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.

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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.

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