Chapter 6 chapter Five

Because I felt that my father restricted me too much, I decided to explore it myself. The English books in the school are quite rich.The administrators were very polite, and after a few timid conversations with them, I got the information I wanted—the Nuremberg pamphlet about Dracula that my father mentioned. The original library didn't have it—too precious, the old caretaker who worked in the medieval library explained to me.But he found the full text of the pamphlet in a medieval German bibliography, translated into English. "That's what you want, dear?" he said with a smile. "I'm John Binnarz," he continued, "call me anytime you need anything."

I said this is what I'm looking for, Dracula.thanks.He patted me on the shoulder and walked away quietly. I sat in the empty room and reread the first part of the pamphlet: 1465 A.D. Dracula did a lot of horrific weird things.During his rule in Wallachia (a region in southern Romania——Translator's Note), he burned all the boys who came to his country to learn the language, a total of four hundred people.He also impaled and exterminated a large family, and many of his people were stripped naked, buried alive to their navels, and then shot.Others were roasted alive and then skinned. There was also a footnote on the first page, in such small print that I almost missed it.On closer inspection, it was found that it was an interpretation of the word "puncture".The note says that Vlad Tebes learned this form of torture from the Ottomans.The impalement he performed was to insert a sharp wooden stick into the human body, upward from the anus or genitals, until the wooden stick passed through the person's mouth or through the head.

I closed the book, put on my coat and went home.However, I was tortured all day and couldn't let go, not because of the horror of Dracula in my mind, nor the horrific description of the piercing torture, but because of the fact that these things are true in history It—clearly—had happened.If I listened carefully, I think I could hear the screams of the boys, the dying cries of the mass-killed "big family."As much as my father had always paid attention to my history education, he had neglected to tell me this: The horrors of history were alive and well. When I came home that night, I felt a sudden demonic force in me, and I was against my father.

I entered the study, closed the door casually, and stood opposite his chair. "Hey," he said to me with a smile, looking for his bookmark, "Got a problem with your algebra homework?" His eyes were already showing anxiety. "I want you to finish that story," I said. He didn't answer, but tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Why don't you tell me more?" This was the first time I felt that I was a threat to my father.He looked at the book he had just closed.I know that's cruel to my father, and I can't even explain it myself, but since I started the goddamn beginning, I have to finish it. "You just don't want me to know the truth."

He finally looked up at me, with sadness written all over his face, deep wrinkles visible under the lamp. "Yes, I don't want to." "But I know more than you think," I said, though I knew that would be childish.Even if he asked me, I wouldn't want to tell him what I knew. He crossed his chin with his hands and said, "I know. Just because you're starting to know a little, I've got to tell you the whole story." I stared at him in amazement. "Then let's talk about it quickly." I said enthusiastically, and he lowered his head again. "I'll tell it, and when I'm ready, I'll tell it to you. But not all at once." Suddenly, he blurted out: "I can't tell all the stories at once! You have to Be patient."

But the way he looked at me was pleading, not accusing.I walked over and put my arms around his bowed head. It was still windy and chilly in Tuscany in March, but my father thought it would be nice to take a short trip to the countryside there after his four days of lecturing in Milan—I think his vocation is lecturing.This time, I don't have to ask him to go with me. "Florence is very beautiful, especially in the off-season." In the approaching night, the villa looks very small, just a low-eaved farmhouse built of boulders, fir and olive trees surround the red roof, and two inclined stone pillars indicate that this is the walkway to the gate.Lights flickered in the windows on the first floor.I suddenly felt that I was hungry, but I also had a childish and grotesque desire to appear not hungry in front of my master.My father took our luggage from the carriage and I followed him up the steps.

"Ah, the bell is still the same," he said with satisfaction, tugging at a short cord that ran over the door, smoothing his hair back in the dark. The person who came out to open the door was like a tornado, hugged my father tightly, patted him hard on the back, kissed him on both cheeks, and then bowed slightly to shake hands with me.His hands were big and warm, and he put his arm around my shoulders and led us through the door.The lobby is not very well lit and filled with old furniture.He growled like a bull: "Giulia! Giulia! Here comes the stranger! Come on, come on!" His English was fierce and precise, strong and sonorous.

A tall woman came.She smiled and immediately won my favor.Her hair was gray but silvery, held back by bobby pins to frame her long face.She smiled at me first, without bending down to greet me. Her hand, as warm as her husband's, kissed my father again on both cheeks.While shaking his head, he said a lot of Italian. "You," she said to me in English. "Live in a room by yourself, a very comfortable room, okay?" "What are you studying?" Massimo interrupted. "We learn everything at school," I said stiffly. "I think she likes history," the father told them. "Also a nice tourist."

"Like history?" Massimo added the garnet red or dark blood wine to Giulia's glass, and added some for himself. "Like me and you, Paul. We named your father," he explained to me, who stood aside. "Because I can't stand those fucking british names of yours. I'm sorry, I just can't stand it. Paul, my friend, you know when they first told me you gave up your academic career to lobby the world, I couldn't believe it. I said to myself, oh, so this guy doesn't like reading, he prefers to give lectures. This world has lost another great scholar, your father." After finishing speaking, he gave my father without asking. I poured half a glass of wine, then picked up the jug on the table and filled the glass with some water.I'm starting to like him.

"You're talking nonsense," said the father contentedly. "I love to travel, travel is what I love to do." "Oh." Massimo shook his head. "You, Mr. Professor, you said you would be one of the greatest historians. I don't mean your foundation to be unsuccessful." “We need peace and diplomacy more than studying trivialities that no one cares about,” my father retorted with a laugh. Giulia lit a lantern on the sideboard and put out the lights.She took the lantern to the table and started cutting up the torta while I tried not to stare at it.Under the sharp knife, the surface of the cake shone like obsidian.

"In history, there are no trivialities." Massimo winked at me. "Besides, even the great Rossi says you're his best student, and the rest of us can't please the fellow." "Rosie!" I couldn't help blurting it out.Father was eating a snack, and he glanced at me uneasily. "So you know about your father's brilliant academic career, miss?" Massimo's mouth was stuffed with chocolate. Father glanced at me again. "I told her a little bit about the old days," he said. I understood the implicit warning in his words.After a while, though, it seemed to me that the warning was more likely addressed to Massimo.Because Massimo's next words sent a chill down my spine, my father hurried off to talk politics. "Poor Rossi," said Massimo. "A tragic, perfect human being. It's strange to think that someone I knew just disappeared like that—whoosh—missing." The next morning we stood in a sun-drenched square, the highest point in town. "Do you have a question for me?" said the father. "No, I just want to know about Professor Rossi." I dipped the straw into the orange juice. "I think so. Massimo is too careless to mention that." I'm afraid to know the answer, but still have to ask. "Is Professor Rossi dead? When Massimo says he's missing, does he mean he's dead?" My father looked across the sunlit square to the cafe and butcher's across the street. "Yeah, yeah. Well, it's heartbreaking to say. Do you really want to hear it?" I nodded yes. Dad looked around us quickly, but there was no one else around. "Okay," said the father finally.