Dracula in Istanbul Read online

  The translation you are about to read is a genuine endeavor to reflect Kazıklı Voyvoda in its authentic context. Through the use of explanatory footnotes, and the decision to retain some culturally-loaded words untranslated, the translator and editor invite the readers into the world of Turkish culture and history, and make their reading experience all the more enriching. As the translation of a translation, Dracula in Istanbul: The Unauthorized Version of the Gothic Classic is a playful text, destabilizing the conventional concepts of “original” and “translation.” Which is the original text of the present translation? Is it Kazıklı Voyvoda, or should the origins be searched in Dracula? This is a wonderful and unsettling example of intertextuality that reverses the direction of textual lineages.

  Ali Rıza Seyfi’s Dracula adaptation is becoming available to an English language readership for the first time thanks to Ed Glaser’s personal and painstaking efforts. I hope that it will be the point of departure for many a Dracula adventure in the future.

  A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

  Kazıklı Voyvoda mysteriously stops separating its story into chapters at 6, only about halfway through the book. For easier reading, chapter breaks 7 through 14 have been added. Their placement is suggested by chapter breaks in the original Stoker text.

  In Turkish, the suffixes “Bey” and “Hanım” are conventional modes of address for men and women, respectively. They serve much the same purpose as “Mr.” and “Ms.,” but are used after a person’s given name—for example “Azmi Bey” and “Güzin Hanım.” Surnames are not normally used in conversation. Hereditary, fixed surnames were also not officially implemented in Turkey until 1934, six years after the first publication of Kazıklı Voyvoda.

  A Selected Pronunciation Guide

  A, a

  o as in hot

  , â

  faint “y” sound following preceding consonant, or lengthening of “a” sound

  C, c

  j as in jump

  Ç, ç

  ch as in change

  G, g

  g as in get

  Ğ, ğ

  has no sound, but lengthens preceding vowel slightly

  I, ı

  u as in jump

  İ, i

  ee as in keep

  Î, î

  extended “i”

  O, o

  o as in off

  Ö, ö

  u as in urge

  Ş, ş

  sh as in shape

  U, u

  u as in put

  Ü, ü

  u as in nude

  -ey

  a as in make

  PREFACE

  This gruesome and terribly strange adventure, which I have decided to disclose to the world, fell into my hands in the form of a great pile of papers as though it had rained down from the sky. As such, I have not contributed to its writing or editing.

  It was an autumn night. I had boarded one of the last ferries from Göztepe to Haydarpaşa. It was very crowded. When we arrived at Haydarpaşa Pier, everyone gathered at the side of the ferry to disembark. I was a little slow because I had been absorbed in my paper. When I stood up from the bench there was no one else around me, but I spied a pile of documents wrapped in old newspaper and picked it up. I wanted to move quickly to deliver it to its owner, but everyone began to rush to the bridge and it was every man for himself. The few people I asked said that the papers did not belong to them. So in the end, the bundle came home with me. The next day I put a public notice in the newspaper with my address. Fifteen days passed, but no one answered. Finally I opened the parcel, which consisted of papers written in several different hands, and read through them. I found myself in a growing state of curiosity and excitement. I would have said that it was a novel, but the pages had been plucked from journals of various shapes and sizes and appeared to have been written by both men and women. All of this added an eerie sense of reality to the adventure.

  It appears that the pieces of this adventure had been taken from the diaries of the people involved, and then put into chronological order along with some letters. Did these terrible events, which are the frightening continuation and conclusion of those begun centuries ago, really occur in those desolate, mysterious corners of Istanbul? If not, then what is the meaning of the documents I hold? Those who doubt what I have said may come and see these papers for themselves.

  CHAPTER I

  FROM THE DIARY OF AZMİ BEY, A YOUNG ISTANBUL ATTORNEY

  3 May. (Town of Bistriç - Transylvania.)—I arrived in Vienna on the second of May. I only briefly glimpsed Budapest from the station, but my impression was that it is built like a gateway from east to west and west to east. Crossing the Danube River, babbling like a living testament to the glorious past of the Turkish nation, my great and famous race, the train carried me to places closely connected with Turkish history. Deep inside me the bitter, sweet, but above all proud and noble feelings fluttered and thrilled me. I felt a great sense of national pride. What a miracle of the soul these feelings are! The sweet, endless immortality of human societies!

  Before leaving Istanbul I read with great interest about Transylvania, historically called “Erdel” in Turkish, which saw many bloody war campaigns in our own history and during the recent conflicts in Europe. Not only did it make this unexpected trip more productive and enjoyable, but it may also ease the business of meeting with a Transylvanian noble.

  I gathered from my reading that the district this nobleman specified is in the eerie region of the Carpathian Mountains, standing at the easternmost end of Transylvania, on the borders of Moldavia and Bukovina. As I understand from books and maps, this is one of the least known areas of the European continent.

  I was not able to find a map indicating Castle Dracula, but the town of Bistriç, which was described by Count Dracula as the postal and communication hub of the region, is indeed a well-known and lively place.

  The landscapes I have encountered in this unfamiliar country are such a pleasant addition to my trip. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of Güzin; but it is not as though I ever forgot her in the first place! Ah, dear Güzin… If you were here with me in this wild, ancient land of mountains, amid these odd-looking people with their strange habits; if we could travel, talking together on these lonely roads, how happy and joyous we would be! This is just the life you wanted. In this foreign country, I would feel that you completely belonged to me.

  Her curiosity and passionate love of history—especially Turkish history, brimming with epic stories and heroism—would have made this trip invaluable to her. Also, was it not my dear Güzin who, in Istanbul, first drew my attention to the familiar name of Dracula?

  Güzin knows better than I do the bloody, horrible, blood-curdling acts that Voivode Dracula committed during the reign of Mehmed II in the history of the Turkish Empire. She has spoken, eyes glistening with tears of rage and excitement, of the tortures of this violent, cruel tormentor.

  Güzin! As I sleep in this small hotel in the Transylvanian town of Bistriç, there are two points of lights shimmering near the horizon in the direction of Istanbul. Can they be your affectionate eyes?

  Now I will make some notes, for I have not forgotten your interest in history:

  The people of Transylvania are made up of four distinct nationalities. In the south there are the Saxons, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are apparently the descendants of old Dacians. In the west there are the Hungarians, and in the north the Czechs. Of these I am visiting the Czechs, who claim they are the descendants of the Turkish hero Attila and the Huns who shook the world. And that is very possible, for in the 7th century when Hungarians came to these lands, they found the Huns already occupying them. According to some of the books I have read, all the primitive beliefs of the world are gathered together in this horseshoe of the Carpathian Mountains. As if this place is at the very center of a supernatural vortex. If so, the time I spend here should be very interesting. I must learn more about this from Count Dracula
.

  Even though my bed was quite comfortable, I still could not manage to sleep. A dog kept howling under my window all night, which may have had something to do with it. Early in the morning I arose and caught the train.

  All day we traveled through a land rich with every kind of natural beauty. Sometimes we came across little towns built on steep rocks like those we see in old paintings. At every station I saw people dressed in different fashions. Some of them looked like European peasants, but some had very strange clothes. Sometimes the villagers wore absurdly wide belts with many nails—I think these are some kind of ornament. The Slovaks are the strangest-looking; they are the most primitive of the lot. It is as though they are caught between civilization and barbarism. These people pull their pants on over their long boots, let their black hair grow to their shoulders, and grow bushy moustaches. They resemble the brigands of the stage. But some of the travelers I spoke to tell me that the Slovaks are harmless folk.

  The town of Bistriç is almost on the Transylvanian border. Nearby is the route to Bukovina through the mountain pass of Burgo.

  In his letter, Count Dracula wrote that when I came to see him I should stop at the Golden Hotel in Bistriç. When I arrived, a stout woman in an apron, looking like a character out of a novel, appeared before me with a warm, cheery smile.

  “Turk Effendi from Istanbul?” she asked.

  I affirmed with a nod and sat down upon one of the sofas in the parlor downstairs. A moment later the owner of the hotel—and as far as I could tell, the husband of the stout woman—came to my side and gave me a letter. It read as follows:

  “My friend!

  “Welcome to the Carpathian Mountains! I have been eagerly awaiting you. Sleep well tonight at this hotel. Tomorrow afternoon at three the mail coach will leave for Bukovina. A seat has been reserved for you. At the Burgo Pass my private coach shall be waiting to bring you to me. I hope you have had a pleasant journey from Istanbul and will enjoy your stay in my beautiful country.

  “Signed,

  “Dracula”

  Upon reading this letter, written in beautiful French, I felt some relief from my sense of alienation.

  4 May.—I understood that the landlord had received a letter from Count Dracula instructing him to reserve a seat for me on the mail coach. But when I asked for particulars, he strangely pretended not to understand my German. However, this attitude could not have been genuine. Up to then he had understood my German perfectly. When I tried to ask more questions about the Count, the old man and his portly wife looked at each other as though they were afraid of something. The landlord only muttered something about the letter being sent to him with the money for the coach, and that he knew nothing else. It is very strange. Who would have thought that I would travel to such places and live as though I were in a novel?

  And there is more. When I asked the landlord if he personally knew Count Dracula and Castle Dracula, they both crossed themselves in fear! It was impossible to get more from their lips than “we know nothing.” Since the coach was waiting outside the hotel, I could not find the chance to ask anything further. But the landlord and his wife were acting very mysterious. The situation might appear stranger and more worrying to someone more neurotic than myself. May your ears—your tiny, pink ears ring, beautiful Güzin! If you were here now, and saw that this large woman and her husband cross themselves in fear, you would immediately think of the terrible Voivode Dracula from history. That unmatched barbarian, famed as the Impaler Voivode, who impaled thousands of Turkish captives along Danube River! That ugly and vile historical face! Do this man and his wife cross themselves when they hear the name of our client, Count Dracula, because they unconsciously recall that horrible being from the past?

  There is more:

  Just as I was about to leave, the landlord’s old wife came into my room. Her lovely face had an anxious, hysterical look unusual for those so rotund. She came to my side and said, mysteriously:

  “Will you certainly go? Oh, Turk Effendi, must you go?”

  She was so anxious and worried, her broken German was getting even worse, and she was mixing in words from another language that I did not understand. I told her that I would have to go immediately, that it was my duty.

  “Do you know what day this is?”

  “It is the fourth of May, madam…”

  “I know, I know that… I am asking do you know what day it is?”

  When I told her I did not understand what she meant, she continued:

  “Today is the eve of Hagia Yorgi (Saint George). Do you not know that when the clock strikes midnight, all the dark creatures and evil spirits of the world will be set free? They will have full sway. And do you not know where you are going?”

  I felt an urge to laugh at this unexpected behavior and these strange words. But the poor woman was in such genuine pain and fear that the urge faded instantly. The heartfelt attention shown by this woman in a conservative, Christian country to a young Turkish man aroused in me profound feeling.

  I tried to mollify her with a sober attitude. I had an important task in front of me that needed to be taken care of, and it was impossible not to go. The evil spirits and demons of St. George’s Eve would not harm good, strong-hearted people. I had given my heart to Allah. I felt nothing but love for all mankind—even demons and spirits. Therefore this poor woman had nothing to fear. The great God who created all humanity would protect us too. I said all of this to the fair and compassionate woman as clearly and convincingly as I could. I thanked her for her interest in the welfare of a stranger such as myself.

  The old woman, attentive to my words, dried her teary eyes with her apron. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she handed me a small crucifix.

  I was quite taken aback by this. My position was rather awkward. Was this woman offering me the cross to kiss, or was she handing it to me so that it might protect me from the evil I may encounter? To tell the truth, I could not bring myself to kiss the piece of wood even to please this poor, decent woman. Aside from being difficult and embarrassing for a young Muslim, it was also a distasteful position for a rational man. Even a Protestant Christian, were he in my place, would hotly refuse. Nevertheless, I had a difficult time denying this poor woman. From my attitude and countenance she must have guessed what was passing through my mind, for she came even closer and placed the string of the little cross around my neck, begging me:

  “For your mother’s sake and for the life of your beloved!”

  My dear mother had already passed away. But my beloved? Dear Güzin, you are still here. How could I refuse an offer made for your life? Ah, sweet Güzin, my angel, you should have been here and seen how this old woman baptized me with your love and the cross of Jesus. I write these lines for our personal amusement.

  As I wore the cross against my chest, I thought of something: The way the woman said “for your mother’s sake” was enough to recall a long-forgotten feeling. My mother was a very religious woman. When I was a child, I had swooned on several occasions; apparently I was a very nervous youth. I remember my mother dragging me to “Baba Cafer,” “His Holiness Aynı Ali,” and “Merkez Efendi”[4] every Friday. I had a uniquely-crafted “Enâm-ı Şerif”[5] in those days—with a beautiful, sturdy protective case—that my mother hung around my neck. I not only wore that Enâm until she died, but I carry that family heirloom with me to this day, thanks to that poor devout woman’s pleading and her dying wishes. Many may laugh at me for this. It has even earned me the ridicule of my friends. But I have never gone without that heirloom my mother left to me from those lost, heavenly days of my childhood—and I never will.

  When that woman hung the crucifix around my neck with her sincere and moving words, I thought about that Enâm in its little silver case. I took the Enâm, so that its rather large, amulet-shaped case showed beneath my wool scarf between my shirt and undershirt, and said to her pleasantly:

  “Madam, do not worry. See, I have the holy word, the book of the great God
around my neck. This will protect me.”

  The old woman answered:

  “Very good, very good; but the crucifix will not hurt either. Keep it.” And she added with unexpected solemnity and conviction: “All of them are one, all the same! All one, all one! Allah is one, everything, everyone is one… I have a young boy just like you…”