The Oracle of Stamboul (23 page)

“I already have the headline,” he said, and he rapped the table with the tip of his spoon. “It’s perfect.”

Although she woke each morning with noticeably more vigor than the previous, her appetite larger and strength flowing to her extremities, Eleonora’s recovery was slower going than she might have wished. Per doctors’ orders, she took meals in her room and left the bed only for visits to the bathroom or to sit in her favorite armchair next to the bay window. She spent most of her recovery ensconced in that chair, not reading, not thinking much, just watching the life of the city pass beneath her. She had forgotten how very pleasurable it was to observe the boat traffic along the Bosporus, the steady back-and-forth of steamers between the Marmara and Black Seas, crisscrossed by a web of caïques reaching from Beşiktaş to Eminönü, Üsküdar, Haydarpasa, and beyond. From her perch at the lip of the straits, Eleonora saw patterns she had never before noticed: the plodding progression of beggars from mosque to mosque, the southerly drift of jellyfish and debris, the thin shadows of minarets sweeping across the city like the hands of a great clock.

On the fifth morning after her episode, Eleonora ventured downstairs and took breakfast in the dining room with the Bey. When breakfast was finished, she retreated back upstairs to the stuffy lethargy of her room. The next two mornings were spent in this same manner. On the eighth morning, however, Eleonora decided, quite unexpectedly, that she would rather spend her day in the library. The thought of another hour in her bedroom was
just too much to bear. And there was no reason why sitting in her room would be any different than sitting in the library. So it was that, instead of trudging upstairs to the bay window, Eleonora pushed herself off her chair and ambulated down the great hall to the library.

By the time she arrived at the end of her journey, Eleonora was exhausted and it was all she could do to collapse into the armchair next to the fireplace. When she caught her strength, she examined her surroundings. It appeared the Bey had spent much of the previous night in that very chair. Its seat was cratered from excessive use and the side table disordered with various personal effects, tea glasses, and cigar ends. Beneath the muddle of the night before lay the Sunday edition of a newspaper she had never before encountered. Tucking her legs under herself like a mantis, Eleonora lifted the
New York Sunday News
gently out from under a half-drunk glass of cognac. She unfolded the paper and began paging through it. There was an article about the rebuilding of Vancouver and a long piece reflecting on the accomplishments of the National Geographic Society in its first year, neither of which particularly held her interest. She was just about to put the paper down, in fact, when she happened upon that week’s “Sketch from Abroad.” The article in question took up most of the back page and was illustrated by an engraving of the Bosporus. Beneath the picture, the headline was printed in thirty-point font: the oracle of stamboul.

Centuries ago at Delphi, in the age of Homer and Plato, young women augured the fortunes of all those citizens fortunate enough to find themselves in possession of a few coins and the strength to know the truth. Under the banner of two simple words—“Know Thyself”—these oracles foretold the destiny of kings, poets, philosophers, and merchants. The story of Alexander and the Pythian oracle
is well known, as is that of Cicero, and Phillip II. One would think that much has changed since the days of Caesar. But in Stamboul, monarchs still confer with mystics. Your correspondent has heard on good report that the Grand Poobah of the Turks, Abdulhamid II, consulted a seer last week not dissimilar from those ancient oracles of Delphi, a precocious young Jewess by the name of Eleonora Cohen, who purportedly broke into a prophetic seizure at the foot of the sovereign during their meeting.

Reading her name in the newspaper, Eleonora had the rather strange feeling of being outside herself, of watching herself from above. It was as if her mind had snuck off to the corridors of the women’s quarters while her body remained there in the armchair, reading. The sensation lasted for no longer than a moment, but when it ended, when she was back inside herself, she felt as if she had been given a new perspective on the world, and herself as she made her way through it.

“It is quite disconcerting,” said the Bey as he closed the library door behind him, “to read about oneself in the newspaper.”

Eleonora looked up. She had no idea how long the Bey had been standing there in the doorway, watching her. Although he was smiling, the rest of the Bey’s face conveyed a heavy gravity of purpose. The angle of his eyebrows, the crispness of his hands folded at his waist, everything about his demeanor indicated that the matter they were about to discuss was of the greatest seriousness.

“I myself have had the good fortune that the articles written about me have been mostly true. Calumnious, but for the most part true.”

Eleonora touched her clavicles with her fingertips and folded the newspaper in half. She did not want the Bey to think she was not giving him her full attention.

“Since your meeting with the Sultan,” he said, seating himself in the chair across from her, “a collection of rumors has been spreading.”

“What are they?” she asked.

“This article,” the Bey said, picking the paper off her lap, “although erroneous on a number of points, is actually a fairly accurate cross-section of the rumors, at least as far as I have heard them.”

“The rumors,” Eleonora asked, not sure how, or even if, he wanted her to respond. “Are they true?”

The Bey lifted his left eyebrow. Flattening the newspaper, he laid it over the arm of his chair.

“That is precisely what I wish to speak with you about. In the past few days, I have noticed a number of incongruous, unfamiliar men lurking around the docks, the Beşiktaş Mosque, and the Café Europa. All this leads me to believe that our house and my person are under increased surveillance.”

Eleonora’s throat tightened and she felt the glow of shame rising to her cheeks. Moncef Bey had been so kind to her. He had protected her in her time of need, he had watched over her and provided for her, all without ever asking for anything in return. The last thing she wanted was to increase his troubles.

“I know your memory is still weak,” the Bey continued. “But for your protection and well-being, as well as my own, I need for you to tell me everything you recall of what you said to the Sultan.”

“If I could remember,” she said, “I would tell you. But truly, I don’t. All I remember is the Hyrcanians.”

“The Hyrcanians?”

“I told the Sultan, or at least I began telling him, the story of the Hyrcanians and the Assyrians, from Xenophon.”

“Xenophon,” the Bey repeated, glancing in the direction of his books. “Well, whatever it was you said, you had a very significant effect on the Sultan’s thinking. As such, there are a number of powerful forces interested in the matter.”

The Bey then stood and walked across the room to a bookshelf full of histories. He was smiling still, but in the twitch of his mouth and the tension at the base of his back, Eleonora could see he was anxious. After paging through a copy of Xenophon’s
Selected Works
, he returned to his chair.

“It is a rather apt analogy,” he said, leaning into the leather. “The Hyrcanians and the Assyrians.”

Eleonora did not respond. She did not know what to think. After a long silence, the Bey handed the newspaper back to her and stood again.

“Tell me one thing,” he said, standing now over her chair. “Do you remember saying anything to the Sultan about Reverend Muehler or the meeting you witnessed at the Café Europa?”

Eleonora laid the paper across her lap and, in an attempt to relieve the tension building behind her eyes, she pressed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. It was the least she could do, to remember, but that section of her mind was entirely blank.

“When I was recovering,” she said finally, “in the Sultan’s private chambers, his mother asked if I could remember anything I had said. When I told her I couldn’t, she asked if I remembered anything I had said about Reverend Muehler and the puzzle, or your meeting with—”

She stopped and put her hand to her mouth, realizing what it was she had done. She had betrayed her greatest friend and protector. That the betrayal was unintentional meant little. Ele
onora looked up at the Bey, who was standing still next to her chair. His lips were pursed to subdue a quiver.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said.

“I know you didn’t.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder, then continued.

“What concerns me is that the Grand Vizier might jump to unfounded conclusions. You see, the man you met at Café Europa is high on the list of suspects in the case of the boat accident. He and I have worked together in the past on issues of constitutional reform. It turns out, however, that he also has ties to a number of radical nationalist organizations. In any case, any connection between him and me would be rich fodder for the Grand Vizier’s suspicions. Thus, the increase in surveillance.”

Eleonora glanced down at the newspaper in her lap.

“They won’t do anything to you?” she said, the tone of her voice rising to a question. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The Bey nodded, though he did not seem to fully agree.

“Unfortunately, that’s not always how it works.”

Later that evening, after a restless and question-addled nap, Eleonora received the first trickle of what would soon become a river of communications from admirers around the world. The Bey often received letters and telegrams after dinner, and so neither he nor Eleonora were particularly surprised when the doorbell rang and Monsieur Karom came into the dining room with two letters on a salver. However, instead of opening the envelopes and handing them to the Bey, as he normally did, the butler came around the other side of the table and placed the tray next to Eleonora. The envelope closest to her was of pearl-white stock. Her full name, Miss Eleonora Cohen, was written
across the front. The second letter was written on somewhat coarser paper and was addressed to
The Oracle of Stamboul
.

“Would you like me to open them?” asked Monsieur Karom, standing at attention.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

He removed the letter opener from his breast pocket and, with a small flourish, tore the pearl-white envelope perfectly across its top. It was a motion Eleonora had seen him perform dozens of times, but as she watched him open this, the first letter she had ever received, her breath caught and stumbled.

“It’s an invitation,” she said after reading it through. “My presence is cordially requested for dinner at the British embassy.”

“Curious,” said the Bey, but he did not say why he thought it so.

The second letter was a request from a young woman whose father had died suddenly, before he could formally arrange a suitable match for her. She now had three suitors at her door, all of whom claimed her late father’s blessing. It wasn’t clear exactly what the young woman wanted from Eleonora, though she concluded the letter with the words “I am confident you will be able to help.”

Over the next three days, Eleonora was inundated with invitations, calling cards, letters, and telegrams requesting her presence and guidance. Most of the communicants lived in Stamboul, though a few came from more distant reaches of the Ottoman realm, cities such as Selonika and Trabzon, places she had heard of and could place on a map, but knew little of besides. Later in the week, telegrams began arriving from as far afield as Copenhagen and Chicago. No matter where they came from, and no
matter how tattered or fine the stationery, Eleonora answered these missives all the same. She declined politely the invitations to parties and dinners, explaining that she was still not in possession of complete health. And she tried her best to answer the requests for guidance with the soundest advice she could muster. Though the truth was, she was having a hard enough time finding answers to her own problems.

By the end of August, Eleonora had recovered entirely from her episode at the palace. In spite of this happy resolution, she could not escape the feeling that something inexorable in her life had shifted. It was like sitting down to a sumptuous meal of roast lamb, stuffed quinces, and barley salad, only to find the silverware missing. As she went through the familiar routine of life in the Bey’s house, Eleonora could not help but feel the uncomfortable tightness of fate constricting about her, limiting the scope of her future like an ever-shrinking dress. She felt as if she were waiting for something to snap, to tear, to reveal a weakness in the fabric.

Even those relationships that mattered to her most did not feel steady. Although she had told the Bey everything she could remember about her second audience with the Sultan and her recovery afterward in the harem, although she had explained to him her views on the connection between the Hyrcanians and the Ottoman Empire, although he had forgiven her multiple times for her inadvertent betrayal, although they spoke more candidly and frequently now than they ever had before, Eleonora felt a piece of her relationship with the Bey was forever altered. Even when he spoke to her of trivial matters—the heat, the rising price of cotton, or the availability of cherries in the produce market—his forehead was tense and his eyebrows cocked into a question.

And it wasn’t just the Bey. Monsieur Karom was far more
deferential than he had ever been. He bowed almost imperceptibly as he handed Eleonora her mail and held his breath when he brushed her crumbs from the table. At bath time, Mrs. Damakan scrubbed her like a delicate piece of glassware she feared damaging. And when the old handmaid buttoned up the backs of her dresses, Eleonora could feel her fingers trembling. Even Eleonora’s flock had changed. They were more eager and determined now, as if they could sense the fulfillment of a promise hidden somewhere beneath the blanket of hot air. Each morning, she watched them set out one by one from the ledge beneath her window. And at the conclusion of the day, she followed their return one by one in the same order they had departed. Where their sorties led them, what they sought out there in the wilds of the city, Eleonora could only guess.

It seemed sometimes that the entire world was off its axis. Eleonora had taken occasionally to glancing through the Bey’s discarded copy of the
Stamboul Herald
. As she read through the news of the previous day, she could not help but feel that something essential had come unmoored. In a period of just two weeks, she read of a tense standoff between the British Navy and the emperor of China, a devastating earthquake in the southern United States, a cholera outbreak in Spain, dozens of suicides (including a sensational fake suicide jump from a bridge in New York), more than a few stabbings, and a rash of brazen bank robberies in Geneva. In addition to all this conflict and disease, the
Stamboul Herald
also reported that His Excellency Sultan Abdulhamid II was in the process of disassembling the empire’s long-standing alliance with the Germans. The article included no details beyond this, though it attributed the Sultan’s motivation to the influences of his “youthful advisor.”

The greatest shock, however, came in the form of a telegram,
delivered late one morning at the height of summer. Eleonora was reading through the classifieds on the back page of the
Stamboul Herald
when Monsieur Karom came into the dining room with a pile of letters and telegrams. He placed the stack and his letter opener on the table next to her and bowed out of the room, knowing she preferred to open her letters herself. As was her custom, she went through the stack and examined each of the envelopes before setting in with the opener. Among the stack was a telegram from Paris, a somewhat shabby letter from Trabzon, and a few of her own letters that had been returned for one reason or another. Near the bottom, she came upon a curious telegram that she couldn’t quite decipher at first. It had been sent through a British company called Imperial and International Communication Ltd. In spite of its origin, the message was not written in English, at least not that she could tell. Eleonora stared down at the purple muddle of characters, and blinked. She flattened the paper on the table, allowed her mind to relax, and focused as sharply as she could. Soon she worked out the puzzle. Though composed in Roman letters, the telegram was written in her mother tongue.

After reading over it twice, Eleonora lifted the piece of paper off the table. She stared down into the empty polish and watched her reflection shift through the texture of the wood. Her aunt Ruxandra. She bit her lip, crumpled the telegram into a small pale blue ball, and did her best to chase it from her mind. She
knew, however, that this was not possible. No matter what she did, no matter if she burned it or swallowed it or ripped it into tiny pieces, she would not be able to rid herself of this message, nor the knowledge of how callously her aunt, her only remaining family, had abandoned her in her time of need. No matter what Eleonora did, her hands would smell of the ink and the words would be written on her mind in capital letters.

“Miss Cohen?”

Eleonora recognized Mrs. Damakan’s voice, but she did not look up.

“Are you feeling unwell, Miss Cohen?”

She felt a shudder escape to her extremities. She was not feeling well, not at all. She shut her eyes and closed her fingers ever more tightly around the balled-up telegram, feeling its corners dig into her palm. As much as she wanted to show Mrs. Damakan the note, to seek her advice and her sympathy, Eleonora kept the telegram crumpled in her hand. To tell anyone, even Mrs. Damakan, about the telegram, to speak its name aloud would make it real in a way Eleonora could not yet stomach.

“It’s the heat,” she said, raising her head. “If you don’t mind, I think a glass of water would do me well.”

Mrs. Damakan was happy to oblige. When she returned with it, Eleonora drank the glass of water in two long gulps.

“Thank you,” she exhaled. “I feel much better.”

And it was true. She did feel much better. However, the telegram still remained.

“I think I could use a short walk,” she said, taking care to conceal her clenched fist. “Just about the house.”

Mrs. Damakan took the empty glass from the table.

“If you need anything—” she began.

“If I need anything, I will be sure to let you know.”

As she turned to leave, Mrs. Damakan gave her a look of dejected resignation, a look such as an illiterate father might give a son who has rebuked him for his ignorance. Eleonora had not meant to be so sharp. She loved Mrs. Damakan like an aunt, like a mother.

“Thank you, Mrs. Damakan. It’s just that I am feeling restless.”

Eleonora wandered through the Bey’s house with no particular destination in mind. She ambled down the great hall, under the sullen gaze of the Barcous clan, past the library and the drawing room. She had never felt quite so alone. For the first time, she truly understood what General Krzab meant when he complained of
the leaden weight of responsibility, that onerous plow the better part of humanity strives endlessly to yoke round its neck
.

Eleonora found herself eventually at the entrance to the women’s quarters. She had not visited the corridors for quite some time, but she felt drawn to them now, to their dark and dusty solitude. Clearing her mind as best she could, she crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs to the corridors. She wandered to a particularly dark corner above the kitchen and lay down on her back. Resting her head against the wood, she steadied her breathing and stared up into darkness without end. She knew there was a ceiling there, but she could not make out its contours. Eventually, her hand relaxed and she let the telegram drop to the floor beside her. She put her mind to work in trying to decipher the situation she now found herself at the middle of, to piece together what she knew about Ruxandra, the Bey, her father, the Sultan, and Reverend Muehler, but no matter how hard she thought, the pieces wouldn’t fit.