The Oracle of Stamboul Read online

  She had reached the end of the hallway, and was readying herself to climb a flight of metal stairs, when one of the doors behind her creaked open. She froze and hunched her shoulders, bracing for an accusatory shout, the opening of other doors, and a gathering of curious passengers arguing over what should be done with this filthy little stowaway. The only sound she heard, however, was the soft patter of footsteps interlaced by a thin mumbling. Eleonora inched her chin toward her shoulder, craning her eyes toward the source of the noise. It was an old man, gaunt in his nightgown and with a mess of thick gray hair. He was walking toward the stairway, shuffling his slippers against the carpet, but he did not seem to notice her. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, Eleonora turned to face the man. Although his eyes were open, they were lifeless and glossy, devoid of any recognition. She caught her breath in her throat and swallowed. As he approached, she could hear he was mumbling through a series of nervous questions. He stopped just in front of her and, as if sensing her presence, fell silent. Eleonora inhaled the old man’s sleep smell, the accretion of a week’s perspiration on his nightgown. She looked up into the heavy lines of his face and reached her hand out, but did not touch him.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Turn around. Go back to your room.”

  A glint of recognition shot across his eyes, then the old man turned and walked back toward his room. Eleonora waited for him to close the door behind him before she exhaled, then turned herself and, heart pounding in her neck, climbed the stairs.

  She emerged at the entrance of what seemed to be the dining room. Pushing a strand of hair over her ear, she surveyed the empty room. The tables were folded and stacked for docking. A contingent of potted plants huddled in the corner, and the piano stood flush against the wall like a disobedient student. Eleonora’s mouth watered at the thought of food and, hoping that those leather double doors by the piano might lead to a kitchen, she crossed the room to investigate. As she approached, she could hear the sound of voices coming from inside the room, which, according to a brass plaque on the wall, was the smoking lounge. Drawing yet closer, she smelled a trace of her father’s pipe smoke. It could have been anyone’s pipe smoke, really, but Eleonora was not in a position to quibble. Putting aside her hesitations, she pushed through the doors. There he was, just as she had imagined. Dressed in the same jacket he had been wearing the night before he left, her father was seated in a narrow armchair, drinking a glass of wine with a red-faced man in a dark blue suit.

  “Tata!”

  In the long stretch of silence that followed, Eleonora noticed a reflection of herself in the mirror next to her father’s head. Her dress was caked with food and her stockings torn at both knees. Her face was smeared with coal dust and a clump of dirty hair hung over her eyes. She looked like Cupid returning home from a battle, beaten down, dragged chin-first through the mire, and with wings clumped with mud. She opened her mouth to explain, but everything she had practiced, all of her justifications and reason, slipped away. Instead, she rushed across the room and threw herself into her father’s lap, causing him to drop his glass and spill wine all over the rug.

  “Ellie,” he said, his voice betraying his wonder and no small amount of displeasure. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Chapter Seven

  That next morning, Eleonora and her father sat together on the front deck of the ship, watching Stamboul rise out of the sea. At first glimpse, the city was a haze, no more corporeal than a specter sleeping under fog, but as they drew closer, she could see an outline of the city, its street lamps blinking like a conference of fallen stars. It was not yet dawn, and Eleonora was wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket on the edge of her father’s lap. He was still cross with her. She could feel his irritation in the tense posture of his forearms and the steady inhalation he used to calm his thoughts. What these thoughts were she could not say. He had not spoken more than a dozen words to her since she had revealed herself. She did not know whether he planned to send her back to Constanta or whether he might allow her to stay on with him in Stamboul. Unfamiliar as she was with the contours of her father’s anger, Eleonora had no tools to judge its shape or magnitude. She knew, however, that it would be best not to break the silence.

  In its time, the sun rose unsteady from a distant corner of the sky, and with it the fog lifted. Already the Bosporus was teeming, packed with fishing boats, caïques, and the occasional lumbering steamer. On the shore, under the shade of cypress trees, miniature people hawked and haggled, bustled, bargained, and prayed. Three gargantuan turtle-domed mosques glinted in the rising sun, their minarets piercing the sky like bayonets, and there, at the confluence of waters, was the most glorious building Eleonora had ever seen. Gardens upon gardens, arches, balustrades, and clerestories ringed by a gleaming white marble wall and watched over by a regiment of glassy towers, Topkapi Palace, the residence of His Excellency Sultan Abdulhamid II, sat perched on the rim of the Golden Horn, a testament to inconceivable wealth and power.

  As they pulled into the docks, the captain’s horn sounded and a chorus of shouts went up from the deck. A team of dock boys tied down the ropes, the hull cranked open, and a mass of stevedores descended on the ship, strapping trunks, crates, and barrels to their backs like so many mules. Just across from the new train station, the docks were a frantic crush of humanity, a jumble of fezzes, turbans, suit jackets, and robes. Barefoot beggars jostled with hawkers waving their wares over their heads and, at the outskirts of the crowd, carriages jockeyed for position with camels and stray dogs. This was what Miss Ionescu meant when she called the train station in Bucharest an unwashed tumult of men clawing and rasping at each other for a slightly more advantageous position in the crowd. As Eleonora glimpsed what appeared to be the backside of an elephant disappearing around the corner, a fight broke out between two stevedores and she could feel her father’s arms tighten protectively around her. Settling herself deeper into his lap, she inhaled the familiar smell of hibiscus and pipe smoke before daring a question.

  “Tata,” she said, looking up at the dense underside of his beard. “Where are we going now?”

  He exhaled and pulled a pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket.

  “The first thing we’re going to do,” he said, “is send a telegram to Ruxandra. Then, my friend Moncef Bey will pick us up in his carriage and bring us to his house. I was planning on staying with him for the entirety of my trip. Hopefully, he will be able to accommodate you as well.”

  Yakob lit his pipe, letting the import of these words sink in.

  “I don’t know how you got it into your head that this would be a good idea,” he said, drawing through the tobacco.

  While her father smoked, a pungent salty smell wafted up from the docks and Eleonora thought back to the hull. Shuddering, she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Her father had not asked her any questions about what had transpired in the hull, and she was glad of it. Some things were better left undiscussed, she knew that now for sure. When her father finished his pipe, he stood, took his portmanteau in one hand, and with the other led her down to the docks.

  “Ride, sir? Room? Take your bags?”

  Even before they stepped off the plank, they were swarmed by a push of touts, oily-faced men waving postcards and grabbing at her father’s bag.

  “No thank you,” Yakob said, brushing past. “No. No, thank you.”

  “A nice girl there,” one of them said with a hint of menace. “She your daughter?”

  Yakob pulled Eleonora past the touts to a less crowded area near the train station and set his portmanteau down. Reverend Muehler was nowhere to be seen and, from the looks of it, Moncef Bey hadn’t arrived yet either. Eleonora thought to ask her father whether they were going to send the telegram to Ruxandra, but he seemed tense and she didn’t want to aggravate him with her questions. He searched the crowd once more before he nudged her in the direction of a small café.

  “Here, Ellie. Let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.”
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br />   They had just ordered when a carriage glided up to the front of the café, scattering a flock of sea gulls and a few unseemly lurkers. A stately oak-paneled contraption led by four gray Arabian horses, the carriage stood for a moment before its door swung open and a tall, broad-chested man stepped out. This, Eleonora surmised, must be Moncef Bey. Dressed in a dark blue suit and a red fez, he had thick black hair and the delicately arched features of a Persian miniature. He seemed like the kind of person one might encounter in The Hourglass, the kind of person one would not be surprised to find discussing matters of great importance in Count Olaf’s drawing room or enjoying himself in the Von Hertzogs’ private box at the opera.

  “Moncef Bey!”

  He smiled and embraced her father heartily.

  “My dear Yakob. It has been much too long.”

  “Indeed,” her father said. “Indeed it has.”

  They embraced again, then the Bey turned his attention toward Eleonora, who was still seated at the table.

  “And this?” he inquired. “Who is this lovely girl?”

  Eleonora felt the color rise around her ears. She looked up from her lap and gave the Bey the best smile she could muster.

  “This,” said Yakob, “is my daughter, Eleonora. I sincerely hope that she won’t be any inconvenience. I would have telegrammed ahead, but I must admit, she was a surprise for me as well.”

  “Not at all,” said the Bey, dismissing Yakob’s concerns with a flick of the wrist. Turning on his heels, he motioned for them to follow. “A child will do us good, especially such a charming young girl.”

  And that was that. Once Yakob’s trunks were loaded, Moncef Bey said a few words to the driver and they were off. Like most carriages in Stamboul, the Bey’s coach was equipped with wooden latticework screens in place of windows. It was a contrivance, he explained, which shaded the passengers from the sun and, more important, prevented people from seeing the ladies of the house as they went about town. Fortunately, it did not prevent those inside from seeing out. As Eleonora settled into the red velvet seat, she crossed her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on the screen opposite her, following a kaleidoscope of mosques and municipal buildings, creaky wooden mansions, plane trees, vegetable carts, and what appeared to be her flock, circling triumphantly above them.

  “The city has changed a great deal,” said Yakob, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Of course, it has been nearly a decade since I was last here.”

  The Bey looked over his guests’ shoulders and seemed to lose himself for a moment in the passing scenery.

  “There are new buildings every day,” he said. “New cafés and shops, new schools, mosques, and markets, but the essential character of the city remains unchanged. No matter who sits on the throne, no matter how many new railroad stations are built, no matter which country’s warships patrol the Bosporus, Stamboul will always be Stamboul, from now until the end of time.”

  “Well put,” said Yakob and raised his right hand as if making a toast. “Here’s to Stamboul.”

  Soon the carriage pulled up to the front entrance of the Bey’s house, and a team of coachmen began unloading Yakob’s luggage, unlatching the horses and leading them to their stables. An enormous yellow-and-white mansion seated on the edge of the water, the Bey’s house faced the passing boat traffic with the languid elegance of an old man in a three-piece suit feeding pigeons from a park bench. As Moncef Bey led his guests to the front door, he gave a curious glance to Eleonora’s flock, which had found roost in a large linden tree hanging over the drive.

  “They followed you,” her father said. “The whole flock, they followed you.”

  Eleonora had never doubted the fidelity of her flock; still, it was a long way from Constanta to Stamboul. She was imagining their journey across the water—drafting sea birds and secreting themselves away in empty life rafts—as she entered the antechamber of the Bey’s house and her attention was drawn to a colossal crystal chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling. A dense forest of reflection, it looked as if it might at any moment buckle under its own weight and come crashing down on the marble staircase below. Just inside the front door, to her immediate right, was a side table scattered with visiting cards. To her left, a suit of armor stood permanent guard over the room. And at her feet, stretching more than eight meters from the front door to the foot of the staircase, lay an enormous red, blue, and green silk Hereke carpet. It was the most magnificent carpet she had ever seen, the many-flowered border surrounding a trio of telescoped medallions, within which she was able to make out depictions of Noah’s Ark, the Garden of Eden, and all seven days of Creation.

  “Unfortunately,” said the Bey, removing his pince-nez and wiping it on the hem of his jacket, “the women’s quarters are shuttered. We have not had ladies living here for some time now. But if Miss Cohen doesn’t mind staying on the male side of the house, I have a room in mind that should suit her perfectly.”

  He paused and glanced at Eleonora for approval. His eyes flashed with a glint of moonlight when he smiled.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would be much obliged.”

  “Excellent. She is obliged. Then it is decided. Monsieur Karom, please show Miss Cohen to the Red Room.”

  At this, the butler emerged from his corner and, with the upturned palm of a white glove, showed Eleonora up the stairs.

  “Your room, Miss Cohen,” he said, holding the door for her. “I will knock for dinner at eight.”

  The Red Room was, true to its name, covered with a deep-red wallpaper the same shade as kidney beans. To mitigate this crush of red, the room’s wainscoting was painted a creamy white, as was the ceiling and the trim on the two sixteen-pane bay windows opposite the door. To Eleonora’s left lay a four-poster bed, draped in lace curtains like an imperial litter. In front of her, just below the windows, sat a caramel-colored suede armchair and an oak writing table topped with a crystal inkwell. To her right stood the bureau and a dressing table, each with more drawers than she could think of what to put inside. She remained in the doorway for quite a long while, examining the room, its furniture, and the brilliant blue-green Tabrizi underfoot. After a week in the hull, she found it difficult to reconcile herself to the presence of such luxury, and even more so to the notion that this room, which could easily have contained their entire house in Constanta, was, for the time being at least, hers.

  With careful steps, Eleonora walked along the edge of the carpet to the dressing table and leaned her face close to the mirror. She watched her breath form and vanish on the silver surface, scrunched her face up around her nose, and puffed out her cheeks. Drawing back from the mirror, she smoothed down a cowlick, smiled charmingly, and tilted her head to the left. Eleonora had seen her reflection before, at the tailor’s shop in Constanta, but she had never had the chance to examine herself so closely. She leaned forward again and rested her nose on the surface of the mirror so that she could see only her eyes and the top half of her face. She tried to focus, but the harder she looked, the more blurry things became. Taking a step back, she wiped her breath off the glass and considered herself from a distance. She had no doubt that she was beautiful—people had told her so her whole life—but at the moment she did look somewhat ragged. Although she had bathed the night before, washed her clothes, and slept on a proper bed, her hair was matted, her eyes withdrawn into their sockets, and her dress little more than a formless sack.

  On the off chance that she might find a more suitable dress there, Eleonora crossed the room to investigate what appeared to be a closet. Turning the knob, she opened the door a crack and found that it was indeed a closet, empty but for a suit jacket, a pair of pants, and a fez that looked to be about the right size for a boy her age. She reached a hand out to touch the fabric of the fez when she heard the door open. Breath trapped in her throat, Eleonora turned slowly and saw that the noise was caused by a wrinkled old woman in a dark blue dress. The old woman did not appear angry at her for snooping in the Bey’s closet; in fact
, she seemed somewhat frightened herself. Setting a stack of towels on one of the chairs next to the door, she pushed her kerchief up over a tangle of white hair and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

  “Eleonora,” she said in a low voice. “You have arrived.”

  Eleonora was not sure how to respond to this observation, so she did not.

  “I am Mrs. Damakan,” said the old woman, crossing the room. “I knew your father in Constanta. Now I work for the Bey.”

  She took Eleonora’s hand between her palms and held it for a moment before seeming to remember her purpose.

  “He said you might need a change of clothes, your father did.”

  “Yes,” Eleonora said. “I think I do.”

  “And it looks as if a bath wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Mrs. Damakan smiled and led Eleonora through a connecting door to the bathroom. Covered with blue and white tiles, the room was enveloped in a damp swampy heat and the smell of birch. A porcelain tub took up one corner of the room, and in the other sat a large copper pot. Scratching the base of her neck, the handmaid mumbled a few words of delicacy before she bent down and raised Eleonora’s dress over her head. She then took the copper pot under her arm and said she would return shortly, leaving Eleonora naked and alone in the middle of the bathroom. Although she was not particularly cold, Eleonora shivered and clutched her arms around her chest. Staring at the ghost of her reflection in a blue tile, she sat on the edge of the tub and waited for Mrs. Damakan to return. When she did, it was with a scrubbing cloth and a pot full of hot water.

  “When I left Constanta,” she said, sloshing the water into the tub, “you were no longer than my arm. Now look at you.”

  Eleonora looked down at herself and blushed. It had been a long while since anyone had seen her so naked. Except for the first few years of her life, she had always bathed herself, and when she changed, it was usually alone in her room. This bashfulness, however, soon dissipated in the warmth of Mrs. Damakan’s presence. Holding herself on the cold porcelain rim, Eleonora lowered her legs into the tub. The bathwater was much warmer than she had expected, but after a few moments of prickly discomfort, she slid back and began to enjoy the steam on her face, the clean smell of olive oil soap, and the hot water thawing into her bones. Gently at first, cautiously almost, then with increasing force, Mrs. Damakan scrubbed her with a soapy washcloth, working her back, legs, arms, neck, and stomach with the vigor of a scullery maid scouring rice off the bottom of a pot.