The Angel of Eden (20 page)

“I thought you'd be worth the wait,” I murmured into her hair. I shrugged off my clothes. I think we made it as far as the bed. The sun peeked through the window before either of us had any desire for sleep.

Twenty-Seven

March 1, 2005

Bergama, Turkey

W
e set out for Bergama, the city surrounding the Pergamon ruins, early the following morning. A ferry took us across the Sea of Marmara to Bursa, where I rented a car for the six-hour drive. By late afternoon we'd reached our destination: the Hera Hotel, deep in the twisting lanes of the old part of the city. It was a ten-room affair, an old Greek house built of local weathered stone, lovingly restored and so picturesque it seemed made to order for a travel magazine. Ornate iron grilles protected its tall blue wooden doors. Its art pieces and antique furniture reflected Anatolian themes—handmade throws and rugs in dazzling colors, vases, and fat, rustic urns. From the lounge you could look down a jaw-dropping plunge to the Acropolis in the distance. It had all the modern touches too, including free Wi-Fi and a wine bar to die for.

After dinner I asked the owner about Bergama's oldest hotels. He wrote down three names and gave me directions. “I'll go tomorrow,”
I said to Bennet. “There's a slim chance Helmstetter stayed at one of them. I've got to start looking somewhere.”

She ran her hand through her hair, grown curly with the humidity now that we'd traveled south. “I was hoping we could sightsee around the old city. Get our bearings first.”

“Why don't you start out without me? It's entirely safe, I'd think. I doubt I'll be long.”

“Are you sure?”

“You'll have much more fun than poking around in old hotels.”

That night brought another terrifying episode of sleep paralysis. Again I had the sense of being watched—I peered into the gloom of the hotel room and thought I saw a figure move. A winged creature, moon-faced like the Hagia Sophia seraphim. I tried to get up, but as before, it felt as if my hands and feet were bound. It was the first instance since I'd started taking the drugs Dr. Cass prescribed and it seemed even more of a nightmare.

Bennet tried her best, but even her consoling touch made me apprehensive. I couldn't explain it to myself or to her. Eventually, as my heart rate slowed, I put it down to a resurfacing anxiety about Yersan. After all, we were much closer to his home turf. Still, I had no reason to suspect he knew where we'd gone.

After breakfast the next morning, Bennet parted from me reluctantly. I gave her a kiss and she turned to her right, off to see the Red Basilica. The day was bright and unseasonably warm—a relief from New York's endless rain and perfect for a stroll.

Halfway up Soğan Dere Street I found the first hotel the owner had suggested. Inside, an officious-looking gray-haired clerk gaped at me blankly as I explained my mission. He snapped his fingers at another man who was on his way out and spoke to him in Turkish.

“Would you mind explaining again?” the second man asked politely. He motioned toward the clerk. “Not understanding too well.”

“I'm looking for any record you might have of someone who may have stayed here thirty-five years ago.”

When the man translated what I'd said the clerk's deadpan expression cracked. He broke into a peal of laughter and waved his hand back and forth: “Not possible!” I thanked him and left.

A similar reception awaited me at the next establishment.

I considered not bothering with the last place on my list but figured I'd better go through the motions. I reached it by climbing a precipitous set of stone steps toward a guest house that looked so old it seemed to have grown, like a sturdy plant, out of the same stone as the street. It had gaily painted shutters and caramel-colored flower pots from which sprang a few early flowers. An old man sitting on a wicker chair outside the entrance dozed in the morning sun. A little bell sounded as I pushed open the front door and stepped into a cool interior smelling pleasantly of herbs. The front room held several tables and chairs; a young woman sat at one of them, snipping strands of rosemary. She looked up and gave me a broad smile. I introduced myself and posed the same question I'd asked the other hotel clerks.

She stood. “My dede should be able to help you.” She popped outside, returning after a few minutes with the old man shuffling behind her. He gave me a congenial nod and then smiled, showing me a mouthful of broken, stained teeth.

“Come with us,” the woman said, pushing strands of brown hair off her face. “Dede has kept all the ledgers since he began the hotel.” She spoke English very well, with what sounded like a Scottish accent. When I complimented her on it she explained she'd done her undergrad in Edinburgh.

A curtained doorway led into a larger room with a flagged floor, two burgundy overstuffed sofas, ashtrays and brass lamps on end tables, and a TV fixed to the west wall. An enormous rustic
cupboard stood against the opposite wall. The old man lowered himself gingerly to his knees and pulled open the cupboard's bottom doors. They held dozens of musty, cloth-bound ledgers. He began to take out each dust-covered tome, glance inside the covers, close it again, and put it back.
This might take a while,
I thought.

The daughter suddenly spoke. “You said the man came to Bergama in July 1970? And his name was Helmstetter?”

“That's right. I don't know whether he stayed here or not. Really, I don't mean to put you to all this trouble.” I was beginning to feel guilty.

Her face lit up with another smile. “Oh no. Dede is glad someone is interested. He's very proud of the business. He started it right after the Second World War.”

The old man said something in Turkish. He put one shaky hand on the couch, eased himself up, and brought over a green ledger with the pages open in the middle. All the entries had been printed neatly in faded blue ink. He pointed to a name a couple of lines up from the bottom.

And there it was.
George Helmstetter, September 10–16,
along with a Park Avenue address. His U.S. passport number was recorded beside it. Following that, in a spidery script, his signature. I could hardly believe my eyes.

With their permission, I took out my phone and clicked some pictures of the page.

“Dede says he remembers him.”

“Really—that long ago?”

“Dede says he remembers because that guest was special.”

“How so?”

“He was a sorcerer. He came here to see the snake god.”

Twenty-Eight

March 2, 2005

M
y hands were practically shaking when I called Bennet. She suggested we meet at a café and gave me the directions. I spotted her, looking cool and collected, sitting at an outdoor table, typing away at her laptop with a bottle of lemonade beside it.

“I've got something to show you. You won't believe it.”

She looked up expectantly. “What?”

A waiter scurried over the minute he spied me.

Bennet blanched when she saw Helmstetter's scrawl. She put her fingernail on the screen and ran it along the name as if she were trying to erase his signature. She looked up at me sharply. “What an amazing find. Email me the photo?”

“The guy at the guest house remembered Helmstetter and told me he came to Pergamon to find the snake god.”

“
Snake
god? My lord. Did he say where?”

“Pergamon. Either at Satan's Throne, the place Veronica Sills said Helmstetter wanted to see, or the Asklepion, the site of the
ancient healing center. Veronica painted such a frightening picture of Helmstetter—and this suggests she was right. I think he wanted the knowledge to do evil.”

“Let's go,” Bennet said eagerly. We stopped only to buy bottles of spring water and pogaca, savory pastries filled with cheese and olives.

In the first century, Pergamon was the most important city in Asia Minor. Emperors rewarded its fierce loyalty to the Romans with sumptuous temples, palaces, and public buildings. Its library, reputed to hold two hundred thousand scrolls, was the second most important in the world next to Alexandria's. It took us an hour to make the arduous trek to the summit of Pergamon's Acropolis, grateful to be doing the climb now rather than in the summer's heat. We followed the blue dots marking the route, marveling at the majestic scenes unfolding around us, Bennet snapping photos all the way.

We encountered a few other travelers. A group of French teenagers, a couple taking pictures with their phones, and a solitary man who seemed somehow out of place. He was a thin guy with longish dark hair, wearing sunglasses and a hat with the brim pulled so low you couldn't see much of his face. He kept some distance behind us, yet never let us out of his sight. Despite the temperate weather he wore a dirty windbreaker.

When we reached the parking lot at the top he approached us, stopping about ten feet away. “You American, no?”

I nodded.

“Which way the Temple of Trajan?”

I pointed west to a series of columns gleaming white in the sun, recognizing it from a guidebook photo. I figured he'd started up the conversation with some other agenda in mind, like asking for money, but he surprised me by heading off toward the temple.

Although I kept my eye out, I saw nothing more of the mysterious man. We toured the landmarks for over an hour, gazing in awe at the amphitheater, a colossal affair that once held an audience of ten thousand, its crumbling tiers spilling down at a death-defying angle. Finally we reached the site of Satan's Throne, more properly known as the Altar of Zeus. According to the guidebook, in the 1930s German engineers cut the magnificent marble friezes and columns from the altar's base and transported the huge structure to Berlin, where it now sat in the Pergamon Museum. Constructed in the second century
B.C.
, “Satan's Throne” was probably so named because early Christians proclaimed Pergamon a center of orgies and vice. Others believed the location was near an entrance to Hades. Today, little more remained than a square of stepped stone walls buttressing a platform of grass, shaded by one large pine tree. Pretty and peaceful though it was, we both felt discouraged. Hard to imagine the wild pagan rites this place once saw.

We unwrapped our pogaca. “Not much sign of
la dolce vita
here. It was hardly worth the climb,” Bennet said glumly. She bit off a generous chunk of pastry and chewed it thoughtfully, her cheeks bulging. “I wonder why Helmstetter thought he'd find anything worthwhile.”

“He must have concluded otherwise,” I said, “or he wouldn't have gone to Kandovan afterward. I've seen the altar in Berlin's Pergamon Museum; there's nothing resembling a throne.”

“The name was just a metaphor, then? It's so tranquil here. Maybe all the action took place in vaults underground.” Bennet carefully studied the stone walls and the platform of grass.

“If so, they're filled in. What a travesty that Turkey lost one of its grandest works of art. The Germans making off with the entire altar was almost as bad as the Brits stealing the Elgin Marbles.”

We'd left the Asklepion to the last. Now, in late afternoon, we entered it by means of a rickety slatted bridge joined to a structure of stone walls with arches keyed in vertical bricks. Its remarkably preserved hewn stone was as regular and well mortared as anything you'd find today. A vaulted tunnel of the same stone led to a sizable, perfectly round room.

We stood in the middle and let our eyes travel along the smooth circular wall. “This is where the saying ‘doctors doing their rounds' came from. People traveled from all over Europe to be healed here. The doctors made sure that everyone who left the healing center survived.”

“How could they do that?” Bennet asked.

“By refusing any terminally ill patients. A sign over the entrance gate said ‘Death is not permitted here.'” Our laughter echoed in the room.

The muted patter of footsteps alerted me. I looked around to check whether the strange guy we'd talked to was anywhere in sight. The sound abruptly halted. I hoped the sentiment that once stood over the gate applied to us, too.