The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova Page A

In fact, the dark, deep stare I got back—although her eyes also had a curious amber in their depths, like honey—was extremely hostile. I wasn‘t what people still called then a ladies‘ man; in fact I was something of a recluse. But I knew enough to feel ashamed, and I hurried to explain.
    Later I realized that her hostility was the defense of the striking-looking woman who is stared at again and again. ―Excuse me,‖ I said quickly. ―I couldn‘t help noticing your books—I mean, what you‘re reading.‖
    She stared unhelpfully back at me, keeping her book open in front of her, and raised the dark sweep of her eyebrows.
    ―You see, I‘m actually studying the same subject,‖ I persisted. Her eyebrows rose a little higher, but I indicated the papers in front of me. ―No, really. I‘ve just been reading about—‖ I looked at the piles of Rossi‘s documents in front of me and stopped abruptly.
    The contemptuous slant of her eyelids made my face grow warm.
    ―Dracula?‖ she said sarcastically. ―Those appear to be primary sources you have got there.‖ She had a rich accent I couldn‘t place, and her voice was soft, but library soft, as if it could spring into real strength when uncoiled.
    I tried a different tactic. ―Are you reading those for fun? I mean, for enjoyment? Or are you doing research?‖
    ―Fun?‖ She kept the book open, still, maybe to discourage me with every possible weapon.
    ―Well, that‘s an unusual topic, and if you‘ve also gotten out a work on the Carpathians, you must be deeply interested in your subject.‖ I hadn‘t spoken so quickly since the orals for my master‘s degree. ―I was just about to check that book out myself. Both of them, in fact.‖
    ―Really,‖ she said. ―And why is that?‖
    ―Well,‖ I hazarded, ―I‘ve got these letters here, from—from an unusual historical source—and they mention Dracula. They‘re about Dracula.‖
    A faint interest dawned inside her gaze, as if the amber light had won out and was turned reluctantly on me. She slumped slightly in her chair, relaxed into something like masculine ease, without taking her hands off her book. It struck me that this was a gesture I had seen a hundred times before, this slackening of tension that accompanied thought, this settling into a conversation. Where had I seen it?
    ―What are those letters, exactly?‖ she asked, in her quiet foreign voice. I thought with regret that I should have introduced myself and my credentials before getting into any of this. For some reason, I felt I couldn‘t start over at this point—couldn‘t suddenly put out my hand to shake hers and tell her what department I was in, and so on. It also occurred to me that I‘d never seen her before, so she certainly wasn‘t in history, unless she was new, a transfer from some other university. And should I lie to protect Rossi? I decided, at random, not to. I simply left his name out of the equation.
    ―I‘m working with someone who‘s—having some problems, and he wrote these letters more than twenty years ago. He gave them to me thinking I might be able to help him out of his current—situation—which has to do with—he studies, I mean he was studying—‖
    ―I see,‖ she said with cold politeness. She stood up and started collecting her books, deliberately and without haste. Now she was picking up her briefcase. Standing, she looked as tall as I‘d imagined her, a little sinewy, with broad shoulders.
    ―Why are you studying Dracula?‖ I asked in desperation.
    ―Well, I must say it is not any of your business,‖ she told me shortly, turning away, ―but I am planning a future trip, although I do not know when I will take it.‖
    ―To the Carpathians?‖ I felt suddenly rattled by the whole conversation.
    ―No.‖ She flung that last word back at me, disdainfully. And then, as if she couldn‘t help herself, but so contemptuously that I didn‘t dare follow her: ―To Istanbul.‖
    ―Good Lord,‖ my