Part 13 (1/2)

He took the letter and locked it in his desk then went on with his work. Within a day, the memory of its contents, like the journey itself, was carefully closed off. He would not think of it, dared not consider that Van Helsing might have written the truth. His sanity required that he forget that the letter even existed.

II

Abraham Van Helsing-doctor, writer, psychologist, and expert in obscure diseases of the soul-had spent the last two months in Romania and in that time had learned nothing new about vampirism, and little about Dracula that he had not guessed already.

Yet he sensed that their ordeal was not yet over, for, as with Mina and the others, night brought him little rest. Instead he had terrible dreams of the three vampire women and how they had moved so lewdly before him, tempting him with their bodies. Often he woke with his hands pressed against his neck, his lips b.l.o.o.d.y where he had bitten them as he thrashed in his sleep.

Less than a month after the others left him, Van Helsing had moved from a hotel to a little house near the center of town. He had it blessed, sprinkled holy water on the doorstep and around the windows, slept with blessed hosts beside his bed. Nothing helped.

The dreams continued, growing ever more vivid until he became convinced that his memories would drive him mad.

Days were no better. In spite of the winter storms that had closed the mountain roads, he fought a terrible compulsion to go back to the castle where he had beheaded the concubines and watched their master crumble to dust. Often the compulsion seemed justified. The more he learned about Dracula the man, the more convinced he had become that Dracula would not have been destroyed so easily.

Many natives from the region around the Borgo had settled in Galati, and Van Helsing sought them out. He gained their trust slowly, for they were suspicious of strangers. Once he knew them, however, they were quite open with him. They did not like foreigners, they said, because foreigners were stupid and laughed at their warnings.

”About what?” Van Helsing had asked.

”About everything.”

”About the Borgo Pa.s.s?”

”They are fools. What do you know of the Borgo?”

”I have been to the castle,” Van Helsing replied.

”Ah, then you are different. You went and they let you go.” The speaker had clasped Van Helsing's hand as he said this, holding it as if Van Helsing had somehow been blessed by the monsters.

”Why did you tolerate them in your midst?”

”Our ancestors lived in peace because of them. We owe a debt and we are protected,” he said and refused to comment any more except to offer Van Helsing another gla.s.s of slivovitz, the plum brandy of the region, which brought its own kind of forgetfulness.

Then he read the account of the attack on the train.

He had little difficulty locating the German who'd written the account of the storm, but even when the right questions were put to the man, he could add nothing to his tale.

”The wolf howls sounded strange,” he said. ”I thought I saw a figure in the swirling snow ... It was dark by then. How can anyone be certain?”

Possibilities. Nothing more. How could Van Helsing tell Jack Seward to leave his work for possibilities? How could he pull poor Lord G.o.dalming from his mourning? Jonathan Harker from his firm? And dear Madam Mina! What could he tell her to put her mind at rest?

Nothing until he went there and saw with his own two eyes that the castle was empty.

Luck was with him. A few days after he wrote Jack Seward and Mina, a sudden spring-like break in the weather opened the pa.s.s, allowing Van Helsing to reach the castle. He walked its musty halls and visited the lower chamber where the women had taken their daytime rest. Their headless bodies had been burned but not destroyed by the fire. The flesh that remained had frozen and was only now beginning to decay. The rings still circled their fingers; sc.r.a.ps of lace and satin still clung to their bodies.

So beautiful they had been once, Van Helsing thought, like his wife in all the beauty of her youth. Now the monsters were dead, and if anything remained, it could only be their memory.

He slept in one of the upstairs rooms with a blessed host beside him. His dreams were unchanged save that they had become less vivid, perhaps because of his exhaustion after the journey.

Before he started back to Galati, he blessed the halls in the name of G.o.d and those who had been destroyed by the creatures who had lived here. He recited each name slowly in a sort of litany to the dead.” . . . Miriam Sebescue ... Marie Sebescue ...

Zoltan Somogyi ... Henry Watts . . . Jacques Munroe . . .”

On and on. Names, all names to him until the last, when finally, after so many years of seeking respite from his sorrow through revenge, he was able to cry, ”Maria Van Helsing.”

She had loved to travel, marveled at the mountains, the wonder of all these exotic, primitive places. Her mind had been as quick as his, as curious. In his ignorance, he had brought her to the Carpathians, into the shadow of these cursed walls. The villagers had searched for her. When he was finally led to her body, the natives had already done what was necessary to see that she did not rise.

III

The portrait artist had finished his work in two weeks. Jonathan's birthday party was a few days later, and Mina could not wait for a reply to her letters before making her move. Actually, she doubted her letters had ever been received, and so she made a second trip to London. There, she spent most of her day in Bloomsbury searching for the Romanian family.

Owners of the Huntley Street shops could tell her little. Some recalled the bookstore, but no one could remember exactly where it had been. As to the old Romanian, one elderly woman remembered him fondly but could only say that he had not lived in Bloomsbury.

She returned on the evening train, stopping at the studio to pick up Millicent's photograph and Jonathan's gift. ”Where is the portrait?” Millicent asked as soon as Mina returned from London.

”I left it at Winnie's. I was afraid to bring it home in case Jonathan was here. I've asked the Beasons to come early so that it can be hanging when the other guests arrive. Do you think we should put it above the dining room fireplace?”

”How is it framed?”

”I've brought a sample. Open the package.”

Millicent did. The worn gilt frame the drawing had originally been in had been replaced with a square of polished cherry, richly carved. Beneath it was the old frame.

”I wasn't certain if you'd like it,” Mina said.

”It's lovely.”

Mina detected her thanks, her confusion and the slight hint of reproach. She could lie and say that it had been included in the price, but she did not wish to. Millicent had to get used to their good fortune as she had done, or they would never get on together.

”The frame for Jonathan's picture is that shade, but the wood is much wider, the carving more intricate. I think the tone will go well with the rose wood of the mantel.”

”I'll have Laura wash the wall and rehang the old pictures.”

”He'll never suspect.” She hugged the woman. It occurred to her that it was the first time they had touched out of affection. ”And Aunt Millicent, I want you to come to the party.”

”But the meal . , .”

”You have planned it. You can start the roasts and mix the puddings, and Winnie Beason's cook can finish. This is Jonathan's birthday. These are our closest friends in Exeter, not some formal gathering. And Jonathan will want you there.”

”I have nothing to wear.”

”You will,” Mina said firmly. ”We'll see to that tomorrow.” She sensed Millicent about to protest and went on. ”We are giving him a present. You must be on hand for that. How will it look to have his aunt, the one relative closest to him in the world, preparing the meal instead of eating it? If Mr. Chapel were here, he'd tell you the same.”

”I've never worn anything that I didn't make myself.” Mina was about to remind the woman that they had no time for sewing when Millicent added, ”You'll come and help me pick it out, won't you?”

Mina had never seen Millicent fl.u.s.tered as she was in the shop. As she watched the woman studying each garment to determine the strength of the fabric and the workmans.h.i.+p on each seam, she began to comprehend the way her husband had been raised, and his compulsive need for perfection in his work.