Chapter 5 Chapter Four

"What on earth do you mean?" I asked him, somewhat stammeringly. "I'll say it again," Rossi said emphatically. "I found Dracula alive among us in Istanbul. Or at least it did while I was there." I stared at him dumbfounded. "I know you might think I'm crazy," he said lovingly. "I'm telling you that anyone who's been through history for a long time is probably going crazy," he sighed. "There is a little-known repository in Istanbul that was created by Sultan Memid II. I found some maps in it that marked the burial of a man who massacred Turks, and I think that might be Vlad Dracula. There are three maps in total, all of which are about the same area, but the scale is smaller and the markings are more detailed." He tapped his strange book with his fingers while talking. "The writing in the center of the third map is in a primitive Slavic dialect. Only scholars who know many languages ​​can see it. I tried, but I can't be sure."

At this moment, Rossi shook her head, as if still regretting her limited knowledge. "One afternoon I was poring over the location of the Tomb of Evil on the third and most puzzling map. You remember that Vlad Terbis was buried in a In the monastery on the island. This map, like the other two, does not show any islands in the lake - although it does show a river running through it, and the bed of the river widens in the middle. In the center of the map, the Above the tomb, wherever it should be, is a rough-hewn dragon with a crown on its head, which is a castle. The dragon is nothing like the one in my—our—books, but I reckon it must be Following the legend of Dracula to the Turks. Under the dragon, someone wrote very thin characters. At first I thought it was Arabic, but after looking carefully with a magnifying glass, I suddenly found that the characters were all Greek. I completely disregarded the rules and started translating loudly - even though the library was empty except for me, occasionally a boring caretaker came in and out, obviously to see if I had stolen anything. At this point, I was completely alone .Those tiny words danced under my eyelids, and I read them aloud: 'Here it dwells with evil. Reader, dig him out in one word.' Just then, I heard a door in the hall downstairs It slams shut. There are heavy footsteps in the stairwell. I still have this thought in my head: the magnifying glass tells me that this map is not like the other two, that it was written by three different people, in three different languages Marked. The handwriting and the language are different. Those old, old inks are different colors. I had an idea—you know, the kind that a scholar has after a long and serious study inspiration.

"I think the map originally consisted of a sketch in the center with surrounding mountains, and the Greek spell in the center. It may have been later that the places it referred to were marked in Slavic dialect—at least in code. Later it Somehow it fell into the hands of the Ottomans and surrounded it with sayings from the Koran that surrounded or imprisoned the evil prophecy in the middle or simply surrounded it with amulets against the forces of darkness. If true , so who knew Greek first marked this map, and even drew it? I know that in Dracula's time, Byzantine scholars used Greek, but most of the Ottoman scholars did not.

"Before I could write this opinion of mine, a tall, well-built man entered, hurried past the books, and stopped opposite my desk. He had the air of an intruder, I'm sure. He's not a librarian, and I feel I should stand up myself, but I don't out of a kind of pride: that would make me appear too deferential, and the other person is really intrusive and rude. "We looked at each other's faces, and I've never been so surprised. I'm working on something so mysterious and this man just doesn't fit. He's handsome, complexioned, and well groomed. He looks at me defiantly." Eyes, "Sir," he whispered hostilely, in English with a Turkish accent, "I don't think you have the right to do this. "What to do?" My academic vigilance set in immediately.

"Doing this research, the Turkish government believes that the material you have access to is the private archives of the country. Can I see your credentials?" "Who are you?" I asked equally calmly. "May I see your papers?" He took out a wallet from the inner pocket of his coat, snapped it open and placed it on the table in front of me, and quickly snapped it shut again, "Ministry of Cultural Resources," he said coldly, "I know you don't There is no real exchange program with the Turkish government to do these studies, is there?" "Arguably not." I handed him a letter from the National Library stating that I had the right to use research materials from all branch libraries in Istanbul.

"That's not enough," he said, dropping it on my file. "Maybe you'll come with me." "Where to?" I stood up, and I stood up, feeling much safer.But still hope he doesn't take my standing as submissive. "Go to the police station if necessary." "No reason." I've learned to raise my voice when questioning bureaucracy. "I'm a PhD student at Oxford University and a British citizen. I contacted the university here as soon as I arrived in Istanbul and got this letter. I won't be coming Go to the police station for questioning—or your questioning."

"I see." He smiled in a way that turned my stomach. "Let me see what you're doing. Please get out of the way." He picked up the map I had been studying just now, and his hands suddenly became gentle, almost cautious.He looked at the picture, as if he knew what was going on without looking at it. But I think he was bluffing that way, "This is archive material, isn't it?" "Yes," I said angrily. "It is a valuable property of the Turkish government. I am sure you will not need it in a foreign country. Is this little piece of paper, this little map, that brought you from your university in England to Istanbul?"

I thought about rebutting him that I had other things to do and told him not to get in the way of my research, but then I realized that this might invite more questions, "Simply put, yes." "Briefly?" he repeated, in a more gentle tone. "I think you'll find this temporarily confiscated. Shame on foreign researchers to see this." I was burning with anger, and I was about to find out.Fortunately, I did not bring my carefully copied map of the Carpathians that morning, as I would have liked to compare the two maps the next day.I stashed the reproduced drawing in a box that I kept at the hotel.

"You have absolutely no right to confiscate the materials I have been given permission to study," I said through gritted teeth. "I will report this matter to the National Library and the British Embassy immediately. What reason do you have against me studying these documents? They are Unknown material from medieval history. I am sure that they have nothing to do with the interests of the Turkish government." The official looked away from me. "I'm doing this for your own good," he said flatly. "It's better to do this research at another time and with another person."

I backed away from the table, thinking I was going crazy with all this weird stuff, I thought I was really insane.But it's broad daylight now, and it's perfectly normal, and the person in the black woolen suit is real, including the smell of not taking a shower for a long time, sweat and other smells covered by his cologne.Nothing suddenly disappeared, or changed. After a few seconds he looked back from the scene he was immersed in, seemed satisfied with what he saw—or what I saw—and began to smile again, "For your own good, Professor." I stood there, unable to speak a word.He rolled up the map in his hand and took it away, and I heard his footsteps receding down the stairwell.

A few minutes later, an older concierge with thick gray hair came in, carrying two folios, which he was placing on the shelf below. "I'm sorry," I said to him, my voice almost stuck in my throat, "I'm sorry, but this is so unreasonable." "He raised his head and looked at me in bewilderment, "Who is that person?that official? " "Official?" the administrator stammered, repeating my words. "The man from what ministry is the one who came up just now. Didn't you let him come up?" With thick gray hair, he looked at me curiously, "Did someone come in just now? No one has come in for the past three hours. I sat by the entrance by myself. Unfortunately, no one came to our place to do research." "That man—" I said, and stopped again.I suddenly found myself a crazy foreigner who could only gesticulate, "He took my map, I mean the map of the archives." "Map, Mr. Professor?" "I'm working on a map. I checked it out at the front desk this morning." "Isn't that the map?" he asked, pointing to my desk. In the center of the table was an ordinary map of the Balkans that I had never seen in my life.It certainly wasn't there five minutes ago.The administrator went to put away his second book. "It doesn't matter." I packed my books as quickly as possible and left the library. There was no sign of the official on the busy street, although I saw several men in similar suits hurrying past me with suitcases. I went back to the hotel room to find my luggage had been moved due to some practical issues with the guest room.The few old maps I copied myself and the notes I didn't need and didn't take with me that morning were gone.My suitcase has been tampered with and tidy again. The hotel said they had no knowledge of the incident.I stayed up all night, listening to everything outside. The next morning, I packed up my laundry and some dictionaries, and took a boat back to Greece. " Professor Rossi crossed his arms again and looked at me as if patiently waiting for my doubts.However, it was my faith, not my doubts, that was suddenly hit. "You returned to Greece?" "Yes, I spent the rest of the summer trying to forget the Istanbul adventure, although I couldn't forget the implications of it." "You left because you—were frightened?" "More than fear, I feel fear." "But you did study that strange book afterwards—or did you ask someone else to study it?" "Yes, mainly because of that chemical analysis done at the Smithsonian. But that analysis alone didn't determine anything—plus other things—and I dropped the whole study and finally put the book on the shelf. .It's right there." He pointed to the top shelf. "It's strange—I think about these things now and then, and sometimes I think I remember them perfectly, and sometimes I remember only fragments. I think familiarity can fade the most horrific memories. Sometimes—for years—I don't remember them at all. Don't want to think about the whole thing." "But do you really believe—" "If he stood in front of you and you thought you were still sane, what would you think?" He leaned against the bookshelf, his tone suddenly very intense. I drank the last sip of my cold coffee.Very bitter, due to sediment.Then ask: "You never tried to figure out what that map meant? Or where did it come from?" "No." He paused for a moment. "No. There are a few studies that I'll never complete, and I'm sure it's one of them. My opinion, though, is that this kind of horrific study, like many other less horrific studies, is a poor One person makes a little progress in his lifetime, the next person makes a little progress, each contributes a little in his lifetime. Maybe that's how three people drew those maps centuries ago, each adding a little to the map of the one before him Something. Although I have to admit that all those exorcism quotes from the Koran have not helped me further to understand the exact location of Vlad Terbes' tomb. Of course, this matter may be meaningless. It is entirely possible that he Buried in the monastery on that island, as the Romanians say, and has been sleeping there like a good man—not a good man, of course.” "But you don't think so." He hesitated again. "Research has to go on. It doesn't matter in which field, whether the results of research are good or bad, it's inevitable." "Have you ever been to Lake Snagov yourself?" He shook his head. "No. I dropped that study." I put down the cold cup in my hand and stared at his face. "But you're hiding something anyway," I hesitated, guessing. He took another sealed yellow file from the top shelf. "Of course. Who would completely destroy one's own research? I copied those three maps from memory, and kept some other notes for myself, which I took to the archives that day." He put the unopened file on the table between us and stroked it gently.In my opinion, that softness doesn't quite match the horror in it.Maybe it was that disproportion, maybe it was Mid-Spring Night outside, and I got more nervous and asked, "Don't you think this might be a dangerous inheritance?" "I pray to God that it's OK to say no. But maybe the danger is just psychological. Life would be better and healthier if we didn't have to think about fear. You know, human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we should take Tears instead of fascination to think about them. After all these years, I don’t remember much about Istanbul and I don’t want to go there anymore. Besides, I feel like I’m taking away everything I need to know more about.” "Is there anything you need to know more about?" "yes." "But you still don't know who made that map showing where the cemetery is or was?" "I don't know." I put my hand on the yellow paper bag. "Do I need rosary beads, or something else, to ward off evil spirits?" "I believe you have a conscience, a sense of morality, or whatever you want to call it—I'd like to believe that most of us do. I don't go out with garlic in my pocket, no .” "But there must be some kind of spiritual amulet." "Yes, I do." He looked very pathetic, almost grim, "maybe I was wrong and didn't make use of those old superstitions, but I guess I'm a rationalist, and I'll stick to reason. " I grab the file bag. "Here's your book. It's an interesting book, and I hope you can verify its provenance, good luck." He handed me my own vellum-bound book.I think although his words were relaxed, he couldn't hide the sadness on his face. "Come back in two weeks and we'll come back to the Utrecht trade." I must have blinked: even my thesis doesn't sound real anymore. "Ok, no problem." Rosie packed away the coffee cups, and I put the things in my bag, my fingers stiff and unresponsive. "One last thing," he said gravely as I turned to face him. "what?" "We won't talk about it anymore." "Don't you want to know what progress I have made?" I was shocked, feeling lonely. "You can say that. I don't want to know. Unless, of course, you find yourself in danger." He shook hands lovingly as usual, with a sadness on his face that I have never seen before, and he tried to smile to himself. stand up. "Okay," I said. "See you in two weeks!" he almost yelled to me cheerfully as I left. "Bring me a finished chapter, or something." Father stopped.I was very embarrassed to see tears in his eyes.Even if he doesn't speak, I won't ask him any more questions. "You know, writing a dissertation is a horrible thing," he said lightly, "and, besides, we probably shouldn't have gotten to that at all. It's a complicated corny story, and apparently all went well afterwards, Because I'm here right now, not even a ghost professor anymore, you're here too." He blinked and calmed down: "It's a good ending, like the end of all stories." "But there must be a lot going on in the middle." I said reluctantly. We stood up and moved around, looked around, and looked at the city in front of us.Behind those tourists, I saw a man I had never seen before walking slowly, deliberately keeping a distance from others.He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a black wool suit.We've seen tall men in black suits in that city, but for some reason, I couldn't help but stare at this one in front of me.