“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 Ayni Ali,” and “Merkez Efendi”[4] every Friday. I had a uniquely-crafted “Enâm-i Serif”[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…”
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 “Ordog,” 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.)