he sighed - 'the line between literature and history is often a wobbling one, and I am not an historian.'
"'You are a fine historian indeed,' I said humbly. 'I am overwhelmed by how many historical leads you have followed, and with such success.'
"'You are kind, my young friend. In any case, one evening I was working on my article for this theory - it was never published, alas, because the editors of the journal to which I submitted it proclaimed that it was too superstitious in content - I was working well into the evening, and after about three hours at the archive I went to a restaurant across the street to have a little b?rek. You have had b?rek? '
"'Not yet,' I admitted. "'You must try it as soon as possible - it is one of our delectable national specialities. So I went to this restaurant. It was already dark outside because this was in winter. I sat down at a table, and while I waited I took Professor Rossi's letter out of my papers and reread it. As I mentioned, I had had it in my possession only a few days, and I was most perplexed by it. The waiter brought my meal, and I happened to see his face as he put down the dishes. His eyes were lowered, but it seemed to me that he suddenly noticed the letter I was reading, with Rossi's name at the top. He glanced sharply at it once or twice, then appeared to erase all expression from his face, but I noticed that he stepped behind me to put another dish down on the table, and seemed to look at the letter again from over my shoulder. "'I could not explain this behavior, and it gave me a most uncomfortable feeling, so I quietly folded the letter up and prepared to eat my supper. He went away without speaking, and I could not help watching him as he moved around the restaurant. He was a big, broad-shouldered, heavy man with dark hair swept back from his face and large dark eyes. He would have been handsome if he had not looked - how do you say? - rather sinister. He seemed to ignore me throughout an hour, even after I'd finished my meal. I took out a book to read for a few minutes, and then he suddenly came to the table again and set a steaming cup of tea in front of me. I had ordered no tea, and I was surprised. I thought it might be a sort of gift, or a mistake. "Your tea," he said as he put it down. "I made sure that it is very hot."
"'Then he looked me right in the eyes, and I cannot explain how terrifying his face was to me. It was pale, almost yellow, in complexion, as if he had - how to say? - decayed inside. His eyes were dark and bright, almost like the eyes of an animal, under big eyebrows. His mouth was like red wax, and his teeth were very white and long - they looked oddly healthy in a sick face. He smiled as he bent over with the tea, and I could smell his strange odor, which made me feel sick and faint. You may laugh, my friend, but it was a little like an odor that I have always found pleasant under other circumstances - the smell of old books. You know that smell - it is parchment and leather, and - something else?'
"I knew, and I did not feel like laughing. "'He was gone a second later, moving without any hurry back toward the restaurant kitchen, and I was left there with a feeling that he had meant to show me something - his face, perhaps. He had wanted me to look carefully at him, and yet there was nothing specific I could name that would justify my terror.' Turgut looked pale himself now, as he sat back in his medieval chair.
'To settle my nerves, I put some sugar into my tea from a bowl on the table, picked up my spoon, and stirred it. I had every intention of calming myself with the hot drink, but then something very - very peculiar happened.'
"His voice trailed off as if he almost regretted having begun the story. I knew that feeling all too well, and nodded to encourage him. 'Please, continue.'
"'It sounds strange to say it now, but I am speaking