The Oracle of Stamboul (21 page)

When she finished reading the letter, Eleonora folded it along its creases and placed it back in the envelope. Retying her housedress, she looked up at the ash-gray embers of the previous night’s fire. A dozen thoughts whisked through her head and departed before she could detain them. There was so much to consider: the violence of her birth, the prophecy, the horses and the birds. Her father didn’t seem to place much confidence in Mrs. Damakan’s signs, and Eleonora trusted her father above all else. Still, there it was, right there on the page, a destiny already written, an ancient fate the nature of which she didn’t know. She had so many questions, about herself, her father, her flock, Mrs. Damakan, and the Bey; about her birth, the midwives, the
prophecy, and why no one had ever told her any of this. She was so absorbed by these questions, she nearly forgot about the second letter. Addressed also to Moncef Barcous Bey and stamped with a date in the middle of February, it was much shorter than the first letter. She slid the paper out of its envelope and read over it quickly.

Eleonora stood and placed both letters on the table in front of her. She felt the prickly sting of acid in her throat, followed by an aftertaste of numbness. Ruxandra had indeed replied to the Bey’s telegrams. This knowledge was oddly comforting. Even if the content of the letter stung, even if the letter proved beyond a doubt that Ruxandra had callously abandoned her, the release
of hope was itself a relief. Eleonora could not say she was angry with the Bey for concealing the letter from her. It made perfect sense that he would want to spare her the injury of such a note so soon after her father’s death. In any case, these were not the questions that most concerned her at the moment. Her mind was still swimming with horses, birds, and ancient prophecies. And there was only one person who could answer her questions.

With the turn of a knob, Eleonora slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Doing her best to quiet her thoughts, to concentrate on the task at hand, she paused and put a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thumped through the thin material of her dressing gown. She inhaled, emptied her mind, and, one step at a time, made her way along the perimeter of the dining room, under the brief light of the chandelier, and through the kitchen door. Uncarpeted and drafty, the kitchen smelled of cooking oil and onions. Apart from a succession of pans hung above the stove, there was no decoration to speak of. At the far end of the room were three doors fixed with heavy iron hardware. The left-hand door, she knew, led outside to a small courtyard. The right-hand door led to the pantry. And the middle door, a few fingers taller than the rest, led to the servants’ quarters.

The door opened easily onto a steep wooden staircase dissolving into a fog of dim candlelight. Eleonora mounted the first stair with a creak, and the door swung shut behind her. She put her hand on the worn iron rail and climbed, one step at a time, to a hall at the top. The candlelight, she could see now, trickled out from beneath one of the two doors. She hoped dearly that this was Mrs. Damakan’s room. If it were Monsieur Karom’s, she would say that she was looking for someone to help her with a woman’s concern. She wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but she knew that it would get her to Mrs. Damakan without any
further questions. Eleonora took a few muffled breaths in front of the door before she knocked, ever so quietly. A long moment passed, then she heard a cough and a shuffle. The door opened. It was Mrs. Damakan.

“My dear,” she exclaimed, laying a hand on Eleonora’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

Eleonora tried to respond, but she was overcome. It began with a few muffled sniffs, a soft choke, and a welling of tears. Then, she felt a loosening in her stomach and it rose up inside her, from the very bottom of her gut, up through her lungs, and into her throat, like a pale-eyed sea creature finally surfacing after decades of haunting the deep. When she opened her mouth, her small body shuddered. The pressure of the past two weeks, the prophecy, the Sultan, and all her questions, all this came tumbling out. Eleonora pressed her face into the old handmaid’s lap and cried. She cried for her father, for her mother, and for Constanta, for Mrs. Damakan, her niece, and all the suffering she knew nothing about, but most of all, she cried for herself, for the improbability of her own existence and the raw uncertainty of her place in the world.

When she was spent, Eleonora sat for a long while on the edge of the bed, engrossed in the bare candle flickering on the desk in front of her. Mrs. Damakan held her, stroking her hair and whispering in a language she didn’t understand. Eventually, Eleonora sat up and apologized under her breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her tears on her sleeve. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all.”

Eleonora looked down at her hands, nestled among the folds of her dressing gown. Just the presence of Mrs. Damakan calmed her.

“You are a very special child,” the old handmaid said, stroking Eleonora’s hair. “You know that, don’t you?”

Eleonora mumbled a yes.

“You know you are special, but I think that you aren’t sure how.”

She nodded. That was, indeed, the crux of it.

“For thousands of years,” Mrs. Damakan continued, “my people have carried with us a prophecy—given by our last great king in the last hour of his deathwatch—the promise that a young girl would come, to push against the tides of history and put the world right again on its axis. There would be signs at her birth. A sea of horses, a conference of birds, the North Star in alignment with the moon, and two of our own. From these signs, he said, we would know she was truly the one.”

Mrs. Damakan looked at Eleonora with a mixture of fear and reverence, her face shadowed deeply by the sputter of the candle.

“You are that one.”

Eleonora broke Mrs. Damakan’s gaze and looked down at the pool of her tears. Whether she believed them or not, these words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, shivered her to the marrow.

“What about the Sultan and the crates?” she persisted. “What am I supposed to do tomorrow? I don’t know what to say. How can I be this person if I don’t even know what I am supposed to say?”

Mrs. Damakan swallowed and closed her eyes.

“Trust yourself. Listen to your stomach. This is all we have.”

While Mrs. Damakan fastened the hooks up the back of her dress, climbing one by one like the rungs of an unsteady ladder, Eleonora took a moment to observe herself in the dressing-table mirror. Her exhaustion showed as clear as a map. Her eyes wilted at the corners, her cheeks were pale as china, and, as much as she tried to quiet them, her hands quivered faintly at her sides. She had not eaten anything at breakfast that morning, and the base of her stomach felt slick as an empty bathtub. Neither she nor Mrs. Damakan mentioned the exchange that had transpired just a few hours earlier, but the memory of it hung over them. The very fact of her father’s letter, a physical proof of his absence, would have been enough to unnerve her. On top of that, she had to assimilate also his violent account of her birth; this prophecy, however true it may be; and the letter from Ruxandra. All this as she prepared to meet the Sultan. Regarding herself in the mirror, she could feel tremors of anticipation in the soles of her feet, and her nerves like so many tentacles reaching out to touch the world around them. She didn’t want to go to the palace, not now, not in this state, but one could not refuse the Sultan. And even if one could, it was too late. As Mrs. Damakan threaded the last hook into its corresponding eyelet, an imperial carriage pulled up to the Bey’s house. Moments later, there was a knock at the front door.

Eleonora and the Sultan’s herald rode in silence past yawning boatmen and night watchmen tending the sickly embers of their braziers. They rode past a knot of gossipy young madrassa students outside the Egyptian Bazaar, through a smattering of supplicants, and up to the Gate of Greeting. As the inner gates of the palace were opened, the Sultan’s herald touched her knee.

“Take care,” he said, pulling down on his lower eyelid to reveal the veiny rim of its socket. “You are all we have.”

Without another word, without even a glance back over his shoulder, the herald led Eleonora through the palace gardens and deposited her in front of the prophet’s banner. She was shown into the audience chamber immediately. Bowing, she noticed that the room was nearly empty. Besides the Sultan, herself, and a few guards, only two other people were present. One she recognized as the Grand Vizier. The second was an older woman she had never before seen.

“Good morning, Miss Cohen.”

When the Sultan spoke, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and turned toward him.

“Good morning, Your Excellency.”

“I trust that your ride to the palace was pleasant.”

“Yes,” Eleonora said. “Very much so.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Gesturing to the Grand Vizier, he continued.

“You have met Jamaludin Pasha?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Eleonora and the Grand Vizier had not been formally introduced, but she recognized him from her previous audience.

“I do think, however, that I should need to introduce you to my mother,” the Sultan said, nodding to the older woman on his left. “The Valide Sultan. She was quite taken by my descrip
tion of our first audience and wanted the chance to meet you in person.”

The Sultan’s mother was an elegant and graceful creature, her neck hung with jewels and skin swimming in woozy bursts of perfume.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Eleonora said, bowing again, though not as deeply as she had upon entering the room.

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear.”

“Before we begin with our official business,” said the Sultan, folding his hands under his chin, “I thought it might interest you to hear that our translators finally finished rendering the first volume of
The Hourglass
into Turkish. I only just began it a few days ago, but already I can see why you enjoyed it so much.”

Eleonora nodded. Unsteady from the rush of the bow, her head flooded with scenes from
The Hourglass
: Miss Holvert hiding, curled up in the cellar of her cousin’s farmhouse; Lieutenant Brashov riding through towns ablaze with torches and heavy artillery; Judge Raicu laughing uncontrollably in his own crowded courtroom. All this galloped through her head, but she could not think of how to respond to the Sultan. All she could come up with was a line from the fourth volume:
The string of fate pulled him through muck and brambles, hardship, tragedy, and countless sleepless nights. At times it seemed a pointless struggle, but when he arrived finally at the end of the line, then he understood that it was all necessary
. Was her entire life up until this point nothing more than preparation for this one moment? She blinked and steadied herself.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“There is one more thing I wanted to mention,” the Sultan said, reclining on his elbow. “Before we begin with our official business. As you may know, I have for many years been an amateur bird-watcher. Stamboul is a crossroads of sorts for migra
tory birds, and the palace provides an ideal vantage point from which to observe their movements. In the past few months, I have noticed more than once a rather curious flock of purple hoopoes roosted around Moncef Bey’s house. I wouldn’t trouble you with my observations, but such birds are not common to the region and, furthermore, the literature indicates that they are primarily solitary creatures. I ask you for your thoughts in part because the flock seems somewhat attached to you.”

He paused, allowing her to respond.

“That’s my flock,” Eleonora said. “They were with me when I was born and they followed me here from Constanta.”

According to her father’s letter and Mrs. Damakan, her flock was also connected, at least symbolically, to the prophecy. She thought it best not to divulge this connection, however, as she didn’t fully understand it herself.

“Your flock,” the Sultan repeated. “As simple as that.”

Eleonora smiled in confirmation.

“In any case,” Abdulhamid continued, changing the subject, “I understand that you were able to read through the documents I sent, and that you found them interesting.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I did.”

“What was your impression of them?”

Eleonora shuffled her heel against the floor.

“I found them quite interesting,” she said. “There were a few letters I did not entirely understand, but for the most part I found them very interesting.”

“Which letters didn’t you understand?”

“It’s hard to say.”

She addressed herself to the Grand Vizier, who had asked the question. Then, remembering the rules of protocol, she turned back to the Sultan.

“There was, for example, one letter from the Russian Consul to the palace, outlining the terms of a prisoner exchange, and then there was also an early draft of the Treaty of San Stefano. I don’t think I entirely understand the political context of either situation.”

“With so many documents,” the Sultan reassured her, “and such a complicated set of politics, I did not expect you to understand every detail. Though surely I can furnish you with documents to provide context for these two situations.”

He turned to Grand Vizier.

“Will you see that this gets done?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Now,” the Sultan continued, turning his attention back to Eleonora. “Although you have not had the opportunity to read through all the pertinent documents, I would enjoy hearing your impressions of the situation as a whole, as well as any advice you may have.”

Eleonora clenched her fists, pushing her fingernails into her palms. The enormity of the Sultan’s question enveloped her like a cloud of gnats. She opened her mouth to excuse herself, to tell them that she was very tired and, in all honesty, she didn’t really have an impression of the situation as a whole. Before she could speak, however, the Sultan’s mother broke in.

“You do know that your previous advice to His Excellency was enacted? And, so far at least, it has been successful.”

“No,” Eleonora said. “I did not.”

“It was in all the local papers.”

“I don’t read the local papers.”

“It was in the international press as well,” the Grand Vizier persisted, jotting something in his notebook.

“I don’t read any papers,” said Eleonora. “If I was supposed
to, I apologize. I thought I was just supposed to read what was in the crates.”

The Grand Vizier put his notebook aside. He looked as if he were going to ask a question, but instead he just wrinkled his nose.

“Your strategy was quite successful,” the Sultan said. “When they saw that we weren’t going to engage, the Russians stopped bothering us and went back to Sevastopol. As for the Germans, they were rather upset at first, but in the end they almost seemed glad that we ignored their suggestion.”

The Grand Vizier cleared his throat.

“Which is why I would very much like to hear your impressions of our political situation in general.”

Eleonora wiped her palms down the back of her dress and swallowed. It was just as Mrs. Damakan had said. She had to trust herself. There was nothing else. Her mind swarmed with caliphs and muftis, long-dead kings and abandoned capitals. If only she could think of an appropriate analogy.

“The situation of the empire in general,” she said, grabbing on to the first complete thought that came into her head, “is not dissimilar, I would think, to that of the Hyrcanians, as described by Xenophon in his
Cyropaedia
.”

Eleonora paused to gauge the effect of this analogy. It seemed, however, that no one present was familiar with the Hyrcanians—or Xenophon, for that matter.

“The Hyrcanians were subjects of their more powerful neighbors, the Assyrians, and badly used by them in matters political as well as military. In the particular occasion Xenophon describes, the Hyrcanian cavalry was ordered to bring up the rear of an Assyrian column, so that if any danger should threaten from behind they would bear the brunt of it. But—”

Eleonora paused for a moment to wet her lips. As she did, her head swam. The sun shifted from behind a cloud and shone down into the room, illuminating the patch of marble on which she stood.

“As they,” she said, trying to put her thoughts in order. “They—”

With that, Eleonora collapsed. First she sank to her knees. Then, with a violent shudder, she crumpled and fell to the floor. There, on the floor, in the middle of the Sultan’s audience chamber, her seizures began in earnest, and her mind went blank. The last thing she remembered was the sound of the Sultan shouting for a doctor.

Although Eleonora had read the entire Koran—had memorized it, in fact—the revelations within had not particularly resonated with her. Unless called upon by circumstance, she rarely reflected much on its contents. It was strange then that the Sura of the Overwhelming Calamity was the first thing that came into her mind when she opened her eyes and, blinking, tried to make sense of her surroundings.
Therein is a fountain flowing / Therein are thrones raised high / And drinking-cups ready placed / And cushions set in a row / And carpets spread out.
Through an open doorway, she could see a vast courtyard peopled with beautiful young women, plucking at string instruments and murmuring to each other in quiet, giggling tones. Here was the fountain flowing, there the carpets spread out and cushions set in a row.

She was lying facedown on a high divan in the middle of a small room just off of the courtyard. Her head was supported by a den of velvet pillows and her feet were bare. There was a tingling numbness in her right hand, which, she soon realized, was trapped between her body and the cushion. With some difficulty,
Eleonora pulled the hand out from under herself and rolled onto her back. When she did, she saw that she was being watched over by the Sultan’s mother. She tried to sit up, but when she raised her head, a sharp pain pierced through from one temple to the other. Just then, the end of the sura came to her and it seemed to make sense.
Therefore do remind. / For you are only a reminder / You are not a watcher over them.

“You don’t have to move. Just rest, lie here.”

The Sultan’s mother touched Eleonora’s forehead with the back of her hand and raised a large chalice to her lips.

“Here,” she said. “Drink this.”

The contents were deep red and had the sweetish tang of pomegranate. When Eleonora was finished drinking, the Sultan’s mother placed the half-empty cup on the floor.

“You were thirsty.”

Eleonora nodded and brought her own tingling, sweaty hand to her forehead. She wanted to ask where they were, what had happened, and so on, but she was too tired to speak. She was too tired to think, really.

“The Sultan is very concerned with your well-being,” said his mother. “Once it was determined that your condition was stable, he insisted that you be brought here, to his private quarters. It was thought that this would be the most comfortable place for you to recover.”

Eleonora again tried to speak, but the words didn’t come. They lost themselves on their way from her mind to her mouth, and by the time she realized they were gone, she had forgotten what she wanted to say.

“Take another sip of pomegranate juice. It will give you strength.”

As she drank, Eleonora could feel the strength rushing back
to her, the sugar pumping through her bloodstream. With the strength, however, there was also a wobbly lightness of mind.

“What do you remember?” the Sultan’s mother asked her, stroking the back of her hand. “Do you remember what you said to us?”

Eleonora raised her chin in order to shake her head.

“You don’t remember anything you told us? About Reverend Muehler and the puzzle? About Moncef Bey and that strange young man at the Café Europa?”

“No,” she whispered, forcing the word out. Besides the Hyrcanians, she remembered nothing. “What did I say?”

“It’s not important,” said the Sultan’s mother. Standing, she brushed a strand of Eleonora’s hair off her forehead. “It’s for the best really that you don’t remember.”

Eleonora rested her head on the pillow and gazed out again onto the courtyard, with the young women and their string instruments, trying to recall what she had said. When she could not, she returned her thoughts to their current surroundings.