The Historian (74 page)

Stoichev had used his fame to promote superstition and antipatriotic ideas; everyone knew that he had refused to drop his very unscientific allegiance to the Orthodox church; he had a son studying in East Germany who was almost as bad as he was. But we had won the battle, Stoichev could ride with us, and Irina whispered gratefully during our stop for lunch at a mountain tavern that she would have tried to prevent her uncle from going at all if they‘d had to take the bus; he couldn‘t stand such a hard trip in this heat.

―‗This is the wing where the monks still live,‘ Stoichev said. ‗And over there, along that side, is the hostel where we will sleep. You will see how peaceful it is here at night, in spite of all the visitors in the day. This is one of our greatest national treasures, and many people come to see it, especially in the summer. But at night it becomes very quiet again.

Come,‘ he added, ‗we will go in to see the abbot. I called him yesterday and he is expecting us.‘ He led the way with surprising vigor, looking eagerly around, as if the place gave him new life.

―The abbot‘s audience chambers, when we reached them, were on the first floor of the monastic wing. A black-gowned monk with a long brown beard held the door for us and we went in, Stoichev removing his hat and entering first. The abbot rose from a bench near the wall and came forward to meet us. He and Stoichev greeted each other very cordially, Stoichev kissing his hand and the abbot blessing the old man. The abbot was a lean, upright man of perhaps sixty, his beard streaked with gray and his blue eyes—I was rather surprised to realize there were blue-eyed Bulgarians—tranquil. He shook hands with us in a very modern way, and with Ranov, who greeted him with obvious disdain.

Then he gestured for us all to sit down, and a monk brought in a tray of glasses—not full of
rakiya
, in this place, but of cool water, accompanied by small dishes of that rose-flavored paste we had encountered in Istanbul. I noticed that Ranov did not drink his, as if he suspected poison.

―The abbot was clearly delighted to see Stoichev there, and I imagined the visit must be a particular pleasure to both of them. He asked us through Stoichev where we were from in America, whether we had visited other monasteries in Bulgaria, what he could do to help us, how long we would be able to stay. Stoichev spoke with him at length, translating obligingly so that we could answer the abbot‘s questions. We could use the library as much as we liked, the abbot said; we could sleep in the hostel; we should attend the services in the church; we were welcome anywhere except the monks‘ quarters—this with a gentle nod at Helen and Irina—and they would not hear of Professor Stoichev‘s friends paying for their lodging. We thanked him gratefully and Stoichev got to his feet.

‗Now,‘ he said, ‗since we have these kind permissions, we will go to the library.‘ He was already making his way cautiously to the door, kissing the abbot‘s hand, bowing.

―‗My uncle is very excited,‘ Irina whispered to us. ‗He says to me that your letter is a great discovery for Bulgarian history.‘ I wondered if she knew how much was actually riding on this research, what shadows lay across our path, but it was impossible for me to read anything more in her expression. She helped her uncle through the door and we followed him along the tremendous wooden galleries that lined the courtyard, Ranov trailing us with a cigarette in his hand.

―The library was a long gallery on the first floor, nearly opposite the abbot‘s rooms. At the entrance, a black-bearded monk ushered us in; he was a tall, gaunt-faced man and it seemed to me that he looked hard at Stoichev for a moment before nodding to us. ‗This is Brother Rumen,‘ Stoichev told us. ‗He is the librarian monk at present. He will show us what we need to see.‘

―A few books and manuscripts had been put into glass-fronted display cases and labeled for the tourists; I would have liked to look at these, but we were on our way to a deeper recess, which opened out of the back of the room. It was miraculously cool in the depths of the monastery, and even the few raw electric bulbs could not completely chase away the profound darkness in the corners. In this inner sanctum, wooden cabinets and shelves were laden with boxes and trays of books. In the corner a little shrine held an icon of the Virgin and her stiff, precocious baby flanked by two red-winged angels, with a jeweled gold lamp hanging before them. The old, old walls were whitewashed stucco and the smell that engulfed us was a familiar odor of slowly decaying parchment, vellum, velvet.

I was glad to see that Ranov had at least had the grace to put out his smoke before following us into this treasure-house.

―Stoichev tapped his foot on the stone floor as if summoning spirits. ‗Here,‘ he said, ‗you are looking at the heart of the Bulgarian people—this is where for hundreds of years the monks preserved our heritage, often in secret. Generations of faithful monks copied these manuscripts, or hid them when the monastery was attacked by the infidel. This is a small percentage of the legacy of our people—much of it was destroyed, of course. But we are grateful for these remains.‘

―He spoke with the librarian, who began to look carefully through labeled boxes on the shelves. After a few minutes he brought down a wooden box and took from it several volumes. The top one was decorated with a startling painting of Christ—at least I took it to be Christ—an orb in one hand and a scepter in the other, his face clouded with Byzantine melancholy. To my disappointment, Brother Kiril‘s letters were not housed in this glorious binding, but in a plainer one beneath it, which had the look of old bone. The librarian carried it to a table and Stoichev sat eagerly down to it, opening it with relish.

Helen and I drew out our notebooks and Ranov strolled around the library shelves as if too bored to stay in one place.

―‗As I remember,‘ Stoichev said, ‗there are two letters here, and it is unclear whether there were more—whether Brother Kiril wrote others that have not survived.‘ He pointed to the first page. It was covered in a close, rounded, calligraphic hand, and the parchment was deeply aged, almost brown. He turned to the librarian with a question. ‗Yes,‘ he told us, pleased. ‗They have typed these in Bulgarian, and some of the other rare documents from this period, as well.‘ The librarian set a folder in front of him, and Stoichev sat silent a while, examining the typed pages and turning back to the ancient calligraphy.

‗They have done quite a good job,‘ he said at last. ‗I will read you the best translation I can, for your notes.‘ And he read to us a halting version of these two letters.

Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

We are now three days upon the high road journeying out of Laota toward Vin. One night we slept in the stable of a good farmer, and one night at the hermitage of Saint Mikhail, where no monks now live but which gave us at least the dry shelter of a cave. The last night we were forced for the first time to make our camp in the forest, spreading rugs on the rustic floor and placing our bodies within a circle of the horses and wagon. Wolves came close enough in the night for us to hear their howling, whereupon the horses tried in terror to bolt. With great difficulty we subdued them. Now I am heartily glad for the presence of Brothers Ivan and Theodosius, with their height and strength, and I bless your wisdom in placing them among us.

Tonight we are made welcome in the house of a shepherd of some wealth and also of piety; he has three thousand sheep in this region, he tells us, and we are bid sleep on his soft sheepskins and mattresses, although I for one have elected the floor as more fitting to our devotions. We are out of the forest here, among open hills that roll on every side, where we may walk with equal blessing in rain and sunshine. The good man of the house tells us they have twice suffered the raids of the infidel from across the river, which is now a few days‘ walk only, if Brother Angelus can mend himself and keep to our pace. I think to let him ride one of the horses, although the sacred weight they pull is great enough already on them. Fortunately, we have seen no signs of infidel soldiers on the road.

Your most humble servant in Christ,

Br. Kiril

April, the Year of Our Lord 6985

Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:

We have left the city some weeks behind us and are now riding openly in the territory of the infidels. I dare not write our location, in case we should be captured. Perhaps we should have chosen the sea route after all, but God will be our Protector along the way we have chosen. We have seen the burned remains of two monasteries and one church. The church was smoking as yet. Five monks were hung there for conspiring to a rebellion, and their surviving brothers are scattered to other monasteries already. This is the only news we have learned, as we cannot talk long with the people who come out to our wagon. There is no reason to think one of these monasteries is the one we seek, however.

The sign will be clear there, the monster equal to the saint. If this missive can be delivered to you, my lord, it shall be as soon as possible.

Your most humble servant in Christ,

Br. Kiril

June, the Year of Our Lord 6985

―When Stoichev had finished, we sat in silence. Helen was scribbling notes still, her face intent over her work, Irina sat with her hands folded, Ranov stood negligently against a cabinet, scratching under his collar. For myself, I had given up trying to write down the events described in the letter; Helen would catch everything anyway. There was no clear evidence here of a particular destination, no mention of a tomb, no scene of burial—the disappointment I felt was choking.

―But Stoichev seemed far from downcast. ‗Interesting,‘ he said, after long minutes.

‗Interesting. You see, your letter from Istanbul must lie between these two letters here, chronologically. In the first and second letters, they are traveling through Wallachia toward the Danube—that is clear from the place-names. Then comes your letter, which Brother Kiril wrote in Constantinople, perhaps hoping to send it and the previous letters from there. But he was unable or afraid to send them—unless these are just copies—we have no way to know. And the last letter is dated June. They took a land route like the one that is described by the Zacharias ‖Chronicle.― In fact, it must have been the same route, from Constantinople through Edirne and Haskovo, because that was the major road fromTsarigrad into Bulgaria.‘

―Helen looked up. ‗But can we be sure this last letter describes Bulgaria?‘

―‗We cannot be absolutely certain,‘ Stoichev admitted. ‗However, I believe it is very probable. If they traveled from
Tsarigrad
—Constantinople—into a country where monasteries and churches were being burned in the late fifteenth century, it is very likely that this was Bulgaria. Also, your letter from Istanbul states that they intend to go to Bulgaria.‘

―I couldn‘t help voicing my frustration. ‗But there‘s no further information about the location of the monastery they were looking for. Assuming it even was Sveti Georgi.‘

Ranov had settled at the table with us and was looking at his thumbs; I wondered if I should hide my interest in Sveti Georgi from him, but how else were we going to ask Stoichev about it?

―‗No.‘ Stoichev nodded. ‗Brother Kiril would certainly not have written the name of their destination in his letters, just as he did not write the name of Snagov with Eupraxius‘s titles. If they had been caught, these monasteries might have suffered extra persecution, eventually, or at least might have been searched.‘

―‗There is an interesting line in here.‘ Helen had finished her notes. ‗Could you read that again—that the sign in the monastery they sought was a monster equal to a saint? What do you think this meant?‘

―I looked quickly at Stoichev; this line had struck me, too. He sighed. ‗It might refer to a fresco or an icon that was in the monastery—in Sveti Georgi, if that was indeed their destination. It is difficult to imagine what such an image might have been. And even if we could find Sveti Georgi itself, there is little hope that an icon that was there in the fifteenth century would still be there, especially since the monastery was probably burned at least once. I do not know what this means. Perhaps it is even a theological reference that the abbot would have understood but that we cannot, or perhaps it referred to some secret agreement between them. We must keep it in our minds, however, since Brother Kiril names it as the sign that will tell them they have come to the right place.‘

―I was still wrestling with my disappointment; I realized now that I had expected these letters in their faded binding to hold the final key to our search, or at least to shed some light on the maps I still hoped to use.

―‗There is a larger issue that is very strange.‘ Stoichev ran a hand over his chin. ‗The letter from Istanbul says that the treasure they seek—perhaps a holy relic from
Tsarigrad
—is in a particular monastery in Bulgaria, and that is why they must go there.

Please read me that passage again, Professor, if you will be so kind.‘

―I had taken out the text of the Istanbul letter, to have beside me while we studied Brother Kiril‘s other missives. ‗It says, ‖… what we seek has been transported already out of the city and into a haven in the occupied lands of the Bulgarians.‘

―‗That is the passage,‘ Stoichev said. ‗The question is‘—he tapped a long forefinger on the table in front of him—‗why would a holy relic, for example, have been smuggled out of Constantinople in 1477? The city had been Ottoman since 1453 and most of its relics were destroyed in the invasion. Why did the monastery of Panachrantos send a remaining relic into Bulgaria twenty-four years later, and why was that the particular relic these monks had gone to Constantinople to find?‘