The Oracle of Stamboul

by Michael David Lukas

  Abdulhamid pursed his lips and nodded. This Public Debt Administration was a clear violation of his sovereignty, but there was nothing he could do to drive it away. The empire was underwater in debt and these were the terms they had worked out to pay the money back. Or, rather, these were the terms imposed upon them.

  “If we want to modernize the hinterlands,” Jamaludin Pasha interjected, “we must facilitate a steady flow of goods.”

  “I am aware,” said the Sultan, sharply, “of the arguments in favor of building the railroad. Just as I am aware of Berlin’s desire for a Stamboul-Baghdad link. Just as I am aware of your predilection toward the Kaiser. I will ask, however, that you not interrupt my thoughts.”

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency, I apologize.”

  “You can send the invitation,” the Sultan said. “See to it immediately.”

  “Very well,” said the Grand Vizier, standing. “Your Excellency, I will.”

  Although the Sultan knew there was no need to stand on ceremony with his advisors, he felt somewhat restless following this exchange and was struck by a strong desire to get outside into the clear air. Nodding to the palace guards on either side of his divan, the Sultan ducked out the back door of the audience chamber and, retrieving his new field glasses from the Library of Ahmet III, slipped through the pages’ quarters to the Tulip Garden. It was an unseasonably bright morning and, although none of the tulips were in bloom, the constant glow of the sun warmed the earth like an old lover. The air was brusque on his face as he wandered through the dormant tulip beds and around the inside of the Baghdad Kiosk to the Elephant Garden. An effective ruler needed, more than anything, to maintain a proper distance from the events that occurred within his domain. If he allowed himself to fret over the particulars of every battle and infrastructure project, he would never be able to focus on the decisions that truly mattered. Unfortunately, the Grand Vizier had proven time and again unable to understand this concept.

  Pausing to adjust his caftan, Abdulhamid seated himself on the bench beneath his favorite sour cherry trees. It was not a particularly good time of year for bird-watching, but one never knew. Unlatching the blue silk-lined case, he removed his field glasses and scanned the length of the straits. These new field glasses, made on special order by Emil Busch himself, were far and away clearer than any he had ever used; still, there wasn’t much to see. A few gulls hovered around the squat, crenellated bulk of Galata Tower and a white-tailed eagle was perched on the minaret of Ali Pasha Mosque. The Sultan was about to put down the glasses when he saw something strange: a flock of what looked like hoopoes, of a peculiar purple-and-white coloring, congregated around a house near the Beşiktaş Pier. He watched them for a few minutes, wondering what might have attracted the flock to this particular roost. Aside from the bright yellow-and-white of its facade, he could think of no reason why the flock should be drawn to this house, especially not at this time of year.

  When the Sultan put his glasses back in their case, he was surprised to find a pair of the same purple-and-white hoopoes perched in the branches of the tree above him. They were talking among themselves and pecking at the lonely white buds tricked by the warmth of the previous few days into believing it was spring. Peering up at the birds, Abdulhamid followed their fluttering movement from branch to branch. He had always been enamored with the hoopoe, ever since his first bird-watching excursions as a young prince. It was a portentous and regal bird, with all the pomp and finery of a sovereign. Yet, at the same time, it was one of the more sensible members of the aviary, not above bathing in dust or fashioning its home from feces. It was a hoopoe, he recalled, that brought word of Sheba to King Solomon and a hoopoe that, in Farid il-din Attar’s famous poem, persuaded the other birds to go off in search of the great Simurgh. Abdulhamid was not usually very good with Latin names, but he could always remember the name for hoopoe, Upupa Epops.

  He said the name aloud and, as he did, the smaller of the two birds hopped down to a branch just above his head. The two stared at each other for a long moment before the hoopoe fluttered down and alighted next to him on the bench. Tilting its head, as if in expectation or inquiry, the bird hopped closer to him. Not sure what the hoopoe wanted, Abdulhamid snapped a bud off the branch above him and held it out. Hopping twice, the bird took the bud in its mouth and, as if that was precisely what it had been waiting for, it flew off across the straits.

  Chapter Nine

  The remainder of Eleonora’s and her father’s days in Stamboul were spent in much the same manner as the first. Each morning after a breakfast of flatbread, honey, olives, and crumbly white cheese, they set out in Moncef Bey’s carriage and rode the funicular up the hill to La Grande Rue de Pera, where the Bey insisted on buying yet more presents for Eleonora and even some for Yakob. It was a situation they were both somewhat uncomfortable with at first, Eleonora because she had never received presents from anyone, and her father because he didn’t, as he said repeatedly, want to inconvenience their host. Yakob tried more than once to repay the Bey for his kindnesses, but such gestures were firmly repulsed. Moncef Bey insisted that shopping was no inconvenience at all; in fact, it was a pleasure. Having no children, nephews, nieces, or anyone else to buy presents for, he relished the opportunity to spend his money on such a fine young lady. What, after all, was money for? When they finished shopping, they would gather up their packages and pause for lunch at one of the more fashionable restaurants on the boulevard, sampling borek and iskander, grilled fish, kofte rolled in crushed pistachios, and a crunchy orange-dusted pastry called kunafa. Then it was back down the hill to Eminounu, where Moncef Bey had arranged a string of appointments for Yakob, primarily in the textile bazaar but also in the sun-dappled porticos of the Grand Bazaar. In the late afternoon, they returned finally to the Bey’s house and rested, each savoring a short spell of privacy.

  Eleonora typically passed this time upstairs in her room, reading the Bey’s copy of The Hourglass deep in the armchair next to the bay window. She had come upon the book quite by accident, poking around the library on her second night in Stamboul. She was halfway up the stacks on a ladder, browsing through the Bey’s prodigious collection of atlases, when the familiar blue-and-silver binding of The Hourglass caught her eye. She spent the rest of that evening, and every evening afterward, ensconced in what is known as the late, or Trieste, volumes of the epic novel. Sitting curled up in her armchair, with The Hourglass balanced on the edge of her knee, Eleonora truly could not have been more content. What a joy it was to read in freedom, to fall into a book without the fear of Ruxandra peering over her shoulder. Consumed though she was by the book, Eleonora would glance up occasionally at the window, following the flutter of her flock from eaves to branch or the stacks of a steamer as it floated past the dimming orange hills.

  She finished the final volume of The Hourglass just a few days before she and her father were set to leave Stamboul. Although a considerable piece of her wanted to dive back into the first volume and read the entire book again, this time with the eventual fate of its characters in mind, she decided it would be best to take the night off. Dinner that evening was an eggplant and lamb stew with béchamel sauce, following which the Bey led them down the hall to the library and they sat ranged around the fireplace in a trio of light-brown suede armchairs. A dark, wood-paneled space decorated with antique globes and navigational instruments, the library was lined from floor to ceiling with books: philological treatises, geographies, encyclopedias, biographical dictionaries, poems, novels, and more than a few religious tracts, all bound in red, blue, green, and brown morocco leather. Monsieur Karom served pistachio baklava and tulip-shaped glasses of black tea while the Bey set up a game of backgammon for Yakob and himself. Adorned with a sunburst of tiny cedar rhombuses, the Bey’s backgammon board was a masterwork of craftsmanship and elegance. Watching his large hands glide over the surface of the board, pushing the agate and glass pieces into formation, Eleonora tried to make sense of the game, why the pieces we
re arranged as they were and how they might move about the board.

  “Have you ever played?” the Bey asked, meeting her gaze.

  Eleonora felt the color rise to her cheeks.

  “No.”

  “I could teach you if you like. It won’t take long.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I think I’ll just watch for now, if that’s not too much of a bother.”

  She looked up at the Bey and then to her father, who was engaged in clipping off the end of a cigar.

  “No bother at all, Ellie. If you have any questions just ask.”

  Although they were gentle men, Moncef Bey and Yakob played backgammon with unrestrained force, slapping the board with their pieces and throwing the ivory dice hard into corners. Every so often they would pause to take a sip of tea or exhale a cloud of cigar smoke, but their rhythm was the game, the clatter of ivory on wood, the shuffle of agate and glass. They played without stopping to consider their moves, with the careless confidence of a blacksmith who has pounded the same mold thousands of times. Neither of them spoke until the final roll of the game.

  “I forgot to mention,” said Moncef Bey, rubbing the dice between his palms. “I was invited to a cruise tomorrow in honor of the American Vice Consul’s seventy-fifth birthday.”

  Eleonora’s father tapped a finger of ash into the silver tray next to him.

  “I’m sure Ellie and I can find a way to occupy ourselves while you are on the cruise,” he said. “Perhaps we can visit Kiz Kulesi or Rumelihisari.”

  “No,” the Bey said as he threw a double-four, winning the game. “What I meant to say is that I would like for you and Miss Cohen to join me. I don’t usually attend such events, but I thought that perhaps you would enjoy it. And I can assure you, it is no inconvenience. Under normal circumstances, it’s true, I probably wouldn’t attend, but it will be good for me to show my face in society.”

  Yakob picked up a die and clicked the edge of his thumbnail against it.

  “We truly do appreciate all you’ve done for us,” he said, looking to Eleonora for concurrence. “I know both of us will be very sad to leave Stamboul.”

  Eleonora narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. She knew all along that they would, at some point, have to leave the Bey and Stamboul and the routine she had so quickly become accustomed to, but knowing one has to leave is much different than being faced with an impending departure. At some point, everyone must leave this world, but who is ready to go? Eleonora looked down at her new black patent-leather shoes and tapped the heels together.

  “Will you play a game with me, Tata?”

  She asked not so much because she wanted to play but because she was worried that this would be her last chance to play on the Bey’s board. As the question hung in the air between them, her mind swarmed with other last chances, unlikely prospects, and never-agains.

  “I’ll play,” the Bey interjected. “That is, Yakob, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, no, of course not. There’s nothing wrong with a little backgammon. It’s just, it’s been a long couple of weeks.”

  “Naturally,” said the Bey and, rotating the table, began setting up for a new game. “Are you quite certain you understand the rules?”

  “Yes,” said Eleonora, staring hard at the board. “I think so.”

  He handed her the dice, which she took and, after a moment’s pause, feeling the cool ivory in her palm, she rolled, a one-two, the worst opening possible. With a glance at her father, Eleonora leaned forward. Considering her options, she slid one of her pieces three spaces to the left.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” the Bey asked. “It leaves you open to attack.”

  She nodded.

  “You see,” he continued, hypothetically moving his pieces onto hers. “If I roll either a two or a four, I can bump you.”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  Shrugging, the Bey picked up the dice and rolled, a three-five.

  “Well then,” he said, taking the last sip of his tea. “I stand corrected.”

  By the end of the first game, Yakob was snoring, a gentle, grumbling reminder of how late it was. Still, they finished the game, which Eleonora won, and another, which she won as well, before deciding that it was time for bed.

  Guided by the flicker of an oil lamp, Eleonora trudged upstairs to her room, to the room she would soon have to leave. In less than forty-eight hours, she would bid farewell to this house, the Bey, the entire city. And for what? A boat ride home and the tedious drudgery of life in Constanta. Stepping over the threshold, Eleonora noticed one of the windows in her room was open. A dark breeze rustled the flame of her lamp and she shivered. As she turned to close the door behind her, a bird swooped down from one of the bedposts and alighted on the open windowsill. It was a member of her flock, and it seemed to want something. Setting the lamp on the bed stand, Eleonora crossed her room and knelt down in front of the windowsill, resting her chin in the valley of her arms. The hoopoe had brought with it a precipitate cherry bud, green mostly, with a peek of white petals visible at the top. Instead of flying away, it looked directly at her, jerking the purple-and-white-streaked feathers of its crown.

  She picked up the cherry bud and brought it to her nose.

  “Why can’t we stay in Stamboul?” she asked aloud.

  At the sound of her voice, the hoopoe cocked its head to the side, as if to listen more carefully. Eleonora looked out at the hazy city, sparkling like an errant school of stars caught up in the dark net of the straits. As she inhaled to speak, the city fell into an expectant hush. The earth slowed on its axis.

  “I wish I could stay. I wish I could stay in Stamboul forever.”

  At this, her visitor hopped to the edge of the sill and flew off into darkness. Pumping its wings, it banked down toward the water and, joining the rest of the flock, disappeared into the night.

  She woke that next morning to Mrs. Damakan standing in the doorway of her room with a stack of towels and a copper cauldron filled with hot water. Although Eleonora had been somewhat reticent of her first bath, she had come to look forward to Mrs. Damakan’s visits, the prickly-hot water, the soft smell of jasmine soap, and the crisp, warm towel at the end. Her favorite part of their routine came after the bath itself. When Eleonora was dried and dressed, Mrs. Damakan would sit her on one of the red velvet chairs next to the door and comb out her hair, humming Tartar folk songs that tugged at Eleonora’s earliest memories like the shadow of a partially reconstructed dream. It was not until she was dressed and ready for breakfast that Eleonora realized this might be the last time Mrs. Damakan bathed her.

  When Eleonora, her father, and the Bey arrived at the Beşiktaş Pier, her entire flock of hoopoes was waiting silently in the branches of a tree overhanging the ferry building. After the guests of the Vice Consul boarded and the boat pushed away from the pier, a small contingent of the flock broke off and followed along overhead, but even then they kept a wary distance. Moncef Bey glanced up at the birds, then up the shore toward his house, where they had spent much of the past few weeks. It seemed as if he were about to say something, then held himself back.

  There was a sharp breeze blowing along the Bosporus and the sky was the same bright blue color as the tiles inside Sultan Ahmed Mosque. Holding the rail with one hand, Eleonora waved her father’s handkerchief to the dock workers and boatmen milling about the ferry building. She was wearing a pale green gown with short puffy sleeves and a ruffle of taffeta cascading down the front, an adaptation of a style displayed in Mme. Poiret’s shop window. How long ago that first trip to Pera seemed, and yet they had been in Stamboul less than three weeks. She had seen so much of the city, of life, and now, no matter what she said, no matter how much she protested, they would be leaving soon. The thought of their impending departure was almost too much to stand. If only she could stay in Stamboul forever.

  Signaling a passing waiter, the Bey lifted a pair of drinks off his tray and handed one to Yakob.

  “Cheers,
” he said, raising his glass.

  Yakob raised his as well and they clinked.

  “Cheers.”

  Among those present that afternoon, according to Moncef Bey, were the Lady Katherine de Berg, the Prussian military attaché, an avant-garde Viennese painter of some renown, the French Ambassador, Madame Corvel, and of course the American Vice Consul. The Consul himself was not on hand, having been called away that morning on urgent business regarding the Prussian deportations. Leaning her shoulders against the rail, Eleonora took in the progress of the party, the red-coated waiters steering caviar and canapés through a crowd of tuxedos and wide-bustled dresses, drinks in every hand and in every drink a piece of ice reflecting the sun. The Bey was talking with an older American lady while Yakob, finishing his drink, picked a puffed pastry from the tray of a passing waiter. As her father popped the appetizer into his mouth, Eleonora spotted Reverend James Muehler making his way toward them through the crowd.

  “My dear Mr. Cohen. What a pleasant surprise!”

  They shook hands vigorously, then Yakob took the priest by his cheeks and kissed him on the forehead.

  “This—” said Yakob when they finished embracing. “Moncef Bey, I would like you to meet my good friend and former cabin mate, Reverend James Muehler. He is the Rector of Robert’s College and an American from the state of Connecticut.”

  “Pleased,” said the Bey and they shook hands.

  “And this, Reverend Muehler, is my most generous host, friend, and business partner, Moncef Barcous Bey. You will not find a better Turk in Stamboul.”

  “Moncef Barcous Bey,” said the Reverend. “I have been hearing that name since the day I set foot in Stamboul. I must say, I am very happy to finally meet you in person.”

  “Your reputation precedes you as well, Reverend Muehler.”

  “All good, I hope.”

  The Bey took a sip of his drink and smiled.

  “Mostly good.”