The Oracle of Stamboul Read online

  “It’s not important what happened,” she said, putting the paper down. “I’m telling you what people are saying.”

  Abdulhamid stood and came around to inspect her finished work. She had rendered Al-Mutannabi’s famously acerbic line—Kings who are rabbits, sleeping with open eyes—in a subtly squared North African Kufic script. Her workmanship was flawless as ever.

  “Very nice, Mother.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. It is for you.”

  He lifted his mouth into a sour smile. Kings who are rabbits, sleeping with open eyes. It was not a delicate jab. Al-Mutannabi was known for sly and insulting verses that spared no one, not even his patrons.

  “Your allusion is not lost on me.”

  “Your Excellency,” she said, standing. “There is one more thing I would like to ask before I take your leave.”

  He nodded for her to continue.

  “I have been thinking recently about that horrible boat accident.”

  Abdulhamid nodded. The accident had taken on new significance in the past weeks. The Tsar’s private investigation into the matter had concluded that the crash was likely caused by sabotage. Although his report didn’t name a saboteur, the Tsar was demanding financial restitution from Stamboul—for neglecting to properly protect the Russian subjects under its dominion—in the shape of fifty thousand pounds. And he was threatening to take action if his grievances were not redressed. The Sultan would gladly have paid twice that amount in private. However, someone had leaked the Tsar’s demand to the newspapers. If he paid the restitution now, in public, he would look weak. And everyone would be lining up for a handout. If he didn’t pay, the Tsar would have another excuse to rattle his sabers.

  “It was a horrible tragedy,” he said. “A tragic loss of life. But what can we do now? What more could we have done? I sent personal condolences to the victims’ families, and to their respective governments. Jamaludin Pasha attended the funeral of the American Vice Consul and the French Ambassador. We even made provisions for an American naval detachment to enter the Bosporus in order to convey the Vice Consul’s body back to New York. The Russians were offered this same opportunity for their general, but they declined.”

  “Of course it’s a tragedy,” his mother said. “And of course you did everything you could have done. I am asking if you think it was an accident.”

  There were a number of conspiracy theories circling about the palace. He had just listened to the Grand Vizier’s theory—it was a British conspiracy to scare off the Americans and distract attention from Prussia—and he was in no mood to sit through his mother’s. He had to admit, the evidence in favor of sabotage was overwhelming, but he did not want to contradict his own official report, which cited equipment malfunction as the cause of the crash. Conceding as much, even to his own mother, would only further bolster the Tsar’s argument and weaken his own hand.

  “Yes,” he said, doing little to hide his annoyance. “I do think it was an accident. What else could it have been?”

  “I believe,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “that it was sabotage, sabotage planned and carried out by the American Consul himself.”

  The Sultan snorted in disbelief. He was used to his mother’s conspiracy theories, but this was truly preposterous.

  “Why would the Americans sink their own ship? Why would they kill their own Vice Consul?”

  “Not the Americans,” she said, grinning coyly. “The American Consul.”

  “But—”

  “As you know, the American Consul is not only an American. He is also a member of the Hebrew faith.”

  Abdulhamid blinked. His mother’s distrust of Jews was no secret. Given her feelings on the topic in general, Abdulhamid was inclined to dismiss the theory out of hand. As theories went, however, it had a certain amount of elegance.

  “Think about it,” she said and, setting her calligraphy on the table, she left.

  Abdulhamid stood in the doorway of his mother’s private quarters, watching an endless stream of water spill out the top of the fountain. It was a compelling theory, though it lacked a motive. As he tried to puzzle out how the attack might have advanced the cause of the Americans, or the Jews, Abdulhamid’s stomach growled again and a pain stabbed at his kidney. Clutching his side, he felt another wave of pain roll through his gut, and tried to recall the conditions under which it was permissible to break the Ramadan fast. He was not infirm or traveling or pregnant, but what if the fasting impeded his ability to render judgment? What if it compromised his ability to perform his duties? It was obligatory to break the Ramadan fast if doing so would save a life. Surely there were lives in the balance of the momentous decisions he made every day. With this justification in hand, he glanced at the empty courtyard and stole into the kitchen next door.

  The room was bare, its pots and pans stored in their cupboards and the chopping blocks scrubbed clean. The Iftar meal was prepared in the central palace kitchen, which left auxiliary kitchens like his mother’s unused for the month. Surely, however, there must be some food in the larder. Maybe not a chicken, but a few scraps of bread, a dried apricot, or a date, something that would allow him to perform his duties properly until dusk. Glancing out again at the empty courtyard, he opened the larder doors and pawed through spices, a tin of sardines, and a stale piece of flatbread. He was on the verge of eating the bread with sardines when he discovered, at the very back of the larder, a box of baklava. Glistening with syrup, the pastries were dusted with bright green ground pistachios. His mother had a penchant for sweets. It would be no surprise if she had hidden the box specifically for consumption during Ramadan. She was not a young woman, and had been afflicted by the sugar disease for some time now. In either case, she would never know that it was him who had found it. Glancing over his shoulder, he popped one of the pieces into his mouth and swallowed it with only two chews. The next piece he took his time with, savoring the sweet, flaky crunch of the dough and that peculiar tang of ground pistachios.

  Licking the tips of his fingers, Abdulhamid snuck back into his mother’s quarters, where he found the Grand Vizier, Jamaludin Pasha, bent over the calligraphy. They regarded each other for a moment in silence, each fully aware of what the other was doing.

  “Your Excellency,” said the Grand Vizier. “I was just looking for you.”

  “It’s a beautiful piece of workmanship,” said the Sultan, indicating the calligraphy. “Is it not?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Your mother has always had a wonderful Kufic script. One would almost think she was born in Fez.”

  He paused to scrutinize the line more carefully.

  “Though I might have chosen another verse.”

  Abdulhamid did not take Jamaludin Pasha’s invitation to carp on his mother, and so he continued with his original tack. The Grand Vizier adjusted his stance and held his wrists behind his back.

  “We received reports this morning that the Sanjak Bey of Novi Pazar successfully put down another tax rebellion. Unfortunately, the village he made an example of was primarily composed of Orthodox Christians. You can imagine, Your Excellency, what the Russians will make of this. Just three days ago, their Ambassador told Hisham Pasha that the Tsar is determined to defend the Orthodox subjects of our empire as if they were his own.”

  “This is rather unfortunate timing,” the Sultan said, popping his thumbnail off the edge of the doorway. “Is there anything we can do to mollify the Tsar?”

  “We could pay the restitution they have demanded,” said Jamaludin Pasha. “But I doubt whether even that will pacify them now. I imagine they will be quite upset. And the European newspapers, if they hear of what happened in Novi Pazar, it will be another Bulgarian Horror.”

  The Sultan was silent for a moment and his stomach growled audibly.

  “Let us see how the Tsar responds,” he said finally and changed the subject. “Now tell me some good news. How are our spies progressing?”

  Covert operations were the personal prefecture
of Jamaludin Pasha, and he could always be counted on to tout his successes in that realm.

  “Here we do have some good news,” said the Grand Vizier. “Just last week our men broke up a revolutionary meeting in Beyolu”.

  The Sultan nodded without much interest. Jamaludin Pasha’s men broke up at least two of these supposed revolutionary meetings every week. For the most part, the agitators turned out to be little more than spoiled intellectuals drinking tea and orating for each other.

  “It might also be of some interest,” the Grand Vizier continued, “that the code, the code that led our men to this meeting, was cracked by a young girl, an orphan of eight years old.”

  “A young girl?”

  “A Miss Eleonora Cohen,” Jamaludin Pasha said. “The daughter of a Jewish textile merchant from Constanta. Apparently, she is something of a savant. In any case, her father died in the boat accident and she is living now with Moncef Barcous Bey.”

  “Moncef Bey?” the Sultan repeated. “Was this one of his meetings?”

  “It was.” Jamaludin Pasha smiled. “Coincidentally. Or perhaps not. The raid, unfortunately, did not yield any new information about him, or his goals. Moncef Bey insisted they want only to read Rousseau, and that the code was just a game. In any case, we have made note of the entire incident in his file.”

  The Sultan did not particularly want to have a conversation about Jamaludin Pasha’s overzealous surveillance techniques, so he changed the subject.

  “How did the girl crack the code if she is living with him?”

  “Ah,” said the Grand Vizier, flattening his mustache. “One of our men is her tutor. He brought the code to their lessons and said it was a puzzle.”

  The Sultan was silent for a moment.

  “What more do we know about this girl? What is her name again?”

  “Eleonora Cohen. I have told you all we know about her. If you like, I will attempt to uncover more information. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Yes,” said the Sultan. “I would like that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Ramadan dragged itself through the hot, ever-thinning days of early summer, Stamboul baked into a hard crust of acceptance. Steamers slowed through the straits and hugged its shady banks, the muezzin’s voice scratched with lack of water, and Eleonora sat at the windowsill, fanning herself with a book. The tension of each new day simmered, rose, and was released with the cannon shot at sundown. Even those who did not fast—the Armenians, the Greeks, the Europeans, and the Jews—all felt the same wave of relief at the end of the day when the streets filled with ice cream vendors, fortune-tellers, and dusty red tents. Each night lanterns were hung between the minarets of the New Mosque, wishing everyone a happy Ramadan. And the fireworks continued apace, though in a somewhat diminished capacity. Most evenings, the Bey broke his fast outside the house, with friends, colleagues, or distant cousins. He offered more than once to bring Eleonora along with him, but she declined. The thought of all those people, all that food and noise, was just too much. She was content with the quiet routine of her lessons, her reading, and meals alone in her room. All this changed, however, one Tuesday in the third week of Ramadan. That afternoon, Reverend Muehler arrived at the Bey’s house a few minutes late. He seemed more animated than usual, his face apple-red and covered with downy stubble.

  “Well, hello there,” he said, ruffling her hair. “If it isn’t the famous young Miss Cohen.”

  He laughed at some private joke and set a stack of books on the corner of the Colonel’s desk.

  “I thought we might do something a bit different today.”

  He motioned for her to sit and produced a well-worn dark green book. Eleonora took it into her hands and examined the spine. It was The Metamorphoses by Ovid.

  “You know my opinion of novels and love poetry,” the Reverend said. “The sweet, witty soul of Ovid, however, is far beyond reproach. And, if I am not mistaken, I believe he spent the last years of his life in Constanta.”

  Still cradling the book, Eleonora opened it to the first page. It was inscribed, in a confident, tilting hand, To the mellifluous and honey-tongued Jimmy, May 1865, New Haven.

  “Yes,” he said, taking the book from her and flipping through it. “A gift from my undergraduate days.”

  That afternoon, the Reverend interrupted her silent reading only when he wanted to repeat a line aloud, to hear it roll off his tongue. Pacing back and forth behind her, he followed her index finger under the words, humming absently to himself as she read. Toward the beginning of the story of Calisto, the swish of his trousers went silent. Thinking that perhaps he had a question for her, Eleonora reviewed the previous few lines—Her vest was gathered up, her hair was tied; / Now in her hand a slender spear she bore, / Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore—and looked back over her shoulder. The Reverend was lost in thought. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. After a moment, he opened his eyes and saw that she was looking at him.

  “By all means,” he said. “Please, continue.”

  Although his behavior was unusual, Eleonora thought nothing of it, and she had no reason to suspect anything was amiss when the Reverend said he would be staying on after their lesson to write down some thoughts. He often stayed on after their lessons for a few minutes. On these occasions, Eleonora usually read in one of the armchairs on the other side of the room, but that afternoon, because the library was exceedingly stuffy, she decided instead to explore the corridors above the women’s quarters. Owing to their darkness, the corridors stayed much cooler than the rest of the Bey’s house, and she often spent the hottest part of the day wandering through them.

  Even after nearly a dozen visits, Eleonora’s heart still flapped and fluttered in her throat as she shuffled along the corridors’ splintered floors. She held the hem of her dress and hunched slightly, the ceiling above her growing steadily lower as she progressed, or so it seemed. In those dark, moldering passageways, dank with the soiled smell of rotting wood, she could not see much farther than her hand in front of her and the walls tapering inward as they rose. She had intended to revisit the small iron door she had discovered on her first visit to the corridors, but seeing the scattered patch of light above the library, she paused. Bending to her knees, Eleonora gripped her fingers through the holes in the latticework screen and looked down on the room she had just left.

  Reverend Muehler was seated still at the Colonel’s desk. From this vantage point, she could see the red of the sun on the back of his neck and a small patch of baldness sprouting up about his crown. She couldn’t tell at first what he was doing, but as she leaned forward, she saw that he had opened one of the desk drawers and was furtively rummaging through it. After a short while, he apparently found what he was looking for and slipped it into his briefcase. Eleonora craned her neck to see better. As she did, she was suddenly overcome by an enormous, watery sneeze.

  The Reverend looked up and scanned the room. A long silence passed.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Miss Cohen?”

  Eleonora could hear her blood beating in her ears, could feel her breath caught at the base of her throat. She wanted to run, to leave the scene as quickly as possible, but she knew it was best to stay silent and still. Breathing now through an open mouth, she watched the Reverend stand, call her name once more, and walk around the room, peeking under chairs and tables. When he saw that the room was empty, he grabbed his briefcase and left. Eleonora remained rooted to that same spot for a long while before retracing her steps down the corridor and out of the women’s quarters.

  For the rest of that afternoon and all through dinner, Eleonora revisited this incident in her memory, the open drawer, the briefcase, the sound of her own name. There were a number of plausible explanations for what she had seen—Reverend Muehler could have been asked to retrieve a document for the Bey, he might have been looking for a lost pen or a blank piece of paper—but no matter how many possibilities she was able
to conjure, she had a difficult time convincing herself of any but the most obvious explanation. The Reverend had stolen from the Bey. From an ethical point of view, the real question was not what had happened but whether she would tell anyone what she had seen. Plato would seem to think she should. Truth is the beginning of every good to the gods, and of every good to man. Then again, there was Tertullian. Truth engenders hatred of truth. As soon as it appears it is the enemy. She stewed over the question all through dinner, the fireworks, and into her dreams.

  When she came downstairs that next morning for breakfast the problem was still with her. As usual, she and the Bey did not communicate much beyond the requisite salutations and civilities. Monsieur Karom brought her food as usual, and she ate as usual. Still, she could feel it, that question hanging over the room like the silent taxidermied head of a rhinoceros. She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t betrayed anyone’s trust; still, she felt she had done something wrong. Or rather, she had not yet done the right thing. Was there a difference between these two sins? They ate in silence, Eleonora staring down at sliced strawberries bleeding red onto her plate. She needed to say something, to do what was right, but she didn’t want to bear false witness against the Reverend. She pricked a strawberry slice onto her fork and chewed until it dissolved in her mouth.

  “Miss Cohen,” said the Bey as he stood from the table. “I won’t be home until later tonight. I have been invited to the house of Haci Bekir.”

  Her memory of Haci Bekir, his venal improbity and temper, decided the question once and for all. She removed a piece of paper and a pen from her frock pocket.

  Do you have a moment? There is something I would like to ask.

  “Of course,” said the Bey, still standing. “What is on your mind?”

  Yesterday, she began after a long hesitation, I was in the women’s corridors.

  She looked up at him, gauging his response. As far as she knew, the Bey had no idea about her explorations. Whether or not he did, he was not in the least taken aback by her revelation.