Read Online The Gold of Thrace by Aileen G. Baron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aileen G. Baron
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“I see you like the money as much as you like my sister. More, perhaps.”
“We need to know provenience.” He felt he was speaking for the museum now.
“Provenance? It’s been in my family for centuries.”
“No, no. I know its been in your family, I know the provenance, the history of ownership. I mean where it originates archaeologically—provenience—the find spot. Can you take me where you found the gold?”
Dimitar gave him another penetrating look while he listened to the chime of yet another clock.
“Tomorrow,” he said at last.
***
The three of them left Sofia early, at 6:30, after a hasty breakfast of pound cake and murky coffee. Dimitar pulled up in a dusty dark blue Mercedes with leather seats that were sticky with the heat.
Chatham raised his eyebrows.
“I got the car from a friend,” Dimitar said.
They drove through towns with empty factories, their windows broken; through towns with houses with roofs that sagged beneath a scatter of broken tiles.
“This is all that’s left,” Dimitar said, watching Chatham’s reaction. “Such is the fate and the evil of the crossroads. The Turks were wiser than the communists; they preserved the milk-cow. The communists cut off the head, destroyed the intelligentsia, and left the peasants.”
Stop complaining, Chatham thought. They left you with the gold.
Beyond the villages, the road ran through undulating country with fields of grain, of sunflowers, of small grapevines marching in rows over hillocks and through valleys billowing with acres and acres of roses. Here and there, stands of lavender dotted the hillsides. And over all hung a sweet, heavy scent of roses.
They finally stopped at a farmhouse between a lavender field and a stand of trees on the edge of a wooded area. Dimitar parked the car behind a house next to a stable and riding ring. “There’s no road from here. We need to go by horse.”
He got out of the car and called to a man working in the field beyond the stable. The man turned, removed his large hat to wipe his forehead, then came toward them, rubbing at his hands, slapping them against his jeans, rubbing them again.
They spoke quietly, Dimitar gesturing in the direction of the woods. They disappeared into the stable and came out a few minutes later leading three saddled horses and brought them over to a small box on the ground near the riding ring.
Dimitar positioned a horse next to the box and turned to Chatham. “You know how to ride horses?”
He held the reins across the neck of a roan with a hefty rump and motioned for Chatham to mount.
Dimitar adjusted Chatham’s stirrups. “You’ll be all right?”
He held a creamy Palomino for Irena and helped her settle in the saddle, and mounted a small chestnut himself.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They rode along a path toward the woods at an easy lope for a while, until Dimitar made a clicking sound with his mouth and kicked his horse slightly, spurring it into a faster canter.
Irena followed. Her lips parted; her cheeks flushed; her shoulders moved in elegant repose at one with the horse, her back straight, as she sat astride the saddle, gripping it with her thighs. Chatham rode next to her and watched her, hair pulled back with a ribbon from her perfect face. He watched the ends of her hair streaming behind her, brushing against her cheek as she eased gently back and forth, back and forth, in rhythm with the canter. He watched her and watched her. This is what I want forever, he thought, to ride next to her and watch her, and he kicked his horse lightly with his heel and moved along beside her, back and forth, back and forth in the saddle.
They rode through the woods until they reached a chain-link fence topped with rolls of barbed wire.
“My own land, my patrimony, no longer mine,” Dimitar said. “Fenced in and hidden from me.” He gestured in the direction of a small mound.
“There it is, beyond the fence. I found the gold there, buried with an ancient
“We need to know provenience.” He felt he was speaking for the museum now.
“Provenance? It’s been in my family for centuries.”
“No, no. I know its been in your family, I know the provenance, the history of ownership. I mean where it originates archaeologically—provenience—the find spot. Can you take me where you found the gold?”
Dimitar gave him another penetrating look while he listened to the chime of yet another clock.
“Tomorrow,” he said at last.
***
The three of them left Sofia early, at 6:30, after a hasty breakfast of pound cake and murky coffee. Dimitar pulled up in a dusty dark blue Mercedes with leather seats that were sticky with the heat.
Chatham raised his eyebrows.
“I got the car from a friend,” Dimitar said.
They drove through towns with empty factories, their windows broken; through towns with houses with roofs that sagged beneath a scatter of broken tiles.
“This is all that’s left,” Dimitar said, watching Chatham’s reaction. “Such is the fate and the evil of the crossroads. The Turks were wiser than the communists; they preserved the milk-cow. The communists cut off the head, destroyed the intelligentsia, and left the peasants.”
Stop complaining, Chatham thought. They left you with the gold.
Beyond the villages, the road ran through undulating country with fields of grain, of sunflowers, of small grapevines marching in rows over hillocks and through valleys billowing with acres and acres of roses. Here and there, stands of lavender dotted the hillsides. And over all hung a sweet, heavy scent of roses.
They finally stopped at a farmhouse between a lavender field and a stand of trees on the edge of a wooded area. Dimitar parked the car behind a house next to a stable and riding ring. “There’s no road from here. We need to go by horse.”
He got out of the car and called to a man working in the field beyond the stable. The man turned, removed his large hat to wipe his forehead, then came toward them, rubbing at his hands, slapping them against his jeans, rubbing them again.
They spoke quietly, Dimitar gesturing in the direction of the woods. They disappeared into the stable and came out a few minutes later leading three saddled horses and brought them over to a small box on the ground near the riding ring.
Dimitar positioned a horse next to the box and turned to Chatham. “You know how to ride horses?”
He held the reins across the neck of a roan with a hefty rump and motioned for Chatham to mount.
Dimitar adjusted Chatham’s stirrups. “You’ll be all right?”
He held a creamy Palomino for Irena and helped her settle in the saddle, and mounted a small chestnut himself.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They rode along a path toward the woods at an easy lope for a while, until Dimitar made a clicking sound with his mouth and kicked his horse slightly, spurring it into a faster canter.
Irena followed. Her lips parted; her cheeks flushed; her shoulders moved in elegant repose at one with the horse, her back straight, as she sat astride the saddle, gripping it with her thighs. Chatham rode next to her and watched her, hair pulled back with a ribbon from her perfect face. He watched the ends of her hair streaming behind her, brushing against her cheek as she eased gently back and forth, back and forth, in rhythm with the canter. He watched her and watched her. This is what I want forever, he thought, to ride next to her and watch her, and he kicked his horse lightly with his heel and moved along beside her, back and forth, back and forth in the saddle.
They rode through the woods until they reached a chain-link fence topped with rolls of barbed wire.
“My own land, my patrimony, no longer mine,” Dimitar said. “Fenced in and hidden from me.” He gestured in the direction of a small mound.
“There it is, beyond the fence. I found the gold there, buried with an ancient
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