitated to tell him.Later, I asked him if he could take me with him next time he went out. This was the first time I kept a secret from him, and it was also the first time I insisted on my own opinion.

Autumn always arrives early in the Slovenian Alps.This is an old country.For the first time in my life, as a traveler, I saw the profound face of history, and a great excitement seized me. Since my story begins with this city, I'm going to call it Emona, which is its Roman name.Emona, like other similar cities to its south, has a complicated history.My father and I drove into downtown Emona, passing an exquisite old bridge guarded by green bronze dragons at either end. "That's the castle," my father said, slowing down on the side of the square and pointing up at the rain curtain. "I know you want to see it."

I do want to go.I craned my neck desperately, and finally saw the castle through the wet branches-a dilapidated brown tower standing on a steep hill in the center of the city. "The fourteenth century," my father mused, "or the thirteenth century? I don't know much about these medieval ruins. I don't know exactly which century they belong to. But we can look them up in guidebooks." "Can we go up there and look around?" "We'll figure it out after I finish my meeting tomorrow. Those towers look shaky, but who knows." He pulled into a car park near City Hall and helped me out of the car with gentlemanly, bony hands in leather gloves.

"It's too early to check in. Would you like a cup of hot tea?" We sat at a table by the window, drank lemon tea in thick cups and the tea was still hot, and slowly ate sardines and slices of tortilla on bread with white cream. "Let's just stop here," my father said. Recently, I don't like the way he blows herbal tea over and over again, I'm afraid he will say we'll stop here.You're in the middle of eating, but he tells you to stop and eat dinner with your belly full.Diplomacy ruined him.I think he would have been happier if he had had more interest in life.

"I didn't expect driving to be so tiring," my father put down his glass, pointing to the barely visible castle in the rain. "That's where we came from, the other side of the mountain. You can see the Alps from the top of the mountain." I remember the snow on the slopes, and the mountains seemed to breathe just above the city.Now, on the far side of the mountain, it's just the two of us.I hesitated and took a breath. "Can you tell me a story?" "A story about the Alps?" "No," I felt a sense of inexplicable dread, "I found something and I want to ask you."

"He turned and raised the gray eyebrows over his gray eyes and looked at me benignly. "In your study," I said, "excuse me—I rummaged around and found some letters and a book. I didn't read—didn't read much—the letters. I thought—" "A book?" he asked casually, his tone still gentle.He just looked at the cup, trying to drink the last drop of tea. "They look—the book is old, with a dragon printed in the middle." He leaned forward, sat still, and then trembled.This erratic gesture made me immediately alert.If he were to tell me a story, it would be very different from the ones he's been told.He glanced down at me, looking so haggard and sad that I was taken aback.

"Are you angry?" I now also look down at my teacup. "No, dear," he sighed heavily, as though sadness had choked him.