Chapter 56 Chapter Fifty-Five

In recent years, I found myself thinking again and again of the first time I saw Anton Stoichev's house, because that was the turning point in our search for Rosie. Much later, when I read those materials aloud, I would think of Stoichev—the crooked apple and cherry trees in his garden with white flowers, the quiet, devotion and Deliberately retreat. Helen began by pressing one of the handles of the old-fashioned latch.Ranov shuffled along, seeming to resent being seen here, even us.I felt strangely that my feet were nailed to the ground.I thought that Stoichev might not be of any help, and that our search would turn out to be fruitless.

Of course, it would be a great comfort to hold Helen's hand when I returned.Once this horror is over, I intend to beg her to marry me.When Helen opened the door, I watched everything through a doleful light. A burst of singing came from the house, a sweet and powerful female voice.The buoyant tune interested even the morose, smoking Ranov standing next to me. "Izvinete!" A young woman stood there, staring at us. I was about to go up to him, but Ranov was ahead of me. He took off his hat, nodded and bowed. The young woman eyed Ranov curiously.In my opinion, this curiosity is mixed with vigilance.Looking at it again, she is not as young as I thought, but she is full of vitality, like a lovely child.

With her quick glances, I saw Ranov open his wallet and pull out a business card.Smiling, he turned and introduced us to her. "This is Elena Ristova," he said as we shook hands. "Professor Stoichev's niece." "Daughter?" I said, thinking that it was a clever homonym. "His sister's daughter," Ranov said.He lit another cigarette and offered it to Elena Ristova, who refused with a firm nod.He said we were from America, and she looked at us very carefully with her eyes wide open, then smiled—and she turned around and led us into the house. The inside of the house surprised me again.It's like a museum.What really caught my eye and drew Helen's murmur of admiration was the wonderful mix of folk fabrics and primitive paintings--mainly icons.There are the bright-eyed Virgin Mary, the thin-lipped saint with a mournful expression, the apostle with his own canoe, and the martyr who endured his torment with strength.Even an embroidered vest and two turbans are trimmed with tiny coins.

Helen pointed to the vest, which had parallel pockets sewn along the sides, "for bullets," was all she said. Ranov was also looking around, he snorted, "I think we allowed Professor Stoichev to own too much state property. For the benefit of the people, these should be sold." Either Elena didn't understand English, or she couldn't be bothered to talk to him.She turned and led us out of the room and up a narrow staircase. The door at the top of the stairs opened and an old man with white hair, small but straight, came out. Elena rushed up, grabbed his arm with both hands, and spoke to him urgently in Bulgarian, with excited laughter from time to time.

I stepped forward and held out my hand.He shook it solemnly, then turned to Helen, and shook her hand too.His respect for people is not real respect, but respect out of self-esteem.At this time, Ranov came forward and shook hands with him.I hated this guide more and more and wished he would go away so we could talk to Professor Stoichev alone. An original map hangs on one wall in the living room.To my surprise, it was painted on leather. I couldn't help but walked forward, and Stoichev smiled, "Do you like that?" He asked, "This is the Byzantine Empire around 1150."

It was the first time he spoke.His English is accurate and peaceful. "It was still occupying Bulgaria then," said Helen thoughtfully. Stoichev glanced at her, obviously pleased, "Yes, exactly. I think the drawing was made in Venice or Genoa and brought to Constantinople, perhaps as a gift Dedicated to the Emperor or someone in the palace. This replica was made for me by a friend." Helen smiled and stroked her chin thoughtfully.Then, she almost winked at him, "Maybe it's Manuel I Corninus?" I was dumbfounded, and Stoichev was also taken aback. Helen laughed. "Byzantium used to be a big hobby of mine," she said.

The old historian smiled too, suddenly became very polite, and bowed to her.He gestured to a chair at a table in the center of the living room, and we all sat down. Stoichev didn't speak for a while, just watched us intently.So I said to him: 'Professor Stoichev, please forgive us for disturbing your peace.We are very grateful that you and your niece agreed to our visit. " Stoichev smiled, and it had the power to make Helen and I laugh too.Elena smiled at us too.She was sitting under an icon—I think it was St. George.The god in the icon is thrusting his spear forcefully into the body of a dragon, which appears to be malnourished.

"I'm glad you guys came to see me," Stoichev said. "We don't have many guests, and English-speaking guests are even rarer." "Your English is excellent," I said, "if you don't mind, where did you learn it?" "Oh, I don't mind," said Professor Stoichev, "I was lucky enough to stay abroad when I was young, and part of my education was done in London. Can I help you, or are you just looking at my books?" Museum?" I was amazed at how straightforward he was. "For both reasons," I said, "we would like to visit your library and we would like to ask you some questions about our research." I'm interested in the history, but I don't know much, and we've been writing—uh—" I began to stammer.

"So you're interested in medieval Bulgaria?" Stoichev said.He also seemed to glance over at Ranov. "Yes," said Helen, quickly coming to my rescue, "we are interested in the life of the monks in medieval Bulgaria, specifically, we want to know about life in the monastery in Bulgaria in the late medieval period, about the pilgrims coming to Bulgaria, and going from Bulgaria to Bulgaria. routes to other places." Stoichev suddenly became radiant, and he shook his head happily, "This topic is very good," he said, "Do you have anything specific to write? I have a lot of manuscripts here, which may be useful to you."

Ranov moved in his chair.I thought again, how I hate it when he looks at us.Fortunately, most of his attention seemed to be on Elena's pretty silhouette across the room. "Well," I said, "we would like to know a little more about the fifteenth century—the end of the fifteenth century. Miss Rosie has done considerable research on this period in her family's country—was—" "Romania," interposed Helen, "but I grew up and went to school in Hungary." "Ah, yes—you are our neighbor," Professor Stoichev turned to Helen and gave her the gentlest smile, "Are you from the University of Budapest?"

"Yes," said Helen. "Perhaps you know my friend—his name is Professor Sandow." "Oh, yes, he's the head of our history department, a good friend of mine." "Excellent—very good," said Professor Stoichev, "if you have the opportunity, please send him my warmest regards." "I will," Helen smiled at him. "Who else? I think he's the only one I know who's there now. But your name, Professor, is interesting. I recognize it. In America—" He turned to me, and then to Helen.Uncomfortably, I noticed that Ranov was staring at us closely—"There is a famous historian named Rossi. He may be a relative of yours?" To my surprise, Helen's face was blushing.I figured she might not like to publicly admit to the relationship, or had been skeptical about doing so, or that she might have noticed that Ranov had suddenly paid attention to our conversation. "Yes," she answered curtly, "he is my father, Bartholomew Rossi." I think it would be natural for Stoichev to wonder why the daughter of a British historian claims to be Romanian and grew up in Hungary, though whether he harbored these doubts I do not know. "Yes, that's the name. He's written a good book—and a wide range!" He patted himself on the forehead. I was relieved to hear that Stoichev knew about Rossi's research and thought highly of it. "Yes, that is true," I said. "In fact, Professor Rossi is not only Helen's father, but also My professor." "Lucky," Stoichev folded his veined hands, "what's your thesis about?" "Uh," I said.This time it was my turn to blush. "It's about Dutch merchants in the seventeenth century." "Very well," said Stoichev, "then why did you come to Bulgaria?" "It's a long story," I said, "Miss Rossi and I wanted to study the connection between Bulgaria and the Orthodox community in Istanbul after the Ottoman conquest of Istanbul. Although this is outside the scope of my thesis, we have been writing about article. In fact, I just gave a report at the University of Budapest on — the regional history of Romania under Turkish rule." I immediately realized that I had made a mistake, maybe Ranov didn't know that we had been to Budapest, and also Istanbul.However, Helen's expression is calm, which I understand, "We look forward to completing our research here in Bulgaria. We thought you might be able to help us". "Of course," Stoichev said patiently, "maybe you can tell me exactly about the history of monasteries and pilgrimage routes in the Middle Ages in our country. I am very happy that you are interested in monasteries, because that is our Bulgarian cultural heritage. One of the richest sources." He folded his hands again, as if wondering how familiar we were with these situations. "Yes", I said. This doesn't work.We also had to talk a little bit about our search in Ranov's presence.If we had told him to leave, he would immediately have doubts about the purpose of our visit. "We believe that there are certain noteworthy connections between the Orthodox community in Istanbul and the monasteries in Bulgaria in the fifteenth century." "Yes, of course," said Stoichev, "especially when Mehmet the Conqueror brought the Bulgarian Church under the Archbishop of Constantinople. Before that, of course, our Church was independent, Our own Archbishop is Verico Tenov." I was suddenly grateful for the man's knowledge and keen ear. "Indeed," I said, "we are particularly interested—we found a letter—that is, we were in Istanbul recently, we found a letter concerning Bulgaria—a procession of monks Constantinople went to a monastery in Bulgaria. One of our articles was trying to trace them in Bulgaria. Maybe they went on a pilgrimage—we’re not sure.” "I see," said Stoichev. "Is the letter dated? Can you tell me a little bit about the letter or who wrote it?" "Of course," I said, "actually, we have a copy here. The original text of the letter is in Slavic, which was translated for us by a monk in Istanbul. The original is in the State Archives of Mehmet II. Maybe you want Read this letter." Stoichev took the letter, and I saw his eyes go over the first few lines. A brandy and some lunch?" He nodded to Ranov with great courtesy. Elena stood up immediately, laughing. "Of course, uncle," she said in beautiful English. There's no end to the surprises in this room, I thought, "but hopefully someone will help me and bring it upstairs." Her clear eyes glanced at Ranov the least imperceptibly.He stood up and brushed his hair. "It's a pleasure to help this young lady," he said, and they went downstairs together.Ranov's footsteps thumped on the stairs, and Elena was talking to him in Bulgarian. As soon as the door closed, Stoichev leaned forward and read the letter greedily and intently.After reading it, he looked up at us. His face was ten years old, but his expression was tense. "It's extraordinary," he said in a low voice. "This letter surprised me." "Yes—how?" I asked eagerly. "Do you have any idea what it might mean?" "I know," Stoichev stared at me with wide eyes. "Look," he added, "I also have a letter from Brother Kirill."