The Oracle of Stamboul (17 page)

As the Reverend approached the Gate of Greeting, he removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was his first visit to the palace, and, in spite of his best efforts otherwise, he couldn’t help but marvel. Flanked on either side by a pair of massive stone turrets, the sheer immensity of the gate, and the delicacy of the carvings that adorned it, conveyed both hospitality and impregnable hostility. Which made sense, he supposed. Although he presumed that he himself was in the good graces of the palace, one never knew when one’s welcome would wear out. The Reverend folded his handkerchief in quarters and returned it to his jacket pocket. As he did, one of the purple-coated palace guards approached him and presented arms.

“The Gate of Greeting is closed to visitors,” he grumbled, oblivious, apparently, to the irony of this sentiment.

When the Reverend mentioned the name of Jamaludin Pasha, however, the guard dropped his bayonet and stood aside. A foreigner meeting with the Grand Vizier was not a person one wanted to offend, it seemed. The guard motioned to another, stationed at the base of the ramparts, and Reverend Muehler was escorted through a series of thick wooden doors to the inner sanctum of the palace’s second courtyard.

Once he was within the bulwarks of the palace, the rush and tumble of Stamboul fell away. He could still feel the presence
of the city, like the moon hanging in its pale sky, but the concerns of the palace were of another, more delicate sphere. Reverend Muehler took in the cool trickle of water on marble, a bird setting up roost for the night, and the faint smell of hibiscus flowers in bloom. Foot traffic in the second courtyard was sparse as diplomats, chefs, and musicians headed home for the night, back to their families, the cafés, or some other late-night amusement. The guard who had led him through the gates said a few words to a herald, who then conducted him up one of the many leafy paths radiating from the Gate of Greeting. Up until this point, the Reverend’s meetings with the Grand Vizier had taken place at the end of each month, in a clandestine location such as a graveyard or an empty bathhouse. He had no idea why Jamaludin Pasha would want him to come to the palace in person. Perhaps he had obtained word about his dismissal from the Bey’s service. Perhaps the higher-ups at the department had crossed him. Perhaps it was about his recent interactions with the Russians. Or maybe it was nothing; maybe the Grand Vizier was just too lazy to leave the palace. With a nod, the herald unwound another tense knot of guards and led Reverend Muehler into a marble hallway lined with antique weaponry. This was, according to the herald, the Great Hall of the Council of Viziers. Jamaludin Pasha’s audience chamber was located at the end of the hall to the left.

“You will know when you see it,” the herald said before scurrying off around some corner.

And indeed he did. Swathed in red and green tiles, the audience chamber was no larger than a classroom at Robert’s College, but its ceiling rose as high as a church. Against the far wall was a square mahogany divan and, reclining in the middle of it, the Grand Vizier. A nervous man in a white silk robe and green
turban, he had the aspect of a well-fed rodent and eyes the color of unripe grapes. When Reverend Muehler entered the room, he rose slightly by way of greeting.

“Hello, my friend. I trust you found your way without much difficulty.”

“Yes, thank you,” said the Reverend. “Your heralds were very helpful.”

The Grand Vizier clasped his hands together and wrinkled the base of his nose, as if considering the vicissitudes of this response. He concentrated fully on his guest but did not offer him a seat. In fact, the Reverend noticed, there were no seats to offer. Whether this was a conscious snub, he did not know, nor did he much care.

“Would you like a glass of tea?” Jamaludin Pasha asked. “Or coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“The coffee in the palace kitchen is the finest in the world,” the Grand Vizier pressed. “I can assure you, you will not regret it.”

“Yes,” said the Reverend, adjusting his collar. “I can only imagine. But I think I will refrain nonetheless. I have trouble sleeping, you know. If I drink coffee too late I will never be able to get to bed. I hope you aren’t offended.”

“Not at all.”

Tapping the side of his nose, the Grand Vizier said a few words to one of the guards, who disappeared through a door hidden in the back wall. They were both silent until the guard returned a few moments later, balancing a single tulip-shaped glass of tea on a silver tray.

“Now,” said Jamaludin Pasha, stirring in a spoonful of sugar. “I assume you have seen the news about our situation with the Russians?”

“Yes,” the Reverend said. “I read a piece about it yesterday in the paper.”

“As I am sure you can imagine, we are troubled by the insinuations in the Tsar’s report. On balance, however, this is not a particularly consequential matter and we would like to be done with it as soon as possible.”

The Reverend mumbled his agreement.

“Of course, we cannot accede to the Tsar’s demands as they stand.”

“Of course not,” said the Reverend.

“His threats are empty,” said the Grand Vizier, raising the twinge of a question.

“They would seem to be.”

“We would like to know this for certain. I assume you don’t have any information that might help us assess the possibility of reprisal should we refuse to meet his demands for restitution.”

“No,” said the Reverend. “Unfortunately, I do not.”

“No connections to the Russians we might exploit for further information?”

The Reverend shifted and crossed his hands in front of him. Jamaludin Pasha clearly knew about his recent association with the Russians. The last thing he wanted, however, was to negotiate between these two intractable empires. He had enough trouble juggling his current obligations. Add another ball and he would drop them all.

“None that would be of any use to the palace.”

Jamaludin Pasha smiled and stroked the tip of his nose.

“Very well,” he said. “Tell me, how are things otherwise?”

“Quite well,” the Reverend replied. “Robert’s is Robert’s. My article on the religious rites of the Yazidis is coming along
well and a new volume of my translations should be coming out soon.”

Nodding, though mostly to himself, Jamaludin Pasha stared down into the folds of his robe. He pursed his lips, as if considering a perplexing moral question, then looked up again at Reverend Muehler.

“I am assuming you have no new information for me, beyond your academic pursuits.”

“No,” the Reverend said. “I do not.”

“What about Moncef Barcous Bey?”

The Reverend uncrossed his hands and held them at his side.

“Yes, well, there has been an unfortunate turn of events regarding Moncef Bey.”

“What would that be?”

“Moncef Bey and Miss Cohen decided recently that they no longer require my services as a tutor.”

“And why was that?”

The Reverend paused to collect his thoughts.

“Circumstances beyond their control, that was how they put it.”

“You have no idea what those circumstances may be? You didn’t press him for more information?”

“They informed me of their decision in a letter, which stated in no uncertain terms that they were unable to discuss the circumstances leading to their decision. I assumed it was a financial question.”

The Grand Vizier pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumbs.

“Can you think of any other reason why you might have been dismissed? Is it possible that Moncef Bey might have suspected your intentions?”

“That was what I imagined at first,” said the Reverend.

He thought back to the incident that afternoon in the library. Any number of people could have seen him taking those papers from the desk—Miss Cohen, Monsieur Karom, Mrs. Damakan—but even if someone had seen him, even if he knew for certain that he had been dismissed for spying, he wasn’t going to tell the Grand Vizier.

“After careful consideration of my activities,” the Reverend continued, “I have concluded that there is no reason to believe Moncef Bey had any suspicions.”

“None that you can think of?”

“No,” the Reverend said after a pause long enough to suggest serious consideration. “None that I can think of.”

“Well,” said Jamaludin Pasha. “That is most regrettable. Fortunately, we have other people watching Moncef Bey, other people very close to him.”

He paused to take a sip of his tea, allowing the Reverend to wonder who these other informants were.

“Now tell me, what do you know about the student?”

“Miss Cohen?”

“Yes, Miss Cohen. You mentioned before that she is a savant of sorts?”

The Reverend unclenched his sweaty hands, glad to be done with the previous line of questioning.

“Miss Cohen has a phenomenal aptitude for languages, a nearly perfect memory, and an understanding of history and philosophy far, far beyond her years. It’s really quite extraordinary. Just a few weeks ago she recited the entire first book of
The Iliad
from memory. I mentioned, I believe, that I am planning to write a paper about her.”

“Yes, I believe you did.”

“It will be more difficult now that our lessons have been terminated, but I am confident I have enough information to proceed.”

The Grand Vizier took another sip of tea.

“Can you think of any way we might use Miss Cohen in the palace?”

Reverend Muehler shifted his stance, looking down at the floor to think. He did not want to embroil Eleonora in palace politics, but he needed first and foremost to preserve his own well-being. The Reverend had seen what happened to spies who lost their usefulness, and he had far too many skeletons to risk drawing Jamaludin Pasha into his closet.

“You might,” he began, without knowing how he would end the sentence. “You might be able to put her to use in the Bureau of Translation.”

“We already have more interpreters than we know what to do with.”

“Perhaps,” said the Reverend. “Do you have any cryptographers?”

“We do.”

“Are there any encryptions they are unable to break?”

The Grand Vizier leaned back into the cushions of the divan, as if to better consider the proposal.

“There are a few that have given us trouble.”

“With a bit of training, Miss Cohen could be a master cryptographer. To her, breaking a code would be as easy as learning a new language.”

“Interesting,” said Jamaludin Pasha and wrote a few words in the small black notebook he always kept in his pocket. “What about her relations? I know she lives with Moncef Bey. But does she have any familial connections in Constanta?”

“Her father is deceased,” said Reverend Muehler. “I believe I heard mention once of an aunt or a stepmother, but she seems rather peripheral.”

“Is there anything else we should know about her?” the Grand Vizier asked. “What are her political sympathies?”

“As far as I know, she doesn’t have any,” said the Reverend. “She is only a child, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“There is one more thing you might want to know about Miss Cohen,” the Reverend said. “She tends to keep her thoughts, and any feelings she might have, to herself; it’s a trait which is only exacerbated by her refusal to speak.”

Jamaludin Pasha raised his eyebrows, encouraging the Reverend to continue.

“She has not spoken since her father died, in the crash.”

Moving his lips slightly, Jamaludin Pasha wrote a few more notes in his book, then stood. The interview, apparently, was over. He produced a pouch from the pocket of his robe and handed it to the guard closest to him, who crossed the room and gave it to the Reverend.

“I hope this will compensate you for your trouble,” said the Grand Vizier. “It should more than supplement the income lost by your lessons.”

The small leather pouch felt much heavier than usual.

“Thank you, Jamaludin Pasha. It was my pleasure.”

“If you hear anything more from Moncef Bey or Miss Cohen,” the Grand Vizier continued, “please do notify us immediately. Otherwise, we will contact you when we are in need of your services.”

As the import of these words sunk in, the Reverend was escorted out the door and down the Great Hall of the Council of
Viziers to a hidden exit that deposited him just outside the palace walls. Ducking behind the dark facade of a shuttered fishmonger, he opened the pouch and counted fifteen pounds—three times his normal rate. Apparently, he had given Jamaludin Pasha something of interest.

In the dream, she’s rowing. The clouds are dusty purple, and behind them stars flicker like jellyfish. There is a crowd of people lined up along the shore. They’re trying to tell her something, but she doesn’t look back. If she looks back, it will only slow her down and she’s slow enough already. She has a message for the person in the tower. The message is written on the piece of paper in her hand and she is rowing.

Haydarpasa Station is a giant sleeping on the edge of the horizon, a Cyclops in the opening of his cave. Pulling itself up to its full height, it yawns. Those tracks are veins, connecting the fingers to the heart. Those trains are arms. The clock is its eye. Behind the station is an island with a boxy white tower like a jail. That is where she is taking her message. The moon winks. She understands.

Kiz Kulesi, she thinks. Maiden’s Tower. The name sticks in her mind like taffy. She tries to remember the story of the tower. There was a girl and her father, who was the Sultan. There was a curse, an asp, and a basket of grapes. The girl was locked in the tower. Aphrodite may have been involved. Or was that another story? Does it even matter? Now that she is rowing through the stiff-peaked straits and waves spackled with jellyfish, does the story matter?

The strange thing is that she can’t remember the message. She can’t remember what she is supposed to say to the person in the
tower, or why. But she knows that it is important. She knows the message is written on the piece of paper in her hand. She rows past Haydarpasa Station and a fish jumps out of the water, whipping drops from its tail. Then there’s another fish, then another. Then the water is alive, teeming with fish. They splash her, flopping like rubber erasers, but she rows past. She rows as hard as she can past the train station, through the fish and the slow water.

Her boat runs aground with a crunch. The tower sways, pale and sticky, a drunk stabbing the night with his cane. When she hears the crunch of her boat running aground, she sees the birds. It’s her flock, hundreds of purple-and-white hoopoes swirling like violins. They are swallowing the stars. They’re saying something. They’re trying to tell her something. But even if she could hear, even if she could understand, she doesn’t want to know. That is not what she came for. She has come with a message for the person in the tower.

She opens the door to the tower and the staircase is filled with birds. It is damp and flapping with purple, an anxious spiral chattering with voices. She lifts the hood of her coat and shakes her hair out. They’re all talking at once, they’re all trying to tell her something. Are they saying it or singing it? She can’t tell. She is pushing up the stairs, through the birds, toward the room at the top of the tower.

At the end of the stairs, she stops. The birds are gone. Now there is a crowd, a forest of legs and trunks. They are gathered around the room at the top of the tower, waiting for the message to arrive. She shows them the message. She waves the piece of paper in front of them and tells them that she is the one with the message. Here it is, she yells. Here is the message you’re waiting
for. I am the messenger! But no one is listening. And even if they were listening, it wouldn’t matter. Because the piece of paper in her hand is blank.

When she awoke, Eleonora was sweating along the ridge of her forehead, and her pillowcase was wet with saliva. Morning spread over the city like a sheet of gauze, its pink-orange fingertips smothering tufts of fog and sleeping night watchmen. Rolling onto her back, Eleonora gazed up at the lace canopy over her bed. Her dreams were usually little more than incoherent strips of memory—the smell of bleach, an injured deer, a view of a distant port—nothing like this. This dream was something entirely different. Like Penelope’s vision of the geese, Pip’s dream of himself as Hamlet, or Jacob wrestling with angels, this dream was real, something she could hold on to. She could feel that it meant something. What, she had no idea.

Unable to fall back to sleep, Eleonora slid out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Feeling the weft of the carpet with her bare feet, she shuffled across her room to the bay window and watched the city come to life. Compared to its image in her dream, Kiz Kulesi looked ponderous and sad. A boxy stone tower topped with a watch room and a thin copper spire, the building had been used variously as a prison, a lighthouse, and a customs station. It was empty now, as far as she knew, the tiny island uninhabited but for birds. There was a pair of black storks poking their beaks in the shallow water around the island, and a lone goldfinch on the sill of the watch room. Watching the finch hop from one end of the sill to the other, Eleonora thought she saw a flash of purple inside the tower. She squinted against the sun, leaned forward, and opened the window a crack to dispel the glare, but all she could see was the
finch. If that had been a member of her flock inside the tower, it was gone now.

As the goldfinch took flight, Eleonora noticed a carriage pull up the front drive of the Bey’s house. This was unusual. The Bey rarely had visitors at home and never so early in the morning. Tightening the belt of her dressing gown, she watched the ornate purple-and-gold coach slow to a stop at the edge of the water. Once the horses were settled, the carriage door opened from the inside. Without so much as a glance to either side, a man in a purple uniform walked straight up to the front door of the house and knocked. Overcome by curiosity, Eleonora pulled on a proper dress and rushed out to the landing above the antechamber. Peering through the bars of the railing, she watched Monsieur Karom open the door in his usual haughty manner. When he saw who it was, however, he took a step back and knelt down on one knee.

Eleonora could not hear what they were saying, but when Monsieur Karom stood again he looked back over his shoulder in the direction of her room. Seeing her there on the landing, he called up.

“Miss Cohen. Could you please come down for a moment? There is someone here who would like to speak with you.”

As she descended, Eleonora got her first real glimpse of the man in the purple uniform. He was standing at attention, his chest stiff, hat cocked, and purple satin coat pierced with crystal buttons. There was a hint of lavender in the air around him and he held in his left hand a silver tube the size of a cucumber. In order not to stare, she kept her eyes on the carpet as she crossed the anteroom. When she reached the door, Monsieur Karom began with a formal introduction.

“May I present Miss Eleonora Cohen, daughter of Yakob Co
hen, formerly of Constanta and late of Stamboul, the current charge of Moncef Barcous Bey.”

Straightening his back even further, the visitor cleared his throat.

“Miss Cohen,” he said. “The Servant to the Holy Cities, Caliph of Islam, Commander of the Faithful, and Supreme Padishah of various realms, His Excellency Sultan Abdulhamid II, requests an audience with you at the palace.”

He held out the silver tube and she took it.

“We will send a carriage tomorrow morning at this time,” he continued. “I trust that is convenient.”

Eleonora looked down at the exquisite object she had been given. She held the tube, engraved with an overlapping floral pattern and topped by a hinged ivory cap, in both hands like a sword. It was similar in workmanship and design to the document holder from which the Reverend had produced his puzzle. She could hear a torrent of blood rushing through her temples and the anteroom felt as if it were closing in on itself.

“Yes, of course,” she heard Monsieur Karom say.

With a single motion, he took the document holder from Eleonora’s hand, removed the invitation inside, and returned the empty holder to the herald.

“We are honored,” he said, scanning the invitation. “Miss Cohen is honored by His Excellency’s attention.”

The afternoon passed in an anxious haze of disbelief. How the Sultan knew who she was and why he wanted to meet her, of all the thousands of people in Stamboul, of all the millions of people in the Ottoman Empire, Eleonora had no intimation whatsoever. The air in her room that afternoon was thick with questions that could not possibly be answered, at least not by her. Pacing from dresser to bed to desk, paging blankly through her book, sitting
in the armchair next to the bay window with her hands crossed in her lap, she tried her best to absorb this news. Tomorrow she was going to meet the Sultan. The sovereign of millions, the ruler of lands from Selonika to Basra, he who could meet with anyone he wanted, had requested an audience with her, Eleonora Cohen.

Dinner was served early that evening. She sat in her normal seat and Moncef Bey sat in his. Monsieur Karom served a plate of stewed beef with broad beans. She thought she was not hungry, but as she cut a piece of meat and raised it to her mouth, her stomach growled audibly.

“It is an honor,” said the Bey, unfolding his napkin in his lap. “You have been given a distinct honor.”

Eleonora nodded as she chewed. If she understood anything about the invitation, it was this.

“I myself have been invited to the palace twice, but never for a formal audience with His Excellency.”

The Bey cut off a piece of beef and speared it with his fork.

“I do wonder, however, what His Excellency’s motivations might be. He is known to have a strong interest in—”

He paused, searching for the right word.

“The extraordinary—fortune-tellers, talking birds, and the like. At first I suspected this might be the motivation behind his invitation, that he had heard about your abilities of memory, which are quite extraordinary, and wanted to discuss them with you.”

Eleonora swallowed and laid her silverware on the edges of her plate, waiting for the Bey to continue his thought.

“I wonder, though, whether there might be other motivations as well,” he said. “Perhaps he is curious about our relationship. Perhaps he wants to know if you have seen anything suspicious in the house.”

Eleonora had not considered this possibility. In fact, she had not considered the Sultan’s motivations at all.

“You know I have nothing to hide,” the Bey continued, extending his arms as if inviting anyone to search him. “We discussed this the other day at Rumelihisari. I just want to be sure, for both of our sakes, that you are careful about what you tell the Sultan tomorrow. I am not, in any way, suggesting you should deceive anyone, least of all His Excellency or the Grand Vizier. Just be cautious and be sure to consider how your words might affect others.”

She nodded. She understood.

“You see, of course, how our fortunes are interconnected.”

Eleonora picked up her fork and lifted a single dull green bean to her mouth. She saw very clearly how her fortunes were connected to those of the Bey. He, his handmaid, and his butler were the closest thing she had to family. He was, as Miss Ionescu said of her father,
the stone castle overlooking my orchards, the rain that nourishes them, and the team of horses to which my plow is attached
. The last thing Eleonora wanted was to do anything that would adversely affect his fortunes. She found it somewhat curious that the Bey would be so adamant in pressing this point, but it was understandable that, as a former victim of undue political persecution, he would be anxious about the Sultan’s motivations.

After dinner, Eleonora excused herself and went upstairs to her bedroom. It was still very early and she was not tired in the least, but she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She had already decided which dress she was going to wear, but she was still unsure on the question of jewelry. Pulling out the top drawer of the dressing table, she looked through her small collection of bracelets and necklaces. Here was the pear-shaped emerald pendant the Bey had bought for her on her third day in Stamboul.
Here were the bangles from that cramped gold dealer in the textile market. As she slipped the bangles over her hand, Eleonora’s gaze fell on the wooden bookmark she had taken with her from Constanta, her mother’s bookmark, with which she had jimmied the lock of her father’s trunk. She picked it off the dresser, held it like a magnifying glass, and considered her reflection through the negative spaces in the wood. She opened her mouth and inspected the iridescent reddish-yellow space where her tongue rested. Tomorrow she would have an audience with the Sultan.

Eleonora knew from Machiavelli that she should not offer advice unless the Sultan asked her. If he did ask, however, she would tell him the truth as best she could. As for how she should comport herself, she had no idea. None of the characters in
The Hourglass
had ever been granted an audience with their king, though Miss Holvert had been invited on a riding party with a Hapsburg Prince. That episode, of course, had ended disastrously—
the only remnants of the day a box of dried wildflowers, tears, and a stack of unposted letters
—though it was useful as a counterexample. She should not expect too much of the Sultan’s attention during their meeting. It was likely that he would be distracted by other concerns.

She did not know how long she had been standing in front of the mirror when the door opened and Mrs. Damakan stepped into the room. She had neither towels nor sheets, nor any other pretense for visiting. Eleonora laid the bookmark on top of the dressing table and closed the drawer.

“You are going to the palace tomorrow,” said Mrs. Damakan, placing a light hand on Eleonora’s shoulder. “It is an honor.”

Eleonora looked up at the old handmaid and caught a mischievous spark at the corner of her eyes.

“It is an honor,” Mrs. Damakan repeated. “But I think you are nervous.”

“I don’t know—”

The words slipped out so easily, Eleonora hardly noticed what she had done until it was done. She had not thought about speaking, or not speaking, for some time now. Her silence was a comfortable habit—the listening, the nodding, the writing out of any responses that were absolutely necessary—but it had long ago lost its power. She realized this now, now that she had discarded the cloak of voicelessness, letting it pool at her feet. The spell was her own to break; it had been all along. Mrs. Damakan nodded, waiting for her to continue her sentence.