Chapter 9 chapter eight

My dear, unfortunate heir: Wouldn't you be so confused if I told you that I'm sleeping with a ring of garlic heads on my pillow and that I'm an atheist but I'm wearing a necklace with a gold cross pendant?Of course, I didn't do this, but you can imagine all kinds of amulets if you want.Intellectually, psychologically, they are their equivalents.At least, I stick to the latter day and night. Let me continue with my research: Yes, I changed my travel plans last summer and went to Istanbul.What prompted me to change my itinerary was a piece of parchment.I searched all over Oxford and London for any reference to the Dracula in my mysterious blank book.I made a bundle of notes for this.

On the eve of my departure from Greece, I really wanted to give up this meaningless research. In fact, when I put the clean shirt and old sun hat in the bag, I suddenly had a need The feeling of bowing to fate, I almost gave up on it all, later that afternoon. However, I always like to be ahead of time when I do things, so that day I had a little time before I went to sleep to catch the early train. One last time I went to the rare book room of the library, which didn't close until nine o'clock.There is a file there that I want to try my luck with (although I doubt it will shine a light on my research).Under the entry of Ottoman, there is a material that I think belongs to the period of Vlad Dracula's life. I see that most of the documents listed there are from the Middle Ages to the late fifteenth century.

I had no trouble finding the papers in the box, which contained four or five flattened, short scrolls of parchment, handmade by the Ottomans, all eighteenth-century gifts to Oxford.Each scroll is inscribed in Arabic. The English introduction at the front of the document shows that there is nothing I am looking for.Sighing, I was putting the parchments back in the box when something on the back of the last roll caught my attention. It was a short list, an official document sent to the Sultan by Sarajevo and Skopje, and on the back was a random scribble, an old scribble, like a list of expenses—all the things bought were recorded on the left , the price is written on the right in a currency that I don't understand.

"Five hundred mountain lions to the Sultan, 45," I read with amusement. "To the Sultan two belts of gold and precious stones, 290. Two hundred sheepskins, 89." I shudder at the last entry, parchment in hand: "Map and Military Records of the Dragon's Order, 12." : 1490. As I remember, in 1490 the Order of the Dragon had been defeated by the Ottoman Empire.According to legend, by this time Vlad Dracula had been buried in Lake Snagov for fourteen years.Compared with those gem belts and sheepskins, the map of the dragon's call, the record material, or its secrets are really cheap.Perhaps they were the last drop-in purchase of a merchant here, a Balkan traveler who could write Latin and speak a little Slavic or some dialect derived from Latin?Whoever he is, I bless the dust under his feet for taking note of these expenses.

I went to the service desk and the admin was checking a drawer. "I'm sorry," I said. "Do you have a catalog of historical archives by country? For example, the archives of Turkey?" "I know what you're looking for, sir. Universities and museums have such lists, but they're certainly incomplete. We don't have them here, but the help desk at the central library can give them to you. They open at nine in the morning." I remember the train to London didn't leave until four past ten.I can research all the possibilities in about ten minutes.If among these possibilities comes the name of Sultan Memed II or his successor—well, I don't necessarily have to rush to see the statue of Rhodes in Greece.

very painful, Bartolomeo Rossi Trinity College, Oxford December 13, 1930 Time seemed to stand still in that high-domed library hall, despite the constant flow of people around me.I read the whole letter.There are four more in the stack.I was contemplating whether to put everything away and go home and continue watching when a young woman came up and sat in a chair across the table.I saw the book in the woman's hand.She was leafing through the middle of a book, notebook and pen nearby.I looked at the title of her book in surprise, then at her, then at a book she had set aside.Then, I continued to stare at her face.

This is a young face, but it seems to be slightly old, with wrinkles around the eyes, just like what I saw in the mirror in the morning, and I can tell at a glance that it is a tireless and hard-working person.So I knew she must be a graduate student.In this place of knowledge of all sorts, the book she was reading—I glanced again, again amazed—was The Carpathians, and Bran Stowe wore the sleeves of her dark sweater. Clark's Dracula. "I'm sorry," I said hastily. "Your book—I mean, the book you're reading—is fascinating." She ignored me, shrugging her eyebrows, her eyes still on the open book.

"You see, I'm working on the same subject," I insisted. Her eyebrows arched even higher.But I pointed to the documents in front of me. "No, not really. I've just been reading about—" I looked at the pile of Rosie's papers in front of me and stopped abruptly.Her contemptuous squint made my face start to heat up. "Dracula?" she said sarcastically. "Your pile seems to be first-hand information?" She spoke with a strong accent, but I don't know where it came from. I switched tactics. "Are you reading this purely for fun? I mean, for entertainment? Or are you doing this research?"

"Fun?" She didn't close the book, maybe she was trying to beat me. "Well, this topic is very unusual. If you are studying the Carpathian Mountains, then you must have a strong interest in this topic." I didn't speak too fast, this is the habit I have developed since my master's defense, "I was going to read that book myself. Those two, in fact." "Really?" she said. "Why?" "Well," I ventured. "I found these letters from—from an extraordinary place—and they mentioned Dracula. They were talking about Dracula."

A little interest began to show in her eyes, and there was a masculine complacency in her relaxed posture.It occurred to me that I had seen this pose a hundred times.Where did I see it? "What are those letters about?" she asked me in a low foreign accent. "I'm working with another guy—someone who's in some trouble right now, and he wrote these letters over twenty years ago. He handed me over to me in the hope that I might be able to do something to help him out of the— —the situation—the present situation—has to do with his research—I mean his previous research.” "I see," she said coldly and politely.Then, deliberately but deliberately, she stood up and collected her books.Now she took her bag and was leaving.She was about as tall as I expected, broad-shouldered, and a little stocky.

"Why are you studying Dracula?" I asked desperately. "I don't think it has anything to do with you," she told me tersely, turning away. "But I'm preparing for a trip, although I haven't decided when to go yet." "To the Carpathians?" I suddenly felt that I was the babbler in this conversation. "No." She tossed the answer to me contemptuously. "To Istanbul." "My God," my father suddenly prayed to the sky full of birdsong. "The last of the swallows flew home over our heads. Once again, the father's story cut off too quickly. "Look," said Father, pointing straight ahead from where we sat. "I think that's St. Matthew's Abbey." I followed his hand to look at the dark mountains, and found a place above, the light was weak but steady.There were no other lights on nearby, which meant that no one lived nearby.Like a light on a big black cloth, it hangs high there, but not at the top—it hangs between the city and the night sky. "Yes, I think that must be the Abbey," said the father again. "We're going to actually climb the mountain tomorrow, even if we're going up the road." As we wandered the moonless streets again, I felt a sense of loss falling from a great height, saying goodbye to something noble. We turned the corner at the ancient clock tower, and I glanced back at it again, letting that tiny light burn in my mind.It's still there, glinting on a wall beyond which bougainvillea blooms in the dark.Unconsciously, I stood there quietly and looked at it for a while.Just then, the light flickered, just once.