Dracula in Istanbul Read online

The sound of the mail coach below interrupted her speech. I earnestly shook this kind-hearted woman’s hand. I hurried down the stairs to the street; I write these last lines from the coach. But it is odd… I have this strange feeling. Is it because of this country, full of demons and spirits; or because of the expression and behavior of the old landlady?

  5 May. (In Dracula’s Castle.)—The gray fog of the morning has passed. The sun is rising above the distant horizon. These steep hills appear to merge with the high pine trees as they reach toward the sky. After tonight’s sleep on the coach I do not feel tired, so I have sat down to write in my journal until I fall asleep. I have come across many strange things that must be set down here.

  When I boarded the coach at Bistriç the driver was not yet in his seat. The landlord and his wife were no doubt talking about me with the driver. I saw them turn and look at me occasionally. The pitying glances of a few layabout onlookers as they listened to the landlord and his wife made me even more uncomfortable. I was able to hear most of what was said a little distance from me. Many of these words were strange and unknown. After all, there were many nationalities in the crowd.

  This unnecessary attention shown to me, combined with the earlier behavior of the landlady, greatly piqued my interest. I took my polyglot dictionary from my travel bag and began to look for the meanings of the words I could remember. Let me confess, the things I found were not at all pleasant. For example, there was “Ordoğ,” meaning devil; “Pukol,” meaning Hell; and “Stregoyka,” meaning witch. Apart from these words, I heard “Vrolok” and “Volkoslak” which mean the same thing in Slovak; the last one meaning werewolf, vampire, or undead in Serbian. (I will try to learn more about this from Count Dracula; it is fairytale material for Güzin.)

  When the coach set off, the crowd of onlookers in front of the hotel all held out their crosses and pointed two fingers at me. A few moments later I asked someone in the coach what it meant. He did not wish to answer at first, but when he understood that I was a Turk, a stranger, he explained that it was to guard against the “evil eye.” For a poor outsider who was about to meet a strange man in this unknown country, this did not feel good at all. But the people around me all looked so kind, sincere, and compassionate that I could not help but feel the bittersweet sorrow in my heart begin to melt away.

  Our driver cracked his long whip. The coach began to hurtle down the road. The landscape was wonderful. As I watched it, I forgot all about the hotel and everything that transpired there.

  It was these valleys, forest paths, narrow passes, and rugged rocks that the moustachioed, hawk-eyed, steel-armed Turkish heroes passed with their steeds, carrying their green and red flags, battling the unknown, the barbarians, the highland nations, crushing the knights whose armor was as black as their horses as though they were crushing glass, reaching all the way up to the foggy, icy Baltic sea, thinking, “Not long to go before the Red Apple!”[6]

  The road we took was steep. But the coach was traveling very fast and the driver was doing his best to go even faster. And sometimes images of Istanbul, my dear home, with its blue skies, familiar landscapes, and pretty faces under the glittering springtime sun would suddenly flash before my eyes. Then I would ask myself, “Am I dreaming?”

  I understood why the driver was hurrying. He wanted to be through the famous Burgo Pass as quickly as possible. From what I had heard, this storied passage would be in fairly good condition in the summer. But at this time the rubble caused by the winter snow and floods had not yet been cleared. It is almost a historical tradition here that the roads are not kept clean and open to travel. When the Turkish sword was still sharp and Turkish rule still in place, the hospodars, princes of Erdel Transylvania, would avoid clearing and repairing the roads. For if they were repaired, the Turks would suspect the Transylvanians of calling for Polish and German allies to join forces against them, and they would break the truce and start a war.

  In front of us, the dark forest ran through the high hills of the Carpathian mountain range. The afternoon sunlight created beautiful dark and light shapes where it fell over the undulating forest.

  As the coach climbed the road, which wriggled like a snake beneath the hills, one of the passengers touched me and pointed out a very high snowy mountain on the horizon. He said in German, “Look, this is İsten-sezek, the seat of God,” and immediately crossed himself.

  Through the evening we encountered unusual-looking Czechs and Slovaks along our way. There were many crosses erected on either side of the road. As we passed them my fellow travelers all crossed themselves. It was as though they were trying to protect themselves from the coming evil.

  Toward the evening the weather grew colder. As the sun set, a black fog and an icy darkness began to fall.

  We started to climb toward the Burgo Pass on a steep road, through dark forests. At times we encountered places so steep that the horses had trouble pulling the coach, despite the cracking of the whip.

  When darkness fell there was visible worry among the passengers. They spoke repeatedly to the driver, and they were apparently urging him to go faster. He lashed the horses mercilessly with his whip. Some time later the road ahead of us appeared to improve. Two imposing mountains on either side drew nearer the coach. We were now entering the Burgo Pass.

  The passengers’ worry and fidgeting had increased. They gave me strange looks and craned their heads out of the coach to look about.

  We travelled along this narrow path for a while and finally came to the eastern exit of the passage.

  Now I too stuck out my head, in search of the coach that I had been notified would be sent by Count Dracula. I was hoping that any moment I would see its lights in the pitch black darkness surrounding us. But there was not yet any such thing in sight.

  The driver looked at his watch, then spoke a few words to the passengers in his broken German. He did it in such a low voice that I could barely hear it. I think he said that there was an hour left until the appointed time! Then he turned to me:

  “Turk Effendi, as you can see there is no coach waiting for you; it seems they have forgotten. It is best if you come to Bukovina with us tonight; you can go back tomorrow or the next day.”

  As he spoke, the coach’s horses began to neigh and stamp. This forced the driver to tighten the reins with all his might. At the same time, the passengers made noises of fear and worry, and as they crossed themselves a four-horsed coach, known as a Kalsin, drew up next to us.

  With the help of the lights on our coach, I saw that all four horses on the other were as black as coal from head to toe and were beautiful animals. The coach was driven by man with a long, black beard and a black hat with a wide brim. This wide black hat obscured his face from me completely. But as his head turned toward us, I was able see by the light of the coach a pair of crimson eyes. The man said to our driver:

  “My friend, tonight you are an hour early!”

  The driver tried to answer, stammering:

  “The Turk Effendi was in a great hurry.”

  The stranger interrupted him:

  “Yes, that must be why you were deceiving him, trying to take him to Bukovina. You cannot fool me, my friend. I know much more than you do, and my horses are swift!”

  The newcomer smiled as he spoke these words, and the coach’s lights revealed a hard-looking mouth. Its lips were a vivid red and the ivory white teeth looked extremely sharp. When the stranger finished the words, “and my horses are swift!” one of the passengers near me turned to his friend and quoted Bürger’s “Lenore,” whispering:

  “For the dead travel fast!”

  I do not know how the owner of those four horses heard this softly-recited line. But I saw him look aside with a gleaming smile, and the passenger who received the look crossed himself instantly, putting up his two fingers as I saw outside the hotel.

  “Give the Effendi’s luggage to me!” the stranger said. My belongings were carried quickly from our coach into the other; I descended too. Since the new
carriage was already standing next to ours, the man in black held my arm to assist me. His grip was like a steel clamp. The owner of this hand must have had terrible strength. I climbed into the new coach. The stranger shook the reins without a word and the carriage turned around. We flew off into the dark abyss of the Burgo Pass.

  As I looked back instinctively, I saw the horses by the lights of the old coach, steam radiating from their backs, and the passengers all crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his long whip and called to his animals, and the mail coach started back on its way toward Bukovina.

  Once my former companions were lost in the darkness of the night, a cold shiver passed through my body and a feeling of deep solitude and desolation settled in my heart. But in the intervening time, a cloak and blanket were thrown over me and the driver said in perfect German:

  “Mein Herr, the nights are very cold here; my master the Count ordered me to take good care of you. There is plum rakia under the seat. You may take a few sips if you would like.”

  I did not touch the plum rakia, but it was a comfort to know the bottle was there. I was consumed by strange feelings; while I might have been afraid to confess it to myself, I must say that I was very frightened. If there had been any way to avoid this night journey, I would not have hesitated to take it. This trip, which I thought would be an altogether novel and pleasant experience when I left Istanbul, was taking a turn for the worse.

  After traveling for some time, the coach suddenly made a complete turn and began down a different road. It appeared to me that we were going over the same ground over and over. Once I suspected that this was the case, I took note of some salient points and confirmed my suspicions. I thought for a moment about asking the man why he was doing this, but I abandoned the idea. If it was intended to delay my arrival to the Count, my protest would be useless. By-and-by, as I was curious what time it was, I struck a match and looked at my watch.

  It was a few minutes to midnight…

  This gave me an unexpected shock. The things I had seen in the last few hours had given a weird potency to the primitive and terrifying superstitions of these ignorant people, and especially the villagers’ fears about midnight. With an anxiety that nearly caused me to faint, I waited.

  Suddenly a dog began to howl far away, perhaps from a farmhouse on the other side of the road. The howl was a long and agonizing wail, uttered as if in great fear. It was followed by another one, and then another dog howled! And another dog! And one more! This wild, heartbreaking wailing was borne on the wind, blowing like a deep, slow moan through the Burgo Pass. It was as if the sound was enveloping the entire area, and even the whole country, in a deep, terrible darkness. At the first howl, the horses started and began to turn back. When the driver spoke soothingly to the animals they recovered, but I could see them sweat and shake. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling—that of wolves. These new howls had the same frightening effect on both the horses and myself. For not only did I have a mind to jump from the calèche and flee, but the horses also began to rear up, move back, and struggle to get away from the coach. The driver had to use all of his strength on the reins. Eventually my ears grew accustomed to the howling. The animals too began to calm down. The driver got out of his seat and approached the horses. He stroked and talked to them. And although they still trembled, they did begin to return to their senses.

  The driver again took his seat and shook the reins. We started off at a great pace. This time, after reaching the far side of the Burgo Pass we suddenly took a sharp right turn down a narrow path. We passed through dense forest and entered a steep mountain passage enclosing us on either side. The wind blew powerfully around us and the trees shook as though they were about to topple. The cold intensified and finally a dusty snow began to fall. A few moments later, everything was covered in a white shroud of snow. A sharp wind still carried the howls of the dogs to us, but as we moved further away these sounds grew fainter. However, the baying of the wolves increased steadily as though they had surrounded us and were closing in. I grew afraid, and the horses shared my fear. But strangely the driver was not at all disturbed. He constantly turned his head left and right; but I was unable to see anything in the pitch black darkness that surrounded us.

  Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a bright flame; the driver had seen it too. He stopped the horses immediately, jumped down, and faded into the darkness. I do not know what he did there, but the howling of the wolves grew closer; that much was certain. While I waited in terror and anticipation, the driver suddenly returned and took his seat without saying a word; we began moving again.

  I think now that I had fallen asleep by the time these maddening events took place and that I was actually seeing them in my dreams. Because as I write these lines, they seem like a terrible nightmare.

  Once in particular that blue flame I mentioned shone so close to the road that by its light I was able to see what the coachman did. He went rapidly toward the light once more and, gathering a few stones, formed them into some sign.

  I observed a very strange illusion. Although the driver was standing between myself and the blue flame, the fire was still visible. The driver’s torso did not obstruct my view of the light. This caused me nearly to jump from my seat. But as it only lasted a few seconds I ascribed it to the weariness of my eyes, straining through the darkness for so long. Finally there came a time when the driver stopped the coach and went even further than before; while he was gone the horses began to stamp, rear up, and tremble uncontrollably. I could not understand why, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether. Then, at that very moment, the moon emerged briefly from behind the dark clouds and illuminated the area.

  My God! We were surrounded by a sea of wolves! In front of us, at our back, and all around us were wolves with lolling crimson red tongues, white teeth, and shaggy manes and fur. When these monsters howled, looking like that, they were a hundred times more terrifying. Seeing them so, I was paralyzed with fear. There is no way for a man to fully understand such a horror without experiencing it for himself.

  Suddenly the wolves began howling all together, as though the moonlight had a peculiar effect on them. I shouted to the coachman to return. At that moment I heard a voice and looked in its direction. Lo and behold! The driver, whom I thought was beyond the pack of wolves, had inexplicably appeared in the middle of the road. As he opened his arms in a gesture of command, the wolves retreated timorously.

  When dense clouds obscured the face of the moon once more, complete darkness fell.

  When I could see my surroundings again, I saw the driver climbing into his seat—and the wolves had disappeared!

  This was so strange, horrifying, and surreal, a mass of gnawing fear assailed my senses; it was impossible to speak or move. As we continued on our way through this sea of darkness, it was as though time had come to a stop. I seemed to be living through long, torturous centuries!

  The coach steadily ascended the hills.

  Suddenly I became aware that the coachman was pulling his horses into the courtyard of a vast ruined castle. There was no light emanating from its black windows, and the broken towers and battlements of the large cluster of buildings showed a jagged line against the starlit sky.

  CHAPTER II

  FROM AZMİ BEY’S DIARY—continued

  5 May.—I must have fallen asleep the last few minutes in the coach. For had I been awake I would surely have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. The courtyard of the castle looked exceptionally large compared with the surrounding emptiness. Three or four roads running under high arches also contributed to its expansive and somber appearance.

  When the coach stopped, the driver jumped from his seat and reached out to help me alight. That was when I realized once again how terribly strong this man was. His hand was just like a steel vice. He could have crushed mine with one grasp if he had wished.

  As I stood in front of a large, sturd
y door studded with nails, he unloaded my traps one by one. Then he quickly got into his seat and shook the reins, and suddenly the horses, driver, and coach vanished into the darkness.

  I waited as though frozen in place, for there was no bell or knob on this door, which had evidently borne witness to centuries. There was no way that any sound I could make would have made it through those ominous windows or thick walls. The waiting seemed endless; hundreds of disturbing thoughts and gnawing fears ran rampant in my head.

  Oh, what troubled place was I visiting, and to see what kind of people? How could I have blindly thrown myself into this adventure?

  What resemblance was there between an ordinary lawyer, traveling to another country to deliver official documents and bills, provide necessary legal information, and give counsel to a stranger who has bought a property in Istanbul; and myself, who has endured the events of last night and today?

  Ah, dear Güzin, how happy we were when the manager of my office, the honorable Rıfat Bey, assigned me to this job. Of course I was still in my apprenticeship as an assistant attorney when I was given the assignment, which amounted to a sudden promotion. A budding new lawyer, a businessman! Soon we will be able to be married. Even though we have very little money at present, we shall move forward with our dream of starting a family, planning our future, and becoming prosperous. My dear Güzin, these are all your words, and the sweet voice of your joyous soul rings in my ears even now.

  I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were dreaming. This all seemed like a terrible delusion to me. I hoped that I would open my eyes and find myself lying on my bed near the window, listening to the sweet sounds of Turkish carried in from the streets. But I had no doubt that I was awake. I was not wrong. I was awake, far from my motherland, beautiful Istanbul—spring-like, radiant, full of love—and in a wild, unknown corner of the Carpathians, in a fount of darkness and fear.