Although the spring migration had ended a few weeks earlier, they were able to observe a number of species in the process of nesting and breeding. As the waters of the lake receded, warblers, egrets, and swans made their nests in the vast swath of exposed reeds and wildflowers. Leading the Sultan’s party along the shore, Dr. Benedict pointed out the nest of a penduline tit, an elaborate pear-shaped contraption hung from the branches of a pine tree. Woven from discarded spiderwebs, animal hair, and plants, the nest had a false entrance and a trap door to confuse potential predators. Over the course of the trip, the Sultan saw more than fifty species of bird: white frosted geese, golden orioles, night herons, glossy ibises, a mass of spoonbills, and three pairs of bright orange-billed Dalmatian pelicans. It was the penduline tit, however, with its convoluted, piecemeal nest, that most captured his imagination.
On the fifth and final night of the expedition, just before dusk, the Sultan was in his tent, contemplating the empire’s political situation as it compared to the nest of the penduline tit, when a wild boar charged the camp. Before any of the dragomans could think to react, Dr. Benedict shot the boar dead with his handgun. Although he did not partake of the swine himself, Abdulhamid ordered the animal skinned and roasted in honor of Dr. Benedict, his knowledge, and his heroism. It was a wonderful finale to the trip. In addition to the boar, the Sultan’s party was treated to stuffed quinces, roast lamb, and a hearty barley soup.
When Abdulhamid returned to the palace late that next evening, he could tell immediately something was amiss. Because it was exceedingly late, however, he went straight to bed. When he awoke, he saw that his instincts had been correct. The proof of this was his mother, sitting patiently in a chair next to the door of his sleeping chamber.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“I hear your excursion was a success,” she said, rising to bow.
“Yes.” He smiled. “Very much so. I saw three pairs of Dalmatian pelicans and the nest of a penduline tit.”
“A penduline tit,” she repeated. “Excellent.”
“But I can’t imagine you have been sitting by my bed all morning in order to ask me how my trip went.”
“No, Your Excellency. I must admit, I have not.”
“What is troubling you, Mother?”
“I don’t want to spoil your first morning back with my concerns.”
“If you are concerned,” he said, sitting up in bed, “I am concerned.”
She took her seat again and turned it toward him.
“I heard a rumor yesterday that troubled me deeply, a rumor that troubled me so much I felt compelled to wake my favorite and firstborn son from his sleep.”
“Tell me, Mother.”
“People are saying that you asked that Cohen girl for her advice regarding a delicate military situation, and that you are planning to send her confidential materials, for her perusal.”
His silence confirmed that the rumor was correct.
“Where you get your advice is of no consequence to me,” she continued. “I know I raised you well enough to tell sound advice from unsound. What I care about is your reputation. Inside the palace, people are already beginning to talk about the situation in disparaging terms.”
“Let them talk,” he said. “They will always talk.”
“And to give this girl access to the internal deliberations of the palace, to give potentially sensitive information to a child—a Jewess—whom we know nothing about, frankly that worries me as well.”
The Sultan rolled onto his back. The information had spread rather quickly, even for the standard of the palace.
“Who told you this?”
“Jamaludin Pasha.”
“And where did he hear it from?”
“I had assumed you told him yourself.”
“No,” said the Sultan, rolling onto his side. “I did not.”
Getting out of bed and taking leave of his mother, Abdulhamid told the closest herald that he wanted to eat his breakfast in the Library of Ahmet III. This was a highly unusual request, but the herald barely blinked before bowing and scurrying off to inform the kitchen staff. Meanwhile, the Sultan made his way to the library. As he had hoped, it was empty. The only movement was in a shaft of dust particles, the only sound the constant twittering of silverfish. Abdulhamid seated himself at the librarian’s desk, waited, and a few moments later his breakfast was served to him there. While he ate, he paged through a large blue ledger in the middle of the desk. It was a record of all the books that had been requested and removed from the library in the last month. He could see that much of the official deliberations and correspondence regarding the empire’s relationship with Berlin and St. Petersburg had been requested. However, there was nothing in the ledger to indicate that he, the Sultan, had requested these documents. So the librarian had covered himself in this respect, at least. The Sultan closed the ledger. As he finished his tea, the librarian himself entered the room.
“Your Excellency,” he said, his face as pale as a silverfish. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“Merely checking on the request I made last week.”
The librarian was calmed by this explanation, though not entirely.
“It is nearly finished, Your Excellency. I hope to bring you the results tomorrow morning. Six crates full of letters and official decrees.”
“Very well,” Abdulhamid said, glancing at the closed ledger. “I also have one further question.”
“Yes, of course, Your Excellency.”
“Did I not tell you that the request was confidential?”
“Yes, Your Excellency, you did.”
“Why, then, did my mother wake me this morning with the information that the project has become common knowledge?”
His ankles quavering, the librarian prostrated himself in front of the Sultan and his empty breakfast dishes.
“I did not say a word to anyone. I swear, Your Excellency.”
The Sultan considered the librarian’s back for a moment before motioning for him to stand.
“You are a pious man, are you not?”
“I am, Your Excellency. I do my best.”
“Then bring me a Koran.”
The librarian did as he was told, and Abdulhamid opened it to the first sura.
“Will you swear on the Koran, the memory of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and the rightly guided caliphs, that you did not speak to anyone, anyone at all, of this matter?”
The librarian put his hand on the Koran.
“Perhaps,” he said, his nostrils wide with fear, “it is possible, Your Excellency, that I did not convey the confidential nature of the request to the palace archivist, or to the copyists who have been assisting me. If that is the case, I take full responsibility for the matter. And I am happy to offer my resignation if you see fit.”
“Beyond the palace archivist and the copyists, did you tell anyone else of the request?”
“No, Your Excellency, as you wish I swear on the Holy Koran and the memory of the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him. I did not.”
“Very well then,” said the Sultan and he stood from the desk. “Bring the crates to my chambers as soon as they are complete.”
As Abdulhamid left the room, the librarian crumpled to his knees and laid his forehead against the floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eleonora sat alone at the head of the Bey’s shiny dining-room table, considering the residual crumbs of her breakfast. It had been more than a week since her audience with the Sultan, but the memory of it was with her still, floating at the edge of her recollection like a hot-air balloon. She stirred the last, lukewarm sip of tea with her smallest finger and touched it to her lips. The morning after the audience, she and the Bey had discussed her experience at some length. She described to him the palace garden, the guards, the Viziers and their heralds, the impasse in the Black Sea, and her advice to the Sultan. The Bey listened to her descriptions with pride and keen interest, particularly
after it became clear that the Sultan had acted on her advice. His primary concern, however, was whether the Sultan or the Grand Vizier had asked her any questions about himself, his routine, or anything else to that effect. When Eleonora assured him they had not, his face relaxed. And eventually the questions tapered off. She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Thumbing a herd of crumbs around the edge of her plate, she attempted to recall some of the smaller details about the palace: the gentle curve of the audience chamber’s roof, the smell of lilac and lavender, the interlocking silver triangles embroidered on the collar of the Grand Vizier’s caftan, and the patterns of light that fell through the branches of the walnut trees around the great fountain.
She was lost in these memories when she heard a knock at the front door and the confident clomp of footsteps entering the house. The footsteps, she saw, belonged to a troop of palace porters. From behind the doorjamb, she watched them stream through the front door like a procession of purple beetles, each with a wooden crate as large as a steamer trunk. The great carpet of the anteroom had been rolled back and the crates were stacked two by two by two in the space between the visiting table and the front door. Monsieur Karom and a palace herald watched in silence as the procession unfolded. When the final crate was put into place, the herald produced a silver document holder from behind his back.
“This is for Miss Cohen.”
“I will see that it gets to her,” said Monsieur Karom.
The herald glanced at his outstretched glove.
“His Excellency has requested that the letter be given directly to Miss Cohen, and no one else.”
Eleonora stepped out from behind the doorjamb.
“If you please.”
The entire assembly turned to watch her pad across the room in her slippers and housedress. When she reached the herald, he lowered his head, as if he were unsure whether to bow.
“I should mention,” he said as he unlatched the silver tube and unfurled a heavy sheet of paper, “that the note was written by the hand of His Excellency himself.”
Eleonora held the letter at both ends. It was written in French, in an elegant and confident hand.
Dear Miss Cohen,
Before delving into the matter of the crates, I would first like to express my sincere pleasure at the opportunity to make your acquaintance the other day. One can tell from first glance that you are truly an uncommon person, with regard to your intelligence as well as your character. I trust you enjoyed your visit to the palace and sincerely hope we will be able to meet again in the future.
As for the crates, which are no doubt already stacked up along the wall of the Bey’s anteroom, you will find inside them ten years of official reports, treaties, financial statements, and diplomatic correspondence, relating specifically to the question of our relationship with the Russian and German Empires, as well as the other Great Powers, France, Britain, and the Hapsburg Empire. Please review these documents with care. In two weeks’ time I will send for you again so we can discuss their contents. I probably do not need to tell you that said documents are strictly confidential and that you should not share their contents with anyone, under any circumstance.
I eagerly await our next meeting.
Sincerely,
Abdulhamid II
Ultimately, the crates found their way to the library, and were lined up neatly under a bank of windows facing the Beşiktaş Harbor. On the other side of the glass, an unseasonably harsh wind blew off the water, lashing tree branches and tossing sea birds into somersaults. Inside, however, was quiet. Thick veins of cigar smoke were striated with the musty smell of old book leather and cognac, while fringes of the heavy curtain brushed against the tops of the crates. Pushing up the lid of the crate stamped with the number one, Eleonora leaned over its mouth and fingered through it. She plucked out a miscellaneous bundle of letters tied with a silk cord and unloosed it. The top letter was enclosed within a large square envelope. Addressed to Major General Nikolay Karakozov, it was smudged at the corner with what appeared to be strawberry jam. There was no return address. Eleonora pushed together the edges of the envelope and let the missive slip out. It was a handwritten invitation to a party celebrating the newly renovated residence of the French Ambassador. Finding nothing of immediate interest in this particular bundle, she replaced it at the back of the crate and carried the first two files to the Colonel’s desk.
Crate number one was a mishmash of correspondence between Stamboul and St. Petersburg: personal notes, invitations, veiled threats, unveiled threats, remonstrations, apologies, and a few pleas for asylum. For the most part, the correspondence was in French, with Turkish and Russian words mixed in when appropriate. The import of the letters was generally quite clear, though the Russian Consul at times referred to agreements, conversations, and officials with which she was not familiar. Other than a short break for lunch, Eleonora read straight through the day. By the time Monsieur Karom knocked to announce dinner, she had read through nearly half of crate number one. Although there were still a number of large gaps in her understanding, she apprehended now the basic outline of the relationship between the Russians and the Ottomans.
Every day for two weeks, Eleonora immersed herself in the world of the crates, in the delicate ephemera of diplomacy, mutual acrimony, and unsteady alliances. As she read, her understanding of the current geopolitical situation expanded. The War of 1878 and the subsequent Treaty of Berlin had forced the Ottomans to relinquish their hold on much of southwestern Europe. The Crimean ports were handed back to the Russians, Bosnia was given over to the Hapsburgs, and more than a few new nations were birthed, including the kingdoms of Bulgaria and Romania. Meanwhile, France and Britain sat perched at the edge of the carnage, biding their time like crows on fence posts.
Caught as they were between Moscow and Vienna, London and Paris, the Ottomans had turned to Berlin. At the behest of the Grand Vizier, German admirals were brought on as military advisors, the Kaiser was welcomed to Stamboul with an imperial parade, and the empire took onto its books an enormous loan from Deutsche Bank, intended in large part to finance the Stamboul-Baghdad link of the Berlin-Baghdad railroad. Such an artery, the Kaiser wrote in one of a few personal letters to Sultan Abdulhamid II, would bolster both empires and would serve to reinforce the relationship between them for years to come. The Kaiser signed his letter with an official stamp and the strangely informal valediction: With Regards in Alliance, Willy.
Those first twelve nights, Eleonora slept soundly, her mind whirring through connections and possibilities. The last night, however, the night before she was set to visit the Sultan, she could not bring herself to sleep. The sky was a bottomless silky black, sprinkled with stars like spilled sugar and quiet but for a few lonely stray cats prowling the waterfront. A loose association of ships slipped through the straits and the moon was pregnant with reflected glow. Eleonora rolled onto her stomach and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. She had read about insomnia, in Aristotle’s treatise On Sleep and Dreams and in The Hourglass. In these books, the word conjured romantic scenes such as that famous depiction of a sleepless young Colonel Raicu haunting the garden of his recently deceased father’s house, a cup of warm milk in his hand and the rise of a still unraveling sonata at his lips. Insomnia itself, however, was an entirely different and unpleasant experience. She could feel an alloy of fatigue and dread at the base of her neck like a five-kilogram weight. She wanted to sleep, desperately, but as much as she did, her mind would not cease and her limbs stirred with an anxious anticipation of morning.
She had gone through the crates, all six of them, through hundreds of pages of saber-rattling and cautious rapprochement. Still, she had no idea what to think, what to say when the Sultan asked for her advice. Bound up inexorably by geography, the Russian and Ottoman empires had been locked in the same bloody stalemate for centuries, grappling over the same relatively unimportant swaths of territory, building up their armies, and placating the Great Powers. She had n
o idea what to say. Even if she did know what to say, how could she, Eleonora Cohen, possibly have any influence over such enormous, intractable forces?
Three times that night, the fog horn sounded, guiding sleepless freighters through the straits and rustling the residents of Stamboul in their beds. Just after dawn, the fourth blast roused Eleonora from a sleep she had fallen into moments before. She knew she would not be able to return to the land of sleep. It was hours still before breakfast, but the kitchen fire was lit. Bread peddlers cawed up and down the street like gulls separated from their flocks. And the prowling felines of the night before skulked in fetid alleyways with their plunder. Eventually, Eleonora reasoned that if she could not sleep, she might as well take one last look at the crates.
She was not particularly surprised to find the Bey in the library, though his appearance did somewhat shock her. He was asleep in his armchair next to the fire, his suit rumpled and his eyes drooping like lazy dogs. There was an empty tea glass on the table next to him, as well as a kerosene lamp and a bundle of letters. The crates, it seemed, were undisturbed, resting silently beneath their curtains. Eleonora shut the door behind her and, seating herself in the chair across from him, pulled her knees to her chest. As she watched him sleep, embers creaked in the fireplace and a dim halo of sunlight stole through the drapes. Finally, the Bey stirred and opened his eyes.
“Miss Cohen.”
The Oracle of Stamboul Page 19