Read Online The Gold of Thrace by Aileen G. Baron - Free Book Online
Authors: Aileen G. Baron
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sister for that. We say in Bulgaria ‘God provides the food, but he doesn’t bring it into the house.’”
Irena pointed to the platter of food. “These are local specialties, the roasted peppers, the salami.” She put a few slices of salami on his plate. “Try it.”
Chatham hated salami. It sat between his teeth, heavy with garlic and fat that clung to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it almost whole and took a sip of wine to get rid of the taste.
“Delicious,” he said and felt the lump of food stick in his gullet.
He tried to swallow once more and choked. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe, felt as if he were being strangled. He gasped for breath and the room began to dim and throb. He rested his head in his hands, waiting for the blackness and dizziness to pass.
“You all right?” Irena asked.
“It’s nothing,” Chatham rasped out in a whisper. “Went down the wrong channel.”
“Take bread, take wine.”
She filled his glass. He drank it down as if it were water and she filled it again.
Somehow, he got through the meal, watching Irena cut her sandwich into small portions, watching the movement of her lips as she chewed, savoring the delicious flick of her tongue as she licked her lower lip. He sipped from his glass whenever she lifted hers. All the while the seat of the ladder-back chair pressed into his leg and he was giddy with wine.
His eyelids began to droop and he yawned.
“You will stay,” Irena said. She pointed to the faded sofa.
“You can study the Thracian hoard,” her brother added, while visions of visits to the sofa from the beautiful Irena in the dark of night danced in Chatham’s head.
“The Thracian gold,” Chatham said. “I should study it, at the least I should draw it.”
Dimitar nodded in agreement.
“And photograph it,” Chatham said. “You have a camera?”
“No photographs. Too unsafe, someone will steal the gold.”
Chatham wondered how photographs would be riskier than drawings, but said nothing. At least he could publish something, authenticate his find with drawings.
“I need to go to the stationer’s,” Chatham said. He had difficulty thinking. “Get some supplies.”
“There’s one not far from here,” Irena told him. “On the other side of the cathedral. I’ll take you.”
Downstairs, the warm stillness of the summer air braced him like a tonic. They started toward the park, past tumbledown buildings with sagging roofs and chipped stucco.
“All other places in the world, you see building, buildings all going up,” Irena said. “Here in Bulgaria, the buildings are all going down.”
They had gone as far as the cathedral when two well-muscled men with short-cropped hair, wearing jeans and Oxford shirts, parked a Porsche at the curb.
Irena hesitated, took in her breath and grabbed his arm. “ Bortsi !”
The men got out of the Porsche, slammed the door, crossed the square and ambled toward the park with a smooth, athletic gait.
She looked after them, still clinging to Chatham. He moved closer to her.
“ Bortsi means wrestlers,” she said.
“More brawn than brain?”
“They pretend to be body builders, ex-sportsmen.”
She gripped his arm more firmly and Chatham felt the warm dampness of her body.
“Don’t make them angry,” she said. “Even the police are afraid of them.”
At the stationer’s, Chatham bought a pad of graph paper, India ink and pens, French curves and calipers, a protractor and a compass.
He found a Telex machine in an alcove in the back of the shop. He paid for a Telex to the British Museum telling them about the Thracian gold, said he would get in touch with them later, and asked them to send a message to Prague that he would be delayed.
For the next two days, he selected pieces from the treasure, measured and drew them, sitting at the table in a ladder-back chair until his back ached and his shoulders were sore. Occasionally, when Irena was near, he would get up to go to the kitchen for a glass
Irena pointed to the platter of food. “These are local specialties, the roasted peppers, the salami.” She put a few slices of salami on his plate. “Try it.”
Chatham hated salami. It sat between his teeth, heavy with garlic and fat that clung to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it almost whole and took a sip of wine to get rid of the taste.
“Delicious,” he said and felt the lump of food stick in his gullet.
He tried to swallow once more and choked. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe, felt as if he were being strangled. He gasped for breath and the room began to dim and throb. He rested his head in his hands, waiting for the blackness and dizziness to pass.
“You all right?” Irena asked.
“It’s nothing,” Chatham rasped out in a whisper. “Went down the wrong channel.”
“Take bread, take wine.”
She filled his glass. He drank it down as if it were water and she filled it again.
Somehow, he got through the meal, watching Irena cut her sandwich into small portions, watching the movement of her lips as she chewed, savoring the delicious flick of her tongue as she licked her lower lip. He sipped from his glass whenever she lifted hers. All the while the seat of the ladder-back chair pressed into his leg and he was giddy with wine.
His eyelids began to droop and he yawned.
“You will stay,” Irena said. She pointed to the faded sofa.
“You can study the Thracian hoard,” her brother added, while visions of visits to the sofa from the beautiful Irena in the dark of night danced in Chatham’s head.
“The Thracian gold,” Chatham said. “I should study it, at the least I should draw it.”
Dimitar nodded in agreement.
“And photograph it,” Chatham said. “You have a camera?”
“No photographs. Too unsafe, someone will steal the gold.”
Chatham wondered how photographs would be riskier than drawings, but said nothing. At least he could publish something, authenticate his find with drawings.
“I need to go to the stationer’s,” Chatham said. He had difficulty thinking. “Get some supplies.”
“There’s one not far from here,” Irena told him. “On the other side of the cathedral. I’ll take you.”
Downstairs, the warm stillness of the summer air braced him like a tonic. They started toward the park, past tumbledown buildings with sagging roofs and chipped stucco.
“All other places in the world, you see building, buildings all going up,” Irena said. “Here in Bulgaria, the buildings are all going down.”
They had gone as far as the cathedral when two well-muscled men with short-cropped hair, wearing jeans and Oxford shirts, parked a Porsche at the curb.
Irena hesitated, took in her breath and grabbed his arm. “ Bortsi !”
The men got out of the Porsche, slammed the door, crossed the square and ambled toward the park with a smooth, athletic gait.
She looked after them, still clinging to Chatham. He moved closer to her.
“ Bortsi means wrestlers,” she said.
“More brawn than brain?”
“They pretend to be body builders, ex-sportsmen.”
She gripped his arm more firmly and Chatham felt the warm dampness of her body.
“Don’t make them angry,” she said. “Even the police are afraid of them.”
At the stationer’s, Chatham bought a pad of graph paper, India ink and pens, French curves and calipers, a protractor and a compass.
He found a Telex machine in an alcove in the back of the shop. He paid for a Telex to the British Museum telling them about the Thracian gold, said he would get in touch with them later, and asked them to send a message to Prague that he would be delayed.
For the next two days, he selected pieces from the treasure, measured and drew them, sitting at the table in a ladder-back chair until his back ached and his shoulders were sore. Occasionally, when Irena was near, he would get up to go to the kitchen for a glass
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