‘You don’t know me, Mr Giresci,’ said Dragosani, ‘but I’ve learned something of you, and what I’ve learned has fascinated me. I suppose you could say I’m something of a historian, whose special interest lies way back in old Wallachia. And I’ve been told that no one knows the history of these parts better than you.’
‘Hmm!’ said Giresci, looking his visitor up and down. ‘Well, there are professors at the university in Bucharest who’d dispute that – but I wouldn’t!’ He stood blocking the way inside, seemingly uncertain, but Dragosani noted that his brown eyes went again to the string bag and the bottle.
‘Whisky,’ said Dragosani. ‘I’m partial to a drop and it’s hard stuff to come by in Moscow. Maybe you’ll join me in a glass – while we talk?’
‘Oh?’ Giresci barked. ‘And who said we were going to talk?’ But again his eyes went to the bottle, and in a softer tone: ‘Scotch, did you say?’
‘Of course. There’s only one real whisky, and that’s -‘
‘What’s your name, young man?’ Giresci cut him off. He still blocked the way into his house, but his eyes held a look of interest now.
‘Dragosani. Boris Dragosani. I was born in these parts.’
‘And is that why you’re interested in their history? Somehow I don’t think so.’ From frank and open scrutiny, now his eyes took on a look of wary suspicion. ‘You wouldn’t be representing any foreigners, would you? Americans, for example?’
Dragosani smiled. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘No, for I know you’ve had trouble with strangers before. But I’ll not lie to you, Ladislau Giresci, my interest is probably the same as theirs was. I was given your address by the librarian in Pitesti.’
‘Ah?’ said Giresci. ‘Is that so? Well, he knows well enough who I’ll see and who I won’t see, so it seems your credentials must be all right. But let’s hear it from you now – from your own lips – and no holding back: just what is your interest?’
‘Very well’ (Dragosani could see no way round it, and little point in hedging the matter anyway), ‘I want to know about vampires.’
The other stared hard at him, seemed not at all surprised. ‘Dracula, you mean?’
Dragosani shook his head. ‘No. I mean real vampires. The vampir of Transylvanian legend – the cult of the Wamphyri!’
At that Giresci gave a start, winced again as his bad shoulder jumped, leaned forward a little and grasped Dragosani’s arm. He breathed heavily for a moment and said: ‘Oh? The Wamphyri, eh? Well – perhaps I will talk to you. Yes, and certainly I’d appreciate a glass of whisky. But first you tell me something. You said you wanted to know about the real vampire, the legend. Are you sure you don’t mean the myth? Tell me, Dragosani: do you believe in vampires?’
Dragosani looked at him. Giresci was watching him keenly, waiting, almost holding his breath. And something told Dragosani that he had him. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly, after a moment. ‘Indeed I do!’ ‘Hmm!’ the other nodded – and stood aside. ‘Then you’d better come in, Mr Dragosani. Come in, come in -and we’ll talk.’
However dilapidated Giresci’s place might look from outside, inside it was as clean and neat as any cripple living on his own could possibly keep it. Dragosani was pleasantly surprised at the sense of order he felt as he followed his host through rooms panelled in locally crafted oak, where carpets patterned in the old Slavic tradition kept one’s feet from sliding on warmly glowing, age-polished pine boards. However rustic, the place was warm and welcoming – on the one hand. But on the other –
Giresci’s penchant – his all-consuming ‘hobby’ or obsession – was alive and manifest in every room. It saturated the atmosphere of the house in exactly the same way as mummy-cases in a museum inspire a sense of endless ergs of sand and antique mystery – except that here the picture was of bitter mountain passes and fierce pride, of cold wastes and aching loneliness, of a procession of endless wars and blood and incredible cruelties. The rooms were old Romania. This was Wallachia. The walls of one room were hung with old weapons, swords, pieces of armour. Here was an early sixteenth-century arquebusier, and here a vicious barbed pike. A black, pitted cannonball from a small Turkish cannon held open a door (Giresci had found it on an ancient battlefield near the ruins of a fortress close to Tirgoviste) and a pair of ornate Turkish scimitars decorated the wall over the fireplace. There were terrible axes, maces and flails, and a badly battered and rusty cuirass, with the breastplate hacked almost in half from the top. The wall of the corridor which divided the main living-room from the kitchen and bedrooms was hung with framed prints or likenesses of the infamous Vlad princes, and with boyar family genealogies. There were family crests and motifs, too, complicated battle maps, sketches (from Giresci’s own hand) of crumbling fortifications, tumuli, earthworks, ruined castles and keeps.