I said.
"Otherwise, you'll die before we reach Varna."
He only looked at me
stubbornly. "Tell the steward to bring me some cold oranges,” he said.
"Winnie Beason told me
that they feed them to
the hospital's children to ward off infection."
"Gance!”
"We go on."
The night after the
doctor left the train, I dared not go to sleep. Instead I sat beside Gance's
bed with the pan of ice
water, changing the compress on his forehead, holding his hand
when he became restive. Finally, his own strong constitution came to his
rescue. The fever broke and he slept peacefully. I have never seen his
expression so innocent. He said in the morning that he'd had magnificent
dreams.
He demanded to get
dressed. When the steward came, Gance requested that the man change the linens
on the bed and
ordered me to sleep. We
were an hour out of Varna when I woke.
Gance was sitting on the
end of the divan, a map of the Carpathians spread beside him. "Mina, come
and show me
where we're going,” he
said when he saw me sitting
tip
in bed.
"We're going to spend a few days in Varna,” I replied.
"I won't have your death on my conscience, Gance."
"I promise not to
die." "An easy promise to make. You won't even have to feel regret if
you break it. "
"Excellent!"
he said, commenting on my wit. "But I'm sure to feel regret in the
afterlife, particularly since it's common
knowledge that /'m going
to hell. Now come here, show me where we're going ... eventually."
I did as he asked,
exaggerating my confusion with the location, the steepness of the climbs, the
chill in the air, the
remoteness of the area.
My eloquence won. When we reached Varna, I
recommended that we come here to this hotel, and here we have stayed for the
last three days. We keep to ourselves, Gance because he is recuperating, me
because so many on the staff recall my visit here with my husband just months
ago. Though Gance and I have separate rooms, they still look at me oddly, wondering,
I suppose, where my husband has gone. I shouldn't care but I do.
/
feel as if some of the
essence of our little band remains alive in these rooms. The feeling is
impossible to shake, as is my belief that one day a ship or a train will bring
Jonathan here looking for me.
Gance was much better
this afternoon. A local physician (not at all the sort of quack the doctor on
the train had said we
would find!) examined Gance and told him that the infection had
subsided. He gave Gance permission to bathe and instructed him to leave the
wound uncovered afterward so the scar could dry.
"We
ought to talk to someone who knows the area around the Borgo Pass," Gance
said after the doctor had gone and we were together once more. "The
physician had a suggestion an where to begin. Go and dress for dinner. We're
dining out."
The hotel had the
western flavor of all port establishments. But as we walked up the hill away
from the harbor, it seemed
that we had stepped into another land, one of many races. The
women all seemed to share an affinity for white cotton skirts but covered them
in wildly embroidered aprons tied in both front and back. These seemed to serve
both as protection for the skirts and to give some warmth. Their chests were
covered with woolen shawls, their heads with detached hoods that Gance told me
were believed to date back to Roman times.
I had
sufficient opportunity to observe a great deal because we walked very slowly
and stopped often. Gance may be better, but his wound still pains him if he
breathes too deeply. Once we were on level ground, however, we went on at a good
pace. It is heartening to see him healing so quickly.
The instructions the doctor had written helped
us find a small restaurant, no larger than a common English pub. A hostess
wearing a magnificently embroidered velvet jacket that any London socialite
might envy, showed us to a table covered with a blue crocheted cloth. The
napkins were trimmed in similar blue lace. The hostess knew enough Hungarian to
bring us the wine Gance wanted, but it took far longer for Gance to explain to
her that we also needed to talk to someone who knew the area between Bukovina
and Bacau.
She beamed with pleasure
at finally understanding, nodded and said a word Gance told me meant
"later."
In the meantime, we
dined on the most magnificent goose, baked with apples and cinnamon, an odd
pickled squash and
u dessert of paper-thin
layers of dough that dripped honey down my fingers.
Each time the woman
returned with bread, more coffee or dessert, Gance would ask about the guide.
Each time she
would repeat the same
word.
When I thought the seam
on my skirt would split from my gluttony, the man who had been tending bar in
the front came
and joined us.
There was danger in
consulting a guide. We knew that, but we had no choice. Fortunately, the man
was well versed in
the roads around the
Borgo Pass, but if the tales of the area meant anything to him, he gave no
indication.
"Good land,"
he said of Bukovina, not once but often, then suggested we take the coach that
traveled there every few
days.
"Ask him if we can
purchase horses at a coach stop,” I suggested.
"If there are
horses, I can purchase them,” Gance replied in a quick whisper. He asked the
man to come to the hotel in
the morning, and paid
the bill, including a handsome tip for the advice.
It was almost dark when
we left the restaurant. As we stood on the hill overlooking the port, the
entire ocean seemed to
have turned to glass, reflecting the clouds and the many shades of
the evening sky. The scene was so moving that I stopped and tried to etch it
in my mind, as if its beauty could erase the horror of the past.
Someday
when all of this is behind me, I hope that Jonathan will come here. I want him
to look at this place with an artist's eyes and see it true beauty. And though
I know that it is most likely impossible, I want to be here with him, to sit beside
him as he draws.
I see this all in my
mind so perfectly. Even as I stand here, my arm linked to another man's, I feel
so close to
Jonathan.
April 27
. Gance saw me to my
room and followed me inside. Since he was so much better, I expected him to
spend the
night. When he turned to
leave, I stopped him, kissing him with all the passion he had taught me to
show.
He shook his head
slowly, sadly. "Gance, I'm sorry,” I said. "I thought you would
welcome it. I should have known that
it's too soon. "
His hand brushed the
side of my face. He kissed my cheek sweetly, with all the affection of a
brother to his sister.
"What's
happened?" I asked. "What has changed?"
He seemed to be weighing
an answer, or looking for something deeper than just a witty remark. "l
care for you, enough
that I never want you to
feel any regret."
"Me, or yourself,
Gance?"
"I'm not a coward,
if that's what you mean."
"It takes great
trust to love. You have to reveal so much of yourself.” I touched his hair,
soft and white like a small, fair
child's. "You are
no coward, Gance, but you are afraid of something. What is it?”
"I wasn't speaking
of love. Everyone I ever loved has died, and none of them pleasantly.” He sat
on the edge of my bed.
"I suppose I simply
feel afraid for you, especially now."
"If the vampires
are still alive, and / believe that some of them are, they won't kill me.
Perhaps they want another
prisoner to amuse them.
"
"Or your help in
escaping those ancient walls."
I had never thought of that. Some of my shock
must have shown in my expression, because he held out his arms, and when I sat
next to him, he said, "Look at London, filled with thieves and murderers,
men who would cut your throat for that brooch you are wearing. There would be
no shortage of food for creatures such as them. Actually, London would be all
the better for their presence. "
"Dracula did not dine on thieves, Gance. He chose Lucy
Westerna instead. " "Perhaps, in his own way, he loved her."
Why was I so shocked at
his words when I already knew they were right? Why was I so saddened by them? I
still do not
know, but I cried,
sobbing for her and for me and for the marriage that never had a chance to
grow. Gance took my
hands, and I looked up and saw that there were also tears in his
eyes. Suddenly I understood why he backed away from me, for all the affection
for him that I had held back surfaced, threatening my control the way the
dreams had my sanity.
"How did those you
cared for die?" I asked him.
He went to his room for
a bottle of brandy. I had only meant to have a little, but as I listened to his
sad tale of his
mother's suicide and his
father's slow degeneration into lust and insanity, we shared the bottle.
We drank a great deal
and fell asleep, fully clothed, in one another's arms.
When I woke in the morning,
Gance had gone.
I went
back to sleep for another hour then went and knocked on his door. He didn't
reply. Thinking him ill once more, I went in and found his bed still made up.
Though there were clothes on the chair, the room seemed emptier. I went to the
closet and found that his bag and heavier coat were missing.
The hotel staff
sympathized with what they thought was nay plight. The owner took special pains
to assure me that the
bill had been settled
and an account left to see me through another dozen days or so. I could stay on
or go as I wished.
He also gave me an
envelope Gance had left for me.
I opened it in the
privacy of my room. Inside was a draft for two hundred pounds and a note that
simply said,
Perhaps I do love you. Else why
would I be foolish enough to go to his abode without your knowledge and
protection. I took my own precautions, and now I am gone. A fitting adventure
for one who shares Lord Byron's blood, don't you think?
Gance.
His own precautions?
Something of last night came back to me, and my fingers brushed over a tender
spot on my chest.
I felt the cut. He had
tasted my blood, and through it Dracula's, once more.
The fool! The terrible fool! I considered
everything that had happened on my last journey here. An idea came to me, one I
was amazed I had not thought of before. I changed into my simplest traveling
clothes then went downstairs and asked the staff to give me directions to the
nearest church. "Catholic or Lutheran?"
"Neither."
Dracula's religion, I thought. The one he had practiced all his life. The one
he believed in. "Orthodox,” I said.
Brother Michael Kozma, prior of St. Peter and
Paul Monastery in Varna, seemed to be accustomed to the presence of unbelievers.
He had a keen curiosity about the world, asking me many questions as he
explained the history of the retreat. I was astonished at how well he spoke
English and commented on it. He replied in German, then French, then, in
English once more, he said I should be more amazed at his pride.
Astonishing. I came here
looking for a holy man and found another Gance instead.
He told me that women
were not allowed in many sections of the monastery, then took me into the
church and showed
me the sacred icons.
After I had finished admiring them, he asked for a donation for their
preservation.
This pragmatist was not
the sort of holy man I had come to see. "When people come to discuss
matters of the soul, do
they also speak to
you?" I asked.
"Me? No, madam. Those I hand over to the abbot, Brother
Sandor, who has all the virtue that I do not possess.”
"May I speak with
him?" "He does not give audiences to women." I suppose I should
have known. "May I ask for an exception?"
He looked surprised. Had
no one ever asked this before? "For what reason?" he questioned, his
voice now gentle,
prodding a reply.
"One I prefer to
discuss with him,” I replied.
"Unless you speak
Rumanian or Russian, you will be discussing it with me as well. And if you wish
an audience with
Brother Sandor, you need
a reason and that must go through me.” From anyone else, the words might have
sounded