Stoker's Manuscript (7 page)

C
ome,” Arthur Ardelean said, “allow me to show you the tourist route we intend.”

Lengthy dinner concluded (Arthur had referred to it as venison
, which I suspected meant
local
) and after taking proper leave from Luc, we walked the route sightseers would track on the Dracula tour. Much of the old castle furnishings and decorations had been provided by the Romanian royal family, a combination of German baronial and traditional Romanian styles with dark stains and shadowy accents. Several sleeping chambers had beds of timber beams with taut ropes, the origin of “sleep tight.”

Night had drawn its shade when we stepped out into the elevated courtyard and walked to one of several lookout vantages. An alpine chill had claimed the earlier breeze while the western horizon squinted its last purple slivers. In the east the moon, still a couple days from full, inched over the hills toward
. Fast-moving clouds flickered the moonlight’s intensity.

I thought of the soldiers who, over the centuries, had stood watch along this wall. High stakes in those times, when runners and carrier pigeons arrived with skinny notice of approaching armies, when battles lost meant plunder of everything dear to the soldier—not just possessions, but life, home, and family. And for survivors, slavery.

“It is time, Mr. Barkeley.”

Arthur held open a door, and we walked a hall half the length of a parapet wall before stopping at an oak door, built heavy and sturdy like an exterior door, with a double crossbar lock, also of hardwood. Arthur lifted it with ease, and I stepped through into a tall stairwell. The circular stone steps spiraled tightly down windowless stone walls, a twist too tight to see your destination. The air smelled of dust from the stones. At sixty steps I lost count. Dim lanterns cast eerie red light as we descended farther and farther, our breathing and echoing footfalls the only noises.

At the bottom Arthur lifted a lantern from a wall hook and shone it on the door, another solid oak barrier with a speakeasy window and a stout iron locking mechanism. He produced a key from his pocket, a large old-fashioned iron one, and turned it in the opening. I heard two clicks and a loud clunk, and the door eased open with a hiss and a rush of cool air.

Arthur entered the room first and felt the wall for a switch. Sconce lights on three walls clicked on and only grudgingly lit the room, revealing several large wooden picnic-style tables covered with dusty tarps. They had detached bench seats. A couple smaller chambers, both doorless, occupied the left side. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the right side wall appeared to be solid rock. Underfoot it felt like compacted dirt. There was a certain feel to the room I could not place immediately, but I had felt it before.

“Come, this might be of interest to you,” Arthur said.

He showed me to the two smaller rooms along the left side, the first one used as storage for chairs and such. They did not have wood where you might expect door frames. Perhaps they had barred entrances at one time.

“This,” he said, holding his lantern up, “this is where Vlad the Third slept when he was . . . a guest in the castle.”

I looked inside. “Vlad the Impaler.”

“Yes.” A table leaned along one wall, and an empty bed frame along another.

It dawned on me that I was in the foundation of the castle, the part of the structure built from the rock itself, and the temperature and air felt like a cave. The sound from the walls failed to reflect—dead air.

We stepped out of the guest room, and he pointed toward the dark fourth wall. “Back there is the old wine cellar.”

“Which you plan on converting to display the manuscript.”

“Correct.”

I pointed down. “This will need flooring.”

“Of course.”

“Cork over poured concrete would be ideal for this application.”

“So noted, sir,” Arthur said. “Now, if you will give me a minute.” He lifted a tarp off a table and bench for us to sit, and that’s when it hit me—the smell. An awful odor, a combination of carrion and something else, wafted through the air.

“Please be seated, Mr. Barkeley, and let us discuss what you came here for.”

I chose a seat with my back to the wall and facing the dark end of the room. “Before going to the museum I read the novel to familiarize myself with the story.”

“It is quite the enduring accomplishment, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “They had the display sealed, and unlocked it for me, double keys on the combination lock.”

“What was included in the display?”

I rattled off the list, from the handwritten notes to the gem clips, and explained what belonged and what appeared to be added later. He did not seem particularly interested, but instead he moved directly to the matter’s heart.

“And what of the prologue and epilogue?”

“The prologue, which was at one time chapter two, and the epilogue were part of the original handwritten as well as the typed manuscripts. They appear to have been replaced after fire destroyed the first editions.”

“Did you note their content?”

“As you specified, no copies were taken. But the prologue describes one of the protagonists going out on
Walpurgisnacht
and ending up next to the tomb of a vampire, a female. And the epilogue describes a more elaborate battle to the villain’s death, followed by his burial back in the same graveyard.”

“Very good.”

“I was able to authenticate Stoker’s handwriting from his notes to the manuscript, as well as verify the paper used as stock from the 1890s.”

“Without sample testing.”

“Without sample testing, yes. I . . .” I paused, sensing something in the darkness of the next room. “I did not need to give it the acid test to know it was Northern European wood pulp, kraft chemical method.”

“It is obvious,” Arthur said with a smile, “that the best man was chosen for the job. Did you bring your report?”

“It is upstairs.” I then saw what looked like a pair of eyes set back in the dark room. Red eyes. Perhaps the red lantern light from the stairwell . . . but the wall sconces surrounding me shone an amber glow of bulbs used back in the 1890s, when the world converted from gas lanterns to electric bulbs.

From the darkness a deep voice sounded: “Come forward and let me see you.”

I assumed it was the buyer and stood, awaiting Arthur’s instruction.

“This way, slowly please,” Arthur said.

As I stepped toward the red glowing eyes, the smell increased.

“I am honored to work for you, sir,” I said.

“You were chosen for your specific talent,” the voice said. All voices emanate from the diaphragm, and his had a projecting, stentorian quality I had never heard, as if it carried through the air with little effort. He drew out the last word of his sentences. “Chosen well, I see, as Arthur said.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Arthur motioned for me to stop. I heard the man breathing. His breaths were much longer in duration than a normal man’s, more like a great-sized animal.

“Closer.”

I took two steps closer, and he breathed deeply. It sounded as if he drew breaths over his teeth and made a slight hissing sound on inhale. He did this twice, the second one more pronounced. When he exhaled, it was quiet.

“Your work is extraordinary, young man,” the voice said.

“Thank you again, sir.”

“Closer, please.”

Another two steps and I was certain he saw my nose wrinkle at the strong odor.

“I sense . . . fear,” the voice said.

I managed to speak. “This is an unusual setting, sir.”

“You need not fear me.” I heard him breathe. “Unless you are wrong.”

“Do you wish for me to proceed with negotiations with the family, sir?”

“Mr. Barkeley, that manuscript belongs here . . . with me. You are to make an initial offer of two million dollars U.S. If countered, escalate with two even amounts up to four million. If that does not close the transaction, call Mr. Ardelean for further instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Funds will be wired to the museum’s account the following day. You are to take possession of the entire display yourself and immediately transport it here.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Upon my acceptance of the manuscript, Mr. Ardelean will instruct the bank in Zurich to credit your account for an amount equal to the purchase price.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is all.”

“Sir?” I called into the darkness.

Arthur spoke: “He is gone.”

“I don’t believe I heard his last instruction correctly.”

“You heard it correctly.” He smiled and patted me on the back. “You are no doubt just overwhelmed.”

“Four million dollars?”

“It is not just four million dollars, Mr. Barkeley. It is four million dollars in a Swiss account for you to draw at your choosing.”

N
o need for coffee; I stayed awake looking into the southern Transylvania night, counting dots of light while the town bedded. Below there was no traffic, no one afoot, no sign of humans save the diminishing house lights. Dogs howled and returned calls deep into the woods.

I tried to keep sinister thoughts at arm’s length, because, well . . . fiction is fiction. But I could not deny Mara’s list of traits: the red eyes, the odor, his smelling radius and breathing patterns, his swift movement, and his comment that he smelled fear. Or did he say he sensed it? Regardless, the eccentricities matched many of my more reclusive clients who wished not to be identified. Perhaps I was looking for those traits out of my own fears. After all, I was in the house that Dracula built.

I tried to shake the images by staring out into the night, and dared look up as the moon tracked straight above the castle. Clouds scurried eastward, shading the moon, and when it shone again the bright light illuminated the trees below along with the night’s airborne predators. As a child I remember seeing skeeter hawks near the lake, birds that dive through mosquito clouds for their meals, and I now recognized their distinct diving patterns. A flock darted down and toward the castle walls, looking as if they would either crash into a door or window, only to alter course and circle back.

Several bats flew by, and Mara’s comments echoed along with the novel’s passages telling of bats at the window. Stoker described the vampire’s flight as deliberate and straight-lined, ending with a graceful landing on a sill, but this colony winged about with much jitter and weave, and none alighted on the sill. It was the first time I had ever seen the flight of bats backlit by moonlight.

Four million dollars is serious money; not just in what it could purchase, but in what I could do. That much money meant freedom from worry and a buffer against a whimsical market. Now I would be free to work and make decisions only from a position of strength, bargaining from the top hand.

And of course I would take care of those who took care of me. I had fully intended to approach Doug Carli about supporting the nuns with a mortgage guarantee, but after the four-million-dollar offer I decided I would purchase the house outright and just let them live out their days in security. That was the only money I cared to spend in my head before receiving it.

Then I stepped back and recalled something Doug once told me: “No one goes from zero to millions without getting in bed with something ugly.”

After what seemed like only an hour or two, I shared breakfast with Luc on a tray he delivered to my room. Setting up on a small table, he looked well rested. “So you met with the old man last night.”

I nodded.

“Made quite the impression, I see.” He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “Doesn’t look like you slept much last night.”

“A little.” I thanked him as he poured.

“Don’t be too worried about the condition of the basement,” Luc said. “Smells down there, I know. It can be modernized.”

I nodded. “I recommended a cork floor to Mr. Ardelean, but they’d have to pour a concrete floor first. The real issue is controlling the air quality.”

“Well, between you and me?” He glanced toward the door before finishing. “I think the display is heading to one of the vaults.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

Again he looked toward the door. “You were almost there.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said. I assumed he meant the dark recesses in the basement. Many of my clients chose to hoard and protect their valuables, and as I reflected on Arthur’s less-than-enthusiastic response, I suspected the original might not end up on display. Not hungry, I pushed the food around with my fork. “Have you met him?”

“Couple times.” He indicated I should eat. “Takes his anonymity very seriously.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“They’re the oldest moneyed family on the Continent. They started the bank in Switzerland. Everything they do goes through it, and if you think about it, their secrecy is all they have. When you’re that rich, you’re a target, like it or not. If not for criminals, then for the paparazzi. Reputation is everything to people like that. They can’t afford to let anyone near them who they don’t have absolute faith in.”

I let the compliment pass. “So being ultra-rich makes you eccentric?”

“I’d call it shrewd. Pretty amazing, really,” he said. “Look at America—you get one or two generations removed from the great wealth builders and all the offspring are dolts.”

I nodded, conceding his point. “Drug addicts and social butterflies who bad-mouth the system that feathered their beds.”

“Right.” Luc grinned, then checked his watch. “Better get ready.”

After saying good-bye to Arthur at the front door, Luc and I caught the carriage ride to the market for the bus to
. We stopped at the same café, and Luc greeted the waitress with a much-heightened familiarity. After assuring him I could make it to my destination, I left him to his pursuits and stood in line at the train ticket window. From my Internet research, I had learned the northbound train went through
and Baia Mare before border transfers, then west to Vienna and finally Munich, my flight’s layover city. I placed phone calls changing my seat to two days later on a flight to Chicago before exchanging my ticket for a northbound rail pass through
and my hometown of Baia Mare.

The Rapid train rocked and rattled down the hill from
and settled on another valley floor bound for another mountain pass. I displayed my crucifix prominently in the hopes of repelling any armrest neighbor, and it worked. Village after village passed by the window, the train stopping every couple towns, and the farther north, the more in need of paint and more agrarian the towns looked. Every municipality, including the smallest villages, hosted its Christian church, and even when the newer white stucco churches sprung from the ground, the older wooden relics remained.

Not all vegetation had achieved blossom at this elevation, and the air told why: still alpine cool, downright brisk. I passed a sheep farm and saw shorn wool hanging to dry on fences, the breezes giving the appearance of thick wavy blond wigs hung after a wash. Animals still did the work that Americans delegate to John Deere, with men in black woolen pants and suspenders leaning into their plows, their sons leading the animals. Steep thatch-roofed barns housed animals and their feed, and the farther north, the more rutted the roads. Great arrays of colors were displayed on clotheslines, enhanced by multihued barnyard birds. At least as many women worked their modest farms as men.

Roads were neither concrete nor blacktop, but rather hard-packed dirt with a series of ruts that horse-drawn carts negotiated hauling their loads. Pedestrians walked close to the tree-lined edges to avoid the muck, and where the mud had puddled the people walked on long wooden planks. It was not a place for tennis shoes.

Every mile north brought more dramatic views of the white-capped Carpathian Mountains. Foothills rolled to the feet of steep cliffs with dense forests holding up the snow. Houses dotted hilltops and promised enviable views, with an occasional snow pile lingering in the shadowy stretches. A uniformed attendant called out, “
.”

I looked at my GPS and saw the coordinates read within a minute of where the buyer’s original phone call emanated, just a few miles southeast. It read 47.13 degrees north by 24.48 degrees east. I stood, and after consulting my phrase book, asked the attendant,
“
, cât timp este valabil acest bilet?”
Excuse me, how long is this ticket valid for?