The Reverend crouched down to the boy’s eye level and laid a hand gently on his shoulder.
“Who is everybody?”
“I heard it yesterday from my brother,” said the child, wiping the perspiration from his upper lip. “Then we heard it again at the café. And my mother said she heard it from her friend whose husband’s brother works in the palace.”
“Is that all you heard, my child?”
The boy nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. You may go.”
Reverend Muehler watched the boy run off along the path. This was certainly an interesting development. Rubbing his temples, he tried to imagine Miss Cohen shaking on the ground and speaking in tongues. It was an odd picture, but not altogether impossible. He had seen much stranger things, to be sure. And, now that he considered the possibility, the idea that she might be afflicted with a neurological disorder, epilepsy or perhaps encephalitis, made perfect sense. Such a condition would explain the shaking and the speaking in tongues. If researched further, it might also be able to explain her mnemonic abilities. That said, one had to take what one heard in this city with a spoonful of salt. The Reverend had learned this lesson the hard way, having more than once given spurious information to his handlers. He would need a towering spoonful of salt and independent verification before he could pass along this piece of intelligence. Tightening his belt, he looked around. He had forgotten exactly where it was he was going, which was just as well, as it was getting on along toward dinner.
After changing out of his habit, James took a carriage to Le Petit Champs du Mort and walked down the boulevard to the Pera Palace Hotel. A grand rococo structure in the French style, it was painted pale yellow and embellished with a number of somewhat eccentric oriental flourishes. He found Fredrick in the lobby, surrounded by a party of German travelers who, from the looks of them, had just returned from an afternoon excursion.
“Four feet long,” said Fredrick, marking the distance with his hands. “And thick as my arm. It was the largest snake I’ve ever seen. And when I came upon him he was wrapped around a camel’s neck like a collar.”
“You’ve been to the Fortune-tellers’ Quarter?” one of the travelers asked in a heavy British accent. “Our dragoman, Elias here, he took us yesterday.”
“First place I went,” said Fredrick and he winked at the old dragoman. “Right off the boat. I told the stevedores to take my trunks to the Pera, then point me to the Fortune-tellers’ Quarter. My column on it should be in next Sunday’s paper.”
As the Germans nodded approvingly, Fredrick noticed James standing at the outskirts of the conversation.
“Jimmy,” Fredrick cried and rose to embrace him. “It’s been much, much too long, my friend.”
The maître d’ led them through the main dining room of the hotel to a table for two near the entrance of the smoking lounge. It was not the best table in the house by any means, but at an establishment like the Pera Palace, Reverend Muehler and his journalist friend were hardly very important personages. On his way through the dining room, the Reverend had spotted the Baron von Vetz, as well as the new American military attaché and a party of doctors from the Italian Hospital. In any case, the table’s relative obscurity would suit their purposes well. They warmed quickly to each other as they caught up on the past three years and traded gossip about old friends from New Haven. Living in Albany, of course, Fredrick had more gossip to share—the Horners’ separation, Darby’s new book, and Jack’s tussle with the governor—though the Reverend had a few juicy bits of his own. He had kept in close contact with a number of their fellow classmates and, as he had found, people were more apt to divulge their secrets to a distant confidant.
“This is perfect,” said Fredrick when their first course arrived, a simple Turkish salad dressed with olive oil and lemon juice.
He leaned back to appraise the dining room with a mixture of arrogance and naiveté.
“It’s the spitting image of a Rivera hotel, but there is a decidedly Oriental lilt too. It would be perfect for my series.”
“Tell me again,” said the Reverend, spearing a piece of cucumber with his fork. “What is this series?”
Fredrick cut a piece of tomato in half and inspected the interior meat, as if it might, in fact, be some strange Oriental vegetable masquerading as a tomato.
“Nothing of particular interest. ‘Sketches from Abroad’ is what the series is called. Essentially, the paper sends a reporter to Europe each year to write on a particular place, rough up some local color, and perhaps dabble in society.”
“I see.”
“It’s a reward really, compensation for the damage done to my nose by the grindstone in Albany. Four years up there in the slush and tumble of the statehouse equals one month of this.”
He gestured grandiloquently at his surroundings.
“I’m starting to think it might be a fair trade.”
“Pera is just the beginning,” said James. “Just a small nibble of Stamboul. The city is full of color if that’s what you want.”
“That is exactly why I requested to be sent here,” said Fredrick. “They fought me on it at first. Didn’t think the readers would want a sketch from Asia. So I told them, first of all, half the city is in Europe. And second, this is exactly what the readers want. They want dervishes and elephants. Just look at Kinglake. Look at the Arabian Nights. People want Oriental color.”
The Reverend raised his glass in toast.
“To Oriental color. And old friends. Welcome to Stamboul.”
They clinked and both finished their glasses. A moment later, the waiter arrived with the main course, chicken à la Pera. It was the chef’s specialty: a quarter of a small hen simmered in an orange-olive reduction and topped with sour cherries.
“You have heard of the talking bear?” the Reverend asked after a few bites.
“Of course.”
Reverend Muehler felt the sparks of their old rivalry rise up in him. Less than a full day in Stamboul, and here was Fredrick posturing as if he knew the city inside and out. He didn’t know the half of it, not a quarter. For a brief moment, James considered divulging to Fredrick the details of his most recent covert activities, if only because he knew it would impress his friend. Soon, however, James thought better of the impulse. He was in a hard enough spot as it was. The last thing he needed was whispering among the foreign press.
“Quite a colorful city,” James said, a bit louder than he had intended. “Stamboul is the capital of color, really. There’s the Fortune-tellers’ Quarter, which you have been to, the Slave Bazaar, the Snake Charmer of Üsküdar. And that’s not even to mention more commonplace attractions like the Grand Bazaar, the Hagia Sophia, the ruins of Troy.”
“Yes,” said Fredrick. “We will need to go to Troy. That is one sketch my editors insisted on. It’s not far from the city, is it?”
“Less than a day’s ride.”
As they finished their main course, a waiter passed by their table with a large bronze pot of Turkish coffee and poured them each a cup.
“It smells marvelous,” said Fredrick, bringing the shot-size cup under his nose. “What is that spice?”
“Cardamom.”
“Cardamom!” Fredrick said triumphantly. “I could write an entire sketch on Turkish coffee.”
Reverend Muehler was silent for a moment. He wanted to astound his friend, to introduce him to part of the city he would never see otherwise.
“You know,” he began, feeling the flush of his wine at the base of his neck, “the snake charmers and fortune-tellers are just for show. All that’s just for foreigners. If you want some real color, I have a former student—”
“Not to be crass, Jimmy, but I don’t think anyone cares much about your boys.”
“She’s a girl,” said the Reverend, watching his friend over the rim of his aperitif. “Eight years old, and she’s an advisor to the Sultan.”
Fredr
ick narrowed his eyes.
“I tutored her for a few months, but after a while I had nothing left to teach her. The Sultan heard about her ability with languages and he invited her to the palace. As to what happened at the palace,” the Reverend said, lowering his voice, “there are many stories. It’s difficult to know which is true. This is a city of tall tales, you know, a city of rumors. But I heard from a fairly credible source that she was shaking on the ground and speaking in tongues.”
Fredrick finished his coffee and placed the empty cup upside down, as if one of the waiters might tell his fortune. The Reverend could see his friend’s mind whirring, then a smile broke over Fredrick’s face.
“I already have the headline,” he said, and he rapped the table with the tip of his spoon. “It’s perfect.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
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 s
ilence, 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. Eleonora 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.
The Oracle of Stamboul Page 22