Chapter 16 Chapter fifteen

I finally read Rosie's last letter, said my father, and felt a new desolation, as if he had disappeared again. The next three things were the maps Rosie had spoken of, each drawn by hand, and they all looked as old as the writing on them.These, of course, were reproductions of maps he had seen in the Istanbul archives, drawn by himself from memory. I picked up the first map, which had no place names on it, but on the border Rossi wrote: "Those who do not believe, who do not believe until their death, the curse of Allah, angels, and men shall came upon them (Koran)," and several similar passages.For various reasons, I can't see the original map and can't compare it.Although Rossi has a good memory and neat handwriting, there must be omissions in the reproduction, which may be different from the original.

The second map seems to focus more on the western mountains that appeared in the first map.But it is still too simple and rough, so I can't think of a certain place I have seen or studied. The meaning of the third map was a little clearer, and its large outline was indeed the silhouette of the dragon in Rosie and I's book.This picture also draws those triangular mountains, which are much higher in this picture, forming a north-south mountain range, and a river surrounds them, and then flows into a reservoir-like place.Could this be Lake Snagov in Romania?The legendary Dracula is buried there.But, according to Rossi, there were no islands at the widest point of the river, nor did it look like a lake.Those crosses are back, this time marked in tiny Cyrillic.I think these are the villages Rosie was talking about.

Among these scattered village names, I saw Rossi mark a box, which read: "(Arabic) The wicked tomb of an executioner who slaughtered the Turks." On this long box, I saw A tiny drawing of a dragon with a castle on its head and more Greek text beneath it, translated into English by Rossi: "Here he cohabits with evil. Reader, dig him out in one word." These words are like a mantra, with incredible force. I put the three maps aside and it was horrific to see them there, they were just as Rossi described them, but I hadn't seen the originals, I had copies in my hand, copied by himself, they were of great importance It's so strange to me.What will they prove to me in the end?Prove that it's not all made up, that he didn't draw these maps as a prank?Apart from his letter, I have no other first-hand information.

All that was left unseen were Rosie's notes and a small envelope I found when I first opened the files.I would have liked to open it last since it was sealed, but I just couldn't wait.I found a letter opener among the pile of papers on my desk, carefully opened the seal, and tore a sheet from the notebook. This is the third map again, with dragon shapes, crooked rivers, and miniature peaks, also in black ink, like Rosie's, but with a slightly different handwriting - great facsimile, but if you look closely, You'll find it a bit obscure, dated, and even a little too flashy. Having read Rosie's letter, I was prepared to see the only difference from the first map, but I was taken aback: a line snaking across the box-like cemetery and its guardian dragon Words: Bartholomew Rossi.

Suppressing all the conjectures, fears, and inferences in my mind, I deliberately put down the paper and read Rosie's notes. The first two, apparently made by him in the archives of the Oxford and British Museums, do not say much, but briefly record the life and exploits of Vlad Dracula.There is another list of literary and historical references to Dracula over the centuries.What follows is a different page, left over from the trip to Istanbul, "rewritten from memory," he explains quickly and neatly.I realized they must be the notes he had made after the scene in the archives, after he copied the map from memory before he set off for Greece.

These notes cite documents from the time of Sultan Mehmed II held in the Istanbul Library, none of which seem to me of much significance.But I wondered exactly at what point Rossi's work was interrupted by the official.Scrolls of parchment?Or did the list of trades he referred to contain clues to Vlad Terbis' death or burial?There was another item on the archives list that surprised me, and I looked at it for several minutes. "Reference, Dragon's Order (sort of like a scroll)." What surprised me about this, and gave me pause, was that it meant nothing on its own.Usually, Rossi's notes are comprehensive and clear.That, he said, was the purpose of taking notes.Does this hasty reference mean that there is a list in the library of all references to Dragon's Call?If so, why do you say "somewhat like a scroll"?Must be something ancient, I thought—maybe the library has a copy of all the texts since Dragon's Call.Why didn't Rossi explain it further on the paper?Did this reference, whatever it was, turn out to be irrelevant to his research?

I pondered for a long time on such a distant file that Rosie had read many years ago, and it seemed that it could not help me find clues about his disappearance.I know I should act as soon as possible.I used to stay up late and stay up all night, and I should be able to synthesize what Rosie told me about everything that, in his view, had been a threat to his life before. I stood up, my joints creaking, and went to boil some broth in my poor little kitchen. As I went to fetch the pot, it occurred to me that my cat, Rembrandt, hadn't come in for dinner, and thinking of it, I drew up the blinds, pushed open the window, and yelled, expecting its paws to slam onto the windowsill , but I only heard the sound of carriages and horses coming out of the city in the distance.I lowered my head and looked out.

It lay there in such a strange shape that I realized right away that its spine was broken and its head was hanging strangely.Rembrandt's eyes are bigger than I've ever seen them in the past. I knew right away that it wasn't by accident that I fell there, the window sill was so narrow.It would have taken a big man to pinch it hard enough to kill it, and I laid it gently on the floor, full of rage.Only then did he suddenly realize that its body was still warm in his hands. I turned back immediately, closed the window, and panicked trying to figure out what to do next. I sat down at the table, sorted out Rosie's papers, put them neatly in the envelope, put my mysterious dragon book on it, and took care not to let it fall, opened it, and put another My all-time favorite Hermann's The Golden Age of Amsterdam is on top.

I put my watch aside and realized with horror that it was the superstitious quarter to midnight. I said to myself, tomorrow I'm going to the library to read some books to prepare for the days ahead.If silver rods, garlic flowers and crucifixes have been the tricks peasants have used to ward off vampires for centuries, it doesn't hurt to know a little bit more about them, to show at least a little respect for tradition. I never found it so difficult to concentrate.Every nerve in my body was alert to something around me.If it was a ghost, I would have thought it was my mind and not my ears that heard him touch the window first.

The minute hand on the watch jumped suddenly, and I jumped up too.It will be twelve midnight soon.I tried hard to immerse myself in The Golden Age of Amsterdam.Suddenly, I felt the air freeze, and I suddenly became tense.I looked at my watch.Three past twelve.I'm still breathing normally, and my pen is still moving freely on the paper. The thing that's coming to stalk me isn't as smart as I feared, I thought, careful not to stop what I was doing.I pretended to be writing, but my mind was reasoning.The last sign of a threat to Rossi came in 1931, when his own name was found beside the grave of Vlad the Impaler.No one had found him dead at his desk two days earlier.If I'm not careful myself, it will be like that too.He was also not found injured, lying in the corridor like Hedges.So, he was kidnapped, probably lying somewhere, dead of course.But unless I see it for sure, I'd rather believe he's alive.From tomorrow onwards, I'm going to find that cemetery by myself.

Father sat in front of the old French castle, looking out to sea, as if he was looking at St. Matthew's Church through the mountain mist, watching the rocks where the eagles landed and their circles. "Let's go back to the hotel," he finally said. "The days are shorter now, have you noticed? I don't want to be stuck here after dark." Impatiently, I ventured to ask: "Trapped here?" He gave me a serious look, as if considering the relative risks of the answers he was about to give. "It's a steep road," he said at last, "and I don't want to find my way back in these bushes in the dark. Do you want to?" He can be aggressive, too, and I can see it. "No," I replied, "I don't want to."