His voice trailed off as he glanced about the room.
“It is morning?”
“Yes sir, almost.”
He stood and straightened his suit, pulling down on both legs and running his hand along the length of each sleeve.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, glancing at the tableaux on the table beside him.
Eleonora tucked her legs beneath her housedress.
“Neither could I.”
In the silence that followed, the Bey removed his pince-nez from an inside coat pocket and glanced about for a handkerchief. Finding none, he wiped the glasses on the corner of his shirt. Then, he removed two letters from the top of the pile next to him and held them out to Eleonora. She took them from him.
“I wanted to wait until you were older,” he said. “But the time has come.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, though she knew not what for.
“I will leave you with your thoughts,” he said and, taking the rest of the bundle with him, left the room.
Rearranging herself in the seat of the armchair, Eleonora leaned over the letters the Bey had given her. The top letter was the same one she had found a few months previous in the Colonel’s desk. Covered with fingerprints and dust, it bore no stamp, nor postmark, nor return address, only the words Moncef Barcous Bey, care of Mrs. Damakan written across the front. She held it to her nose and inhaled. The paper was yellow at the edges and folded into a square, two sheets covered front and back with a small, anxious script. Already the ink was beginning to brown, but she could read it with no trouble in the rising light of the morning.
My Dear Moncef Bey,
I sincerely hope this letter finds you in good health and happiness, though I must admit I harbor some doubts as to whether it will reach you at all. I do not in the least distrust my messenger’s fidelity nor her ardent desire to deliver this missive. It is, in fact, at her urging that I write. However, a woman traveling such distances, alone and through the heat of battle, with such a messenger, one cannot help but retain some reservations. Nevertheless, I have faith; there is no other choice. The telegraph wires are still down and the postal service has been discontinued.
As you know, Constanta fell nearly two weeks ago to the Tsar’s royal cavalry. In the interim, I have witnessed such horrors I never before could have imagined: pillage, arson, vandalism, and the repeated brutal outrage of our city’s female population. There is no time to describe these events, though they will be stamped on my mind for eternity. It will suffice, I think, to say that the reputation of the Cossack is no hyperbole. He is boorish and rude, violent, merciless, and drunk. The Ottoman troops, unfortunately, are not much better. Those few hundred cowards stationed in Constanta fled the night before the attack, leaving the city without defense. But I will not detain you with details. Undoubtedly, you have already heard many such accounts, and I have only a limited space to impress upon you a matter, which, as you will see, is of the utmost importance. Let me come to it directly.
In the midst of this rampage, my dear wife Leah went into the labor of childbirth. Shortly after delivering a baby girl, she succumbed to excessive bleeding. The blow of her death has all but overshadowed any joy I may have taken from the birth of my first child. Only now, weeks after the events described, do I have enough strength to write a letter of any length. It does no good, I know, to envisage counterfactuals, but I cannot help imagining what might have been if the birth were attended by our town physician, Dr. Husic. Instead of Dr. Husic, who was busy tending to the wounded, Eleonora’s birth was overseen by a pair of Tartar midwives who appeared quite miraculously on our doorstep just as Leah’s labor began.
They were drawn to our house, they told me, by an ancient prophecy, heralded by a confluence of signs—birds, a circle of horses, the moon phase, something of that nature. I must admit, I do not understand the nature of these signs, nor do I place much confidence in them. However, I do know that these two women, one of whom is the carrier of this message, have been of invaluable assistance to me. I know not what I would have done without them. They have agreed to stay on with me, helping to manage the household, until they leave for Stamboul. As I mentioned in my telegram of a week ago, both of them will be in search of work when they arrive in Stamboul and I strongly recommend them both for any household employment you may require.
As this letter draws to a close, I must also make a small request of my own. Being that my daughter came into this world with only one parent and very little in the way of extended family, I feel compelled to arrange a formal contingency should anything happen to me. As I have expressed previously, I consider you among the most honorable, honest, and staunchly moral men I know, and I would be honored to place my daughter in your care should anything happen to me. I hope that you will consider this request apart from the circumstances in which it is delivered. And I sincerely hope we will see each other soon, in happier times.
Until then I remain,
Your loyal friend,
Yakob Cohen
When she finished reading the letter, Eleonora folded it along its creases and placed it back in the envelope. Retying her housedress, she looked up at the ash-gray embers of the previous night’s fire. A dozen thoughts whisked through her head and departed before she could detain them. There was so much to consider: the violence of her birth, the prophecy, the horses and the birds. Her father didn’t seem to place much confidence in Mrs. Damakan’s signs, and Eleonora trusted her father above all else. Still, there it was, right there on the page, a destiny already written, an ancient fate the nature of which she didn’t know. She had so many questions, about herself, her father, her flock, Mrs. Damakan, and the Bey; about her birth, the midwives, the prophecy, and why no one had ever told her any of this. She was so absorbed by these questions, she nearly forgot about the second letter. Addressed also to Moncef Barcous Bey and stamped with a date in the middle of February, it was much shorter than the first letter. She slid the paper out of its envelope and read over it quickly.
Moncef Barcous Bey,
Thank you for your heartfelt condolences. They are accepted and appreciated. Yakob told me many times how much he loved and respected you. I can see now why he held these feelings so strongly. He also mentioned once that he requested you to act as Eleonora’s guardian should anything happen to him. Although I am, you are correct, her aunt as well as her stepmother, I unfortunately must request that you discharge the aforementioned duty. It pains me to ask this of you, but I am not currently in a position to care for Eleonora. As for the monetary concerns your previous telegram implied, please feel free to avail yourself of any money Yakob may have made while in Stamboul. That should be more than enough to provide for Eleonora’s expenses.
Thank you for your understanding,
Ruxandra Cohen
Eleonora stood and placed both letters on the table in front of her. She felt the prickly sting of acid in her throat, followed by an aftertaste of numbness. Ruxandra had indeed replied to the Bey’s telegrams. This knowledge was oddly comforting. Even if the content of the letter stung, even if the letter proved beyond a doubt that Ruxandra had callously abandoned her, the release of hope was itself a relief. Eleonora could not say she was angry with the Bey for concealing the letter from her. It made perfect sense that he would want to spare her the injury of such a note so soon after her father’s death. In any case, these were not the questions that most concerned her at the moment. Her mind was still swimming with horses, birds, and ancient prophecies. And there was only one person who could answer her questions.
With the turn of a knob, Eleonora slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Doing her best to quiet her thoughts, to concentrate on the task at hand, she paused and put a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thumped through the thin material of her dressing gown. She inhaled, emptied her mind, and, one step at a time, made her way along the perimeter of the dining room, under the brief light of the chandelier, and through the kitchen door. Uncarpeted and drafty,
the kitchen smelled of cooking oil and onions. Apart from a succession of pans hung above the stove, there was no decoration to speak of. At the far end of the room were three doors fixed with heavy iron hardware. The left-hand door, she knew, led outside to a small courtyard. The right-hand door led to the pantry. And the middle door, a few fingers taller than the rest, led to the servants’ quarters.
The door opened easily onto a steep wooden staircase dissolving into a fog of dim candlelight. Eleonora mounted the first stair with a creak, and the door swung shut behind her. She put her hand on the worn iron rail and climbed, one step at a time, to a hall at the top. The candlelight, she could see now, trickled out from beneath one of the two doors. She hoped dearly that this was Mrs. Damakan’s room. If it were Monsieur Karom’s, she would say that she was looking for someone to help her with a woman’s concern. She wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but she knew that it would get her to Mrs. Damakan without any further questions. Eleonora took a few muffled breaths in front of the door before she knocked, ever so quietly. A long moment passed, then she heard a cough and a shuffle. The door opened. It was Mrs. Damakan.
“My dear,” she exclaimed, laying a hand on Eleonora’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
Eleonora tried to respond, but she was overcome. It began with a few muffled sniffs, a soft choke, and a welling of tears. Then, she felt a loosening in her stomach and it rose up inside her, from the very bottom of her gut, up through her lungs, and into her throat, like a pale-eyed sea creature finally surfacing after decades of haunting the deep. When she opened her mouth, her small body shuddered. The pressure of the past two weeks, the prophecy, the Sultan, and all her questions, all this came tumbling out. Eleonora pressed her face into the old handmaid’s lap and cried. She cried for her father, for her mother, and for Constanta, for Mrs. Damakan, her niece, and all the suffering she knew nothing about, but most of all, she cried for herself, for the improbability of her own existence and the raw uncertainty of her place in the world.
When she was spent, Eleonora sat for a long while on the edge of the bed, engrossed in the bare candle flickering on the desk in front of her. Mrs. Damakan held her, stroking her hair and whispering in a language she didn’t understand. Eventually, Eleonora sat up and apologized under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her tears on her sleeve. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Not at all.”
Eleonora looked down at her hands, nestled among the folds of her dressing gown. Just the presence of Mrs. Damakan calmed her.
“You are a very special child,” the old handmaid said, stroking Eleonora’s hair. “You know that, don’t you?”
Eleonora mumbled a yes.
“You know you are special, but I think that you aren’t sure how.”
She nodded. That was, indeed, the crux of it.
“For thousands of years,” Mrs. Damakan continued, “my people have carried with us a prophecy—given by our last great king in the last hour of his deathwatch—the promise that a young girl would come, to push against the tides of history and put the world right again on its axis. There would be signs at her birth. A sea of horses, a conference of birds, the North Star in alignment with the moon, and two of our own. From these signs, he said, we would know she was truly the one.”
Mrs. Damakan looked at Eleonora with a mixture of fear and reverence, her face shadowed deeply by the sputter of the candle.
“You are that one.”
Eleonora broke Mrs. Damakan’s gaze and looked down at the pool of her tears. Whether she believed them or not, these words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, shivered her to the marrow.
“What about the Sultan and the crates?” she persisted. “What am I supposed to do tomorrow? I don’t know what to say. How can I be this person if I don’t even know what I am supposed to say?”
Mrs. Damakan swallowed and closed her eyes.
“Trust yourself. Listen to your stomach. This is all we have.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
While Mrs. Damakan fastened the hooks up the back of her dress, climbing one by one like the rungs of an unsteady ladder, Eleonora took a moment to observe herself in the dressing-table mirror. Her exhaustion showed as clear as a map. Her eyes wilted at the corners, her cheeks were pale as china, and, as much as she tried to quiet them, her hands quivered faintly at her sides. She had not eaten anything at breakfast that morning, and the base of her stomach felt slick as an empty bathtub. Neither she nor Mrs. Damakan mentioned the exchange that had transpired just a few hours earlier, but the memory of it hung over them. The very fact of her father’s letter, a physical proof of his absence, would have been enough to unnerve her. On top of that, she had to assimilate also his violent account of her birth; this prophecy, however true it may be; and the letter from Ruxandra. All this as she prepared to meet the Sultan. Regarding herself in the mirror, she could feel tremors of anticipation in the soles of her feet, and her nerves like so many tentacles reaching out to touch the world around them. She didn’t want to go to the palace, not now, not in this state, but one could not refuse the Sultan. And even if one could, it was too late. As Mrs. Damakan threaded the last hook into its corresponding eyelet, an imperial carriage pulled up to the Bey’s house. Moments later, there was a knock at the front door.
Eleonora and the Sultan’s herald rode in silence past yawning boatmen and night watchmen tending the sickly embers of their braziers. They rode past a knot of gossipy young madrassa students outside the Egyptian Bazaar, through a smattering of supplicants, and up to the Gate of Greeting. As the inner gates of the palace were opened, the Sultan’s herald touched her knee.
“Take care,” he said, pulling down on his lower eyelid to reveal the veiny rim of its socket. “You are all we have.”
Without another word, without even a glance back over his shoulder, the herald led Eleonora through the palace gardens and deposited her in front of the prophet’s banner. She was shown into the audience chamber immediately. Bowing, she noticed that the room was nearly empty. Besides the Sultan, herself, and a few guards, only two other people were present. One she recognized as the Grand Vizier. The second was an older woman she had never before seen.
“Good morning, Miss Cohen.”
When the Sultan spoke, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and turned toward him.
“Good morning, Your Excellency.”
“I trust that your ride to the palace was pleasant.”
“Yes,” Eleonora said. “Very much so.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Gesturing to the Grand Vizier, he continued.
“You have met Jamaludin Pasha?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Eleonora and the Grand Vizier had not been formally introduced, but she recognized him from her previous audience.
“I do think, however, that I should need to introduce you to my mother,” the Sultan said, nodding to the older woman on his left. “The Valide Sultan. She was quite taken by my description of our first audience and wanted the chance to meet you in person.”
The Sultan’s mother was an elegant and graceful creature, her neck hung with jewels and skin swimming in woozy bursts of perfume.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Eleonora said, bowing again, though not as deeply as she had upon entering the room.
“The pleasure is all mine, my dear.”
“Before we begin with our official business,” said the Sultan, folding his hands under his chin, “I thought it might interest you to hear that our translators finally finished rendering the first volume of The Hourglass into Turkish. I only just began it a few days ago, but already I can see why you enjoyed it so much.”
Eleonora nodded. Unsteady from the rush of the bow, her head flooded with scenes from The Hourglass: Miss Holvert hiding, curled up in the cellar of her cousin’s farmhouse; Lieutenant Brashov riding through towns ablaze with torches and heavy artillery; Judge Raicu laughing
uncontrollably in his own crowded courtroom. All this galloped through her head, but she could not think of how to respond to the Sultan. All she could come up with was a line from the fourth volume: The string of fate pulled him through muck and brambles, hardship, tragedy, and countless sleepless nights. At times it seemed a pointless struggle, but when he arrived finally at the end of the line, then he understood that it was all necessary. Was her entire life up until this point nothing more than preparation for this one moment? She blinked and steadied herself.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“There is one more thing I wanted to mention,” the Sultan said, reclining on his elbow. “Before we begin with our official business. As you may know, I have for many years been an amateur bird-watcher. Stamboul is a crossroads of sorts for migratory birds, and the palace provides an ideal vantage point from which to observe their movements. In the past few months, I have noticed more than once a rather curious flock of purple hoopoes roosted around Moncef Bey’s house. I wouldn’t trouble you with my observations, but such birds are not common to the region and, furthermore, the literature indicates that they are primarily solitary creatures. I ask you for your thoughts in part because the flock seems somewhat attached to you.”
He paused, allowing her to respond.
“That’s my flock,” Eleonora said. “They were with me when I was born and they followed me here from Constanta.”
According to her father’s letter and Mrs. Damakan, her flock was also connected, at least symbolically, to the prophecy. She thought it best not to divulge this connection, however, as she didn’t fully understand it herself.
The Oracle of Stamboul Page 20