Dragosani sat astounded. He was not sure what reaction he’d expected, but certainly it was not this. ‘More of us?’ he said. ‘Every year? I’m not sure I understand . . .’
‘Why, now that the restrictions have been relaxed,’ Kinkovsi explained. ‘Now that your precious “iron curtain” has been opened up a little! They come from America, from England and France, even one or two from Germany. Curious tourists, mainly – but at other times learned men and scholars. And all of them hunting this same lie of a “legend”. What? Why, I’ve pulled a dozen legs here in this very room, by pretending to be afraid of this . . . this “Dracula”. But what fools! Surely everyone knows – even “ignorant peasants” like myself -that the creature is only a character in a story by a clever Englishman, written at the turn of the century? Yes, and not more than a month ago there was a film of the same title at the picture house in town. Oh, you can’t fool me, Dragosani. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that you’re here as a guide for my English party. They’re due in on Friday. And yes, they too are searching for the big bad vampir!’
‘Scholars, you say?’ Dragosani fought hard to hide his confusion. ‘Learned men?’
Kinkovsi stood up, switched on the dim electric light where it hung in a battered lampshade from the centre of the ceiling. He sucked at his pipe and got it going again. ‘Scholars, yes – professors from Koln, Bucharest, Paris. For the last three years. All armed with their notebooks, photocopies of mouldy old maps and documents, their cameras and sketchbooks and – oh, all sorts of paraphernalia!’
Dragosani had recovered himself. ‘And their chequebooks, too, eh?’ he feigned a knowing smile. Again Kinkovsi roared. ‘Oh, yes, of course! Their money, too. Why, I’ve heard that up in the mountain passes there are little village shops which actually sell tiny glass bottles of earth from this Dracula’s castle! My god! Can you believe it? It’ll be Frankenstein next! I’ve seen him on film, too, and he’s really frightening!’ Now the younger man began to feel angry. Irrationally, he felt himself to be the butt of Kinkovsi’s joke. So the snag-toothed simpleton didn’t believe in vampires; they made him roar with laughter; they were like the Yeti or the Loch Ness Monster: tourist attractions born out of myths and old wives’ tales . . .”?
. . . And right there and then Dragosani made himself a promise that –
‘What’s all this talk about monsters?’ Maura Kinkovsi came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. ‘You be careful, Hzak! Mind how you speak of the devil. And you, Herr Dragosani. There are still things in the lonely places that people don’t understand.’ ‘What lonely places, woman?’ her husband chuckled.
‘Here’s a man come down from Moscow in little more than a day – a journey which once would have taken a week and more – and you talk about lonely places? There’s no room for lonely places any more!’
Oh, but there is, Dragosani thought. It’s a terribly lonely place in your grave. I’ve felt it in them: a loneliness they don’t even know is there – until they waken to my touch!
‘You know what I mean!’ Kinkovsi’s wife snapped. ‘It’s rumoured that in the mountains there are still villages where they yet put stakes through the hearts of people taken too young or dead from no obvious cause – to make sure they don’t come back. And no one thinks ill of it.’ (this last to Dragosani) ‘It’s just custom, so to speak, like doffing your hat to a funeral procession.’
Now Use also appeared. ‘What? And are you a vampir-hunter, too, Herr Dragosani? But what a dark, morbid lot they are! Surely you can’t be one of them?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Dragosani’s feigned smile was fixed now, frozen on his face. ‘I was just having a laugh with your father, that’s all. But my joke seems to have backfired.’ He stood up.
‘Eh?’ said Kinkovsi, obviously disappointed. ‘Early night, is it? I suppose you’re still tired. Pity, I was looking forward to talking to you. Never mind, I’ve jobs a-plenty to get on with. Maybe tomorrow.’