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Barley stood beside me in my father's hotel room, contemplating the mess, but he was quicker to see what I had missed - the papers and books on the bed. We found a tattered copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula, a new history of medieval heresies in southern France, and a very old-looking volume on European vampire lore.

Among the books lay papers, including notes in his own hand, and among these a scattering of postcards in a hand completely unfamiliar to me, a fine dark ink, neat and minute. Barley and I began of one accord - again, how glad I was not to be alone - to search through everything, and my first instinct was to gather up the postcards. They were ornamented with stamps from a rainbow of countries: Portugal, France, Italy, Monaco, Finland, Austria. The stamps were pristine, without postmarks. Sometimes the message on a card ran over onto four or five more, neatly numbered. Most astonishingly, each was signed "Helen Rossi." And each was addressed to me.Advertisement

Barley, looking over my shoulder, took in my astonishment, and we sat down together on the edge of the bed. The first was from Rome - a black-and-white photograph of the skeletal remains of the Forum.

May 1962

My beloved daughter: In what language should I write to you, the child of my heart and my body, whom I have not seen in more than five years? We should have been speaking together all this time, a no-language of small sounds and kisses, glances, murmuring. It is so difficult for me to think about, to remember what I have missed, that I have to stop writing today, when I have only started trying.

Your loving mother,

Helen Rossi

The second was a color postcard, already fading, of flowers and urns - "Jardins de Boboli - The Gardens of Boboli - Boboli."

May 1962

My beloved daughter: I will tell you a secret: I hate this English. English is an exercise in grammar, or a class in literature. In my heart, I feel I could speak best with you in my own language, Hungarian, or even in the language that flows inside my Hungarian - Romanian. Romanian is the language of the fiend I am seeking, but even that has not spoiled it for me. If you were sitting on my lap this morning, looking out at these gardens, I would teach you a first lesson: "Ma numesc¡­"And then we would whisper your name over and over in the soft tongue that is your mother tongue, too. I would explain to you that Romanian is the language of brave, kind, sad people, shepherds and farmers, and of your grandmother, whose life he ruined from a distance. I would tell you the beautiful things she told me, the stars at night above her village, the lanterns on the river. "Ma numesc¡­"Telling you about that would be unbearable happiness for one day.

Your loving mother,

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Helen Rossi Barley and I looked at each other, and he put his arm softly around my neck. pqdm.com