The Oracle of Stamboul Read online

  The ceremony was performed in Tulcea, as the synagogue in Constanta was still undergoing repairs. Yakob and Ruxandra stood at the front of the room with the rabbi, a young man with a large red beard. The rabbi’s two youngest brothers served as witnesses and, at the back of the room, Eleonora was crying in the arms of the rabbi’s wife. After the ceremony, Yakob saw to some business in Tulcea and they took the six o’clock hackney back to Constanta, the hoopoes following at a respectful distance overhead.

  Chapter Two

  The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Servant to the Holy Cities, Caliph of Islam, Commander of the Faithful, and Supreme Padishah of Various Realms, His Excellency Abdulhamid II gazed up at a sea of interlocking green and blue ceiling tiles while the palace barber lathered his face with soap. In a nearby room, he could hear the plucking of an oud and the languid chatter of concubines. A bulbul sang out from its cage and, dappled through latticework, the mid-morning sun fell in a heap at his feet. Abdulhamid shut his eyes and, inhaling the soapy scent of jasmine, listened to the blade work up his neck.

  This same man had shaved Abdulhamid every morning for the past thirty years, since the initial wisps of manhood first sprouted on his royal chin. Prior to that, he had served seven years in the court of Abdulhamid’s father. He was an old man, the barber, but his hand was steady as a calligrapher’s and, even after so many years of practice, he still approached each morning’s shave as if it were the most important task of his life. This was a gravity Abdulhamid dearly appreciated. With so much intrigue and conspiracy swirling about the palace, one needed to trust one’s barber completely. It was not unprecedented for a member of the Sultan’s court to attempt regicide. In fact, three of his distant relatives—Murat II, Mustafa Duzme, and Ibrahim I—had been assassinated by supposedly devoted members of their staff: Murat by his cook, Mustafa by his bodyguard, and Ibrahim by his barber.

  Abdulhamid opened his eyes and watched the barber wipe his blade on a strip of leather. Then, shutting them again, he sank ever deeper into his chair, allowing the distant music of the oud to wash over him like sea water. There was such sadness in those strings, so many years of sorrow. It was al-Farabi, if he remembered correctly, who related the story of the oud’s invention, its bowed neck inspired by a skeleton hung from a carob tree. Whose skeleton it was Abdulhamid couldn’t recall—Lamech, or possibly one of Noah’s sons. In any case, it was an ancient instrument with roots in grief.

  In the midst of these thoughts, the Sultan sensed a presence hovering over him.

  “Your Excellency?”

  It was the Grand Vizier, Jamaludin Pasha, his face red from exertion and his mustache laced with what looked like a string of saliva.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, wiping his face. “I am sorry to interrupt your shave, but I have a most disturbing piece of information.”

  “Please,” said the Sultan, indicating for the barber to continue. “News of my domains is no interruption.”

  “Your Excellency, Pleven fell three days ago to the Russians. Osman Pasha and what is left of his men have pulled back to Gabrovo.”

  This was most disturbing news indeed, not especially surprising but troubling nevertheless. The Sultan sighed, watching in his peripheral vision as the barber tweezed out the hairs along his cheekbone. Pleven was the latest in a long string of military embarrassments. Most likely, it would mean the end of the war, then another conference of the Great Powers, another excuse to carve up his empire. Not that he minded losing hold of Bulgaria or Romania. They could sink into the earth for all he cared, as could Greece and the Balkans. It wasn’t the land that bothered him, it was the shame, the slavering chops of the Great Powers circling his house like wolves. He couldn’t care less about Bulgaria and Romania, but he knew it wouldn’t end there. The Russians wanted Kars, the French had long coveted the Levant, and the Greeks wouldn’t stop until they got their grimy paws on Stamboul.

  “Osman Pasha thinks it would be best to withdraw his men to Adrianople, but he won’t do so without your approval.”

  The Sultan considered his advisor. A squat, tomato-faced man, Jamaludin Pasha bore a prodigiously large nose set on either side with eyes like the hurried marks of a fountain pen and underlined by a thin mustache.

  “And what is your view?”

  “In this case, I must agree with Osman Pasha. Adrianople is the ideal location from which to defend the capital, if that is needed. And I fear it might be.”

  “Such is your view.”

  “Such is my view, Your Excellency. I can give no other.”

  This was the great limitation of Jamaludin Pasha. Although he was far and away superior to Abdulhamid’s previous Grand Vizier, in counsel and in loyalty, he was much too caught up in the rush of events as they happened, too enamored with his own place in history. To him, every revolt was the beginning of a revolution, every spy a sign of a coup, every war the tipping point in the balance of power. As intelligent as he was, Jamaludin Pasha was unable to see the long view, to step back and consider his position. In this particular case, however, he was right. One needed to defend Stamboul at all costs.

  “Very well,” said Abdulhamid. “Osman Pasha is free to withdraw his troops to Adrianople, or anywhere else he may see fit. Now tell me, Jamaludin Pasha, what other news is there?”

  Righting his turban, the Grand Vizier glanced at the small black notebook he kept in his breast pocket and began reciting the previous day’s events.

  “We are continuing our investigation into the officers’ revolt. The new Rector of Robert’s College arrived in Stamboul two days ago. There have been numerous reports of intercommunal unrest in the Sanjak of Novi Pazar.”

  Abdulhamid felt the tickle of the blade under his nose and blinked to stifle a sneeze.

  “Tell me more about this new Rector.”

  “As you requested, Your Excellency, we have tried not to inconvenience him or arouse any suspicions. Thus, our investigation was not as thorough as it might otherwise have been. We know the basic facts, however, and they are as follows: he was born and schooled in a state called Connecticut; after he completed his schooling, he took a position at the American University in Beirut, and he has been there for the past seven years, serving most recently as dean of students.”

  The Grand Vizier paused to look at his notebook.

  “There are rumors,” he continued. “But they are entirely unsubstantiated as of yet. Some of our contacts indicated that he is an American spy, others that he is a homosexual.”

  “Not that those two occupations are mutually exclusive.”

  “No, Your Excellency, they are not.”

  “Though they both seem somewhat at odds with his profession.”

  “Indeed, Your Excellency. Also, Madame Corvel, one of our contacts in the American Consulate, swears she met him before, under an entirely different name, when she was living in New York. However, she cannot remember what his name was at the time, nor the circumstances under which they met.”

  “Continue monitoring his movements,” said the Sultan. “And apprise me if you uncover anything interesting.”

  “I will, Your Excellency.”

  While the barber prepared a fresh bowl of lather, Abdulhamid leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him. As he did so, he noticed that he had neglected to change out of his bed slippers. It was a minor breach of etiquette to wear slippers in this area of the palace, but if the Grand Vizier had noticed, he kept it to himself.

  “Before I take my leave, Your Excellency, there is one additional matter that may be of interest.”

  “Please.”

  “There have been reports that Moncef Barcous Bey has recently incorporated a new secret society. This is the same Moncef Bey who, as you will recall, was active in agitating for the constitution brought out under the reign of your predecessor.”

  “Moncef Bey,” said the Sultan pensively. “I do remember that name. I thought we granted him a posting of some sort in Diyarbakir.”

  “That is
correct, Your Excellency. You might also remember that his post was transferred at the last moment to Constanta.”

  “Which is now under the control of the Russians.”

  “Precisely. Though unfortunately Moncef Bey’s term ended last year and he has since returned to Stamboul.”

  Watching the light weave a yellow-red tapestry on his eyelids, Abdulhamid nodded vaguely and exhaled.

  “Do we know the nature of this new group? Is it dangerous? Or just another theosophical reading circle?”

  “It is difficult to know, Your Excellency.”

  “Let us wait, and see how things develop.”

  “Very well, Your Excellency. Again, I am sorry to interrupt your shave.”

  “Not at all.”

  Before taking his leave, Jamaludin Pasha gave the Sultan one final piece of intelligence. Her Majesty, he said, leaning in to whisper, His Excellency’s mother, had been searching for him all morning and was apparently quite upset. Touching the smooth curve of his jaw, Abdulhamid thanked his advisor for this information and rose abruptly to seek a more discreet locale. Not that he was avoiding his mother. He merely wanted to consider the fall of Pleven and its various ramifications in private before he attended to anyone else’s concerns. Leaving the bath complex through a side door, the Sultan made his way around the edge of the harem gardens, past the walls of the palace prison, and through the northern stables to what was known, for reasons obscure to him, as the Garden of the Elephant.

  His intended destination was a narrow swath of apricot and sour cherry trees in the northernmost corner of the garden, a secluded grove where he often went to think. Planted nearly two centuries previous at the behest of Sultan Ahmet II, the trees had become over the years a favorite chattering place for squirrels and small birds. Abdulhamid had discovered the grove, which was almost always empty of human visitors, as a young prince in his father’s court. Now that he was Sultan himself, now that his word was law from Selonika to Basra, Abdulhamid would often escape there to read and watch the birds along the water.

  Contemplating the consequences of Osman Pasha’s withdrawal, the Sultan shaded his eyes from the sun and looked out on the twinkle of the Bosporus, hoping he might catch an early mustering of storks or an improbability of shearwaters. He followed a flock of swifts curving over the straits, from the Galata Tower to the new Haydarpasa train station in Kadikoy. Aside from the swifts, there was nothing of particular interest, just the usual assortment of gulls, cormorants, and swallows.

  “There you are.”

  There was no need to turn. He could recognize his mother’s voice anywhere. Regardless, he did turn and, kissing her hand, moved to make room for her on the bench. For although she had willfully disrupted his thoughts, although she had neglected again to address him by his proper title, she was his mother.

  “Good morning, Mother. It is a wonderful morning, is it not?”

  “It is,” she said, continuing to stand. “And I do sincerely regret disrupting your enjoyment of it.”

  “Please, Mother, sit. You are only adding to my enjoyment.”

  “Your Excellency,” she said. “I have but a small request and will be on my way.”

  His mother was quite beautiful, even in her old age. She had lost her figure, of course, and her face was lined with experience, but he could still see the remnants of what had drawn his father to her so intensely.

  “As you know,” she began, holding her hands behind her back, “the palace is hosting a dinner next week in honor of the French Ambassador and his wife.”

  Abdulhamid furrowed his brow. The French Ambassador was such a haughty man, so painfully transparent in his purposes. And his wife was no better, a plump ninny hen who devoted her life to throwing parties and repaying social slights.

  “I know you are not partial to him,” she said. “But the dinner is long overdue and we need all the support we can muster if we wish to counterbalance the Russians.”

  “Yes,” said the Sultan. “Indeed, we do.”

  He could not tell from his mother’s comment whether she had received word of Osman Pasha’s defeat at Pleven. In case she had not, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “As you may recall,” she continued, “the Ambassador is particularly fond of beluga caviar. He often mentions this fact in his correspondence with myself and the Grand Vizier.”

  “Yes, I do think I remember him mentioning something about caviar. You will, I trust, make sure to serve it at his dinner.”

  “It is already on the menu, Your Excellency. Unfortunately, Musa Bey informed me this morning that there is no beluga caviar in the storeroom. He said a new shipment has been ordered, but it is delayed due to hostilities in the region and won’t arrive until after the party.”

  “That is most unfortunate, Mother.”

  The conflict between the Sultan’s mother and Musa Bey, the warden of the palace storerooms, had been festering since he was a young prince. As palace conflicts went, it was relatively benign, a war of attrition in which each side desired little more than to aggrieve their adversary. Recently, Abdulhamid had begun to suspect that his mother’s general distaste for Jews had sprung from her years of battle with Musa Bey, though it could just as easily be the other way around.

  “There are ten tins of sterlet in the storeroom,” she said.

  “Sterlet should do.”

  “That is the worst-case scenario,” his mother continued. “Which, in the grand scheme of suffering, is not so very bad. However, seeing that the Ambassador praised the beluga caviar specifically and seeing that we may need the support of his government in the near future, I thought I might rummage for a few tins in your private larder. Musa Bey, however, will not allow me access. He said that such access requires an express request from His Excellency himself.”

  The Sultan grazed his fingers against the grain of the bench. Why did people always bring him such trivial concerns? Did the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire really need to bother with a few tins of caviar? He had more important matters to attend to, matters of state, matters of war and international diplomacy.

  “I will ask him,” said the Sultan, trying his best to contain his annoyance. “Expressly.”

  “There is one more thing, Your Excellency.”

  “What is that, Mother?”

  “Your slippers,” she said, glancing at his feet, “appear to have been damaged by the dampness of the gardens. If you would like me to fetch you another pair, or a pair of shoes, I am at your service.”

  “No, Mother, thank you, but I think I will be fine for the present.”

  “Very well,” she said, and, bowing, turned to leave.

  Chapter Three

  In spite of Ruxandra’s repeated efforts to shoo them away, the hoopoes that had attended Eleonora’s birth settled permanently in a fig tree outside the Cohens’ house, as a result of which the front walk was perpetually splattered with a slick coat of green-and-white bird droppings. It was not clear at first why the flock was so intent on inhabiting this particular tree, why they would tolerate broom, bleach, and boiling water when there were any number of more hospitable roosts nearby. With time, however, it became apparent that their attraction was connected in some way to Eleonora. It was almost as if they regarded her as part of their flock, the queen without which their lives had no purpose. They slept when she slept, stood guard while she bathed, and when she left the house, a small contingency broke off to follow along overhead. They were strange birds, in both appearance and behavior, but eventually Eleonora’s flock became a part of daily life, a familiar fixture atop East Hill. The townspeople paid them no more attention than they did the pigeons lined up along the gutters of the Constanta Hotel, and Ruxandra ultimately resigned herself to scrubbing the front walk every week with hot water and bleach.

  The hoopoes would have been more surprising perhaps if Eleonora were not such an extraordinary creature herself. Even when she was an infant in her nurse’s arms, one could already discern the first shoots of wha
t would later blossom into a stunning and demure beauty, her pleasant flushing cheeks crowned with a nest of curls, wide green eyes the color of sea glass, and milk teeth like tiny cubes of ivory. She rarely cried, took her first steps at eight months, and was speaking in complete sentences by the age of two. She brought a childish, though astonishingly precise, logic to bear on the world around her, and the intensity of her presence, that indescribable inner radiance and clarity, drew people to her from across the marketplace with no more desire than to kiss her on the forehead. In spite of this undeniable uniqueness, Eleonora’s early childhood was, for the most part, rather normal. She spent her days sleeping, eating, and exploring the world around her, playing wooden spoons on pots in the kitchen or lost in concentration of a pattern on one of the carpets in the living room.

  Among Eleonora’s earliest memories were the stories her father told sometimes after dinner. Climbing into his lap, she could feel the scratchy wool of his jacket against her arm. There was the crackle of the fire settling, the worn leather smell of the armchair, and Ruxandra darning in the corner of the room. Before he began his story, Yakob would reach into his coat pocket, pinch out a dram of shredded tobacco, and pack it into his pipe with the flat of his thumb. The mouth of the pipe was a tawny-gold lion’s head, carved from a stone called meerschaum. Eleonora held her breath as her father took the matchbox from his coat pocket, struck one, and held it to the crown of the lion’s head. It was as if this act were some ancient rite and they the sole remaining keepers of its secrets. After two or three preparatory puffs, he would lay a hand on the ridge of her shoulder and ask if she wanted to hear a story. Of course, she always did.