The Oracle of Stamboul (18 page)

“I don’t know what I should say,” Eleonora whispered. After so many months of silence, her voice was soft, and scratched in her throat.

Mrs. Damakan let her hand slide down to Eleonora’s arm, and squeezed it gently.

“How can you know the answer if you haven’t heard the question?” she said. “Trust yourself. You know even more than you think.”

The old handmaid leaned forward and kissed Eleonora on the forehead. Then she turned and waddled out of the room.

Trimmed with gold and black rubber, the imperial carriage sat at the edge of the water, its doors, roof, and under-gear shining the brilliant purple of an unripe eggplant. Eleonora held her dress above the cobblestones as she followed the herald across the drive. She wore a pale blue silk gown with black patent-leather shoes, her hair arranged in a wispy spray. The entire morning had been spent preparing, bathing, choosing her jewelry, and sitting still while Mrs. Damakan pinned up her hair. It was only now, however, that the reality of the situation fell upon her. She, Eleonora Cohen, was going to the palace for an audience with the Sultan. If there ever had been, there was no turning back now.

Halfway across the drive, Eleonora could see the horses’ skin gleaming with the dull radiance of meerschaum and their eyes like sad, black marbles. As she approached the great beasts, they stiffened their posture and, like soldiers presenting arms for review, each raised its left foreleg. She nodded, acknowledging their tribute, and the lead horse flared its nostrils, a signal that the rest of the team could relax. The coachman held the door for her and she stepped up into the carriage. As she did, a seagull cried out from the roof of the Bey’s house and took off flapping across the Bosporus, its yellow-orange beak pointed toward the palace.

The interior of the carriage was upholstered in dark purple velvet with ivory fixtures and a seam of gold around the base
board. Eleonora smoothed down the back of her dress and seated herself across from the herald, facing backward. Horses clomping along the shoreline, she watched the Bey’s house slide out of view, shrinking smaller and smaller in the back window until finally it disappeared behind a curve in the road. She looked down at her shoes, into the shiny black patent leather pinching her toes together, and she inhaled deeply to calm herself.

“You have been granted an enormous privilege.”

Eleonora looked up at the herald. His nose was framed between sunken eyes and he had a large mole just above his left nostril. She had thought at first he was the same man who had called on her the day before, but now she was unsure. In any case, he expected a response.

“Yes,” she said. She spoke quietly, as she was still getting used to the feeling of a voice vibrating in her throat. “I am very honored.”

“It is a great honor to be given an audience with the Sultan.”

“I am greatly honored.”

Rattling across the wooden planks of the Galata Bridge, they turned left at the Egyptian Bazaar, dispersing a crowd of pigeons set up under the exterior arches of the New Mosque. From across the water, Eleonora could see the Galata Tower leaning over the city like a stern finger. There was Beşiktaş, sprawled out languid along the shore: the pier, the Beşiktaş Mosque, and the waterfront houses, in the middle of which she could easily pick out the yellow facade of the Bey’s. She leaned closer to the carriage window, until the tip of her nose touched the glass. There, on the second floor, third from the left, was the bay window behind which she had spent so many afternoons, reading, watching the ships pass, and imagining the lives of the people across the water. Whether anyone on this side of the straits—a fish monger,
a servant buying turmeric in the spice bazaar, or a faithful shopkeeper performing ablutions at the public fountain outside the New Mosque—had ever glanced up and speculated about her own life, Eleonora could never know.

“Are you at all familiar with the protocols of the court?”

“No,” she said, raising her chin.

The herald made a small sound at the back of his throat and his face took on the glaze of great solemnity.

“In the Sultan’s court there are certain rules one must follow. Entire books have been written on the subject. Unfortunately, we do not have time for that now.”

Eleonora nodded.

“The three most important rules to remember are as follows: First, you must bow as soon as you enter the audience chamber. When you bow, touch your forehead to the ground.”

She touched her forehead with her thumb to show she understood.

“Second, you must always address the Sultan, if you address him at all, as His Excellency.”

“His Excellency,” she repeated.

“Your Excellency,” the herald corrected. “If you address the Sultan, call him ‘Your Excellency.’ If you were talking about him to a third party, which you should not do, you would say ‘His Excellency.’”

“Your Excellency.”

“Third, you must remember always to face the Sultan. No matter who is speaking to you, do not turn your back to the Sultan.”

Eleonora repeated the three rules to herself.

“Those are the three pillars of court protocol. There are many more rules. You must never contradict the Sultan, for example.
You must never interrupt His Excellency when he is speaking. And you must never offer him advice, unless advice has been explicitly requested. However, we do not have time for these rules.”

By then, the carriage had turned onto a steep, curving street, edged in by shops and choked with a dusty stream of supplicants. The horses slowed as they passed through the multitudes—the crisp white head garb of the Bedouin, Caucasian knives hooked through brightly embroidered sashes, and geometric tattoos on the chins and foreheads of Berber women—all clamoring up the hill toward the palace. The Gate of Greeting was a sight unto itself. Topped with a shingled green roof like a wave, it was protected by six guards, two to unlock the gate and four to hold back the pilgrims. At the front of the crowd, Eleonora noticed an ancient peasant wearing a tattered red fez. Clutching a sheep under one arm, he was waving his staff in the air and repeating a single word over and over again, as if repetition might somehow rectify whatever wrong had been done.

“What does he want?” Eleonora asked as they stepped down from the carriage.

The herald looked at her for a moment with a blank face. When he realized who she was referring to, he snorted contemptuously.

“There is no end to what people want from His Excellency.”

She might have pursued the conversation further, but at that moment the inner gates were opened and a guard ushered them into the palace proper. Redolent of jasmine, the palace gardens were arranged in gently sloping concentric circles, each planted with a different variety of fruit tree. The herald led Eleonora up a wide path lined with topiary, past pashas and janissaries gliding silent as snakes through water. He walked quickly, leaving
no time for her to admire the great blue-and-white-tiled fountain at the center of the gardens or to linger on the buildings peeking through the leaves. He stopped finally at the far end of the gardens, in front of a gate nearly as large as the one they had just passed through. It was guarded by four men in uniforms the same bright purple color as the imperial carriage. They were, without a doubt, the largest men Eleonora had ever seen, each as tall as a horse and leg muscles bulging through their uniforms.

“This banner,” said the herald, pointing to a somewhat frayed piece of green cloth on a block of sandstone next to the gate, “is the flag of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

Eleonora leaned closer to the flag, which was embroidered in silver calligraphy.
In the name of God, the merciful and magnificent
.

“It marks the entrance to the private chambers of His Excellency. I cannot pass beyond this point.”

He made a motion to one of the guards, then bade his farewell and hurried down a side path. Eleonora stood for a few moments next to the banner of the Prophet before she spoke.

“Excuse me,” she asked in the general direction of the guards. “Should I stand here, or is there somewhere else I should wait?”

Staring straight ahead, at some undefined point in the middle distance, the guards remained silent. Still quite unsure in her voice, Eleonora thought it was possible that she had not spoken clearly enough.

“Is this where I should wait?” she repeated, much louder this time.

Still, the guards did not acknowledge her presence. It was as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Excuse me.”

She took a step forward and waved her hand in front of the
guard closest to her. He had dark blue eyes like tiny jewels, and a thick scar split his cheek from temple to mouth. Lowering his gaze, he looked at her, then placed his hands over his ears and shook his head. He was deaf, it seemed. Pointing to a bench at the other side of the gate, the guard resumed his post.

Eleonora didn’t feel like sitting. She was far too nervous to sit. Nevertheless, she followed the guard’s finger to the marble bench, turned, and looked out over the garden she had just come through. It was then that she noticed a small contingency of her flock perched on the uppermost level of the main fountain. There they were, four purple-and-white hoopoes, watching over her on this most momentous of days. Their presence alone gave her new confidence. And when she was shown through the gate to the Sultan’s audience chamber, she knew they were waiting for her just outside the door.

The walls of the audience chamber were decorated with green and red and blue carved plaster. Bundles of light fell from a latticework screen just below a peacock-colored ceiling and the room smelled faintly of lilac. It was much smaller than she had expected, about the same size as her bedroom in the Bey’s house. A tidy row of Viziers and their heralds lined the wall to her right. To her left, Jamaludin Pasha, the Grand Vizier, was seated in an oversized wooden chair. And at the center of the back wall, reclining on a massive crimson divan, was the Sultan himself, His Excellency Abdulhamid II. Physically, the Sultan was a slight man, with dark bushy eyebrows, a crisp mustache, and lips like a doubled cherry. Eleonora felt her skin pucker. Here was the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, the Caliph of Islam. Here was one of the most powerful men in the world. And yet, he was a man like all the rest.

She bowed on one knee, as the herald had instructed her, and
pressed her forehead to the cool marble floor. When she stood again, the Grand Vizier smiled and shifted in his seat. He adjusted the band of his turban, then removed a small notebook from the folds of his caftan.

“Miss Cohen. As you can imagine, we have quite a large amount of business to attend to every day. Nevertheless, His Excellency was quite intrigued by what he heard about you, your studies, the story of your life—”

“Indeed.”

Eleonora could barely hear what the Sultan had said, but when he spoke the room fell silent. She bowed again and a flush crept up through her body. He was speaking to her, she told herself. She could feel the sweat forming on her palms.

“Would you mind,” the Sultan began, “if I asked you a few questions? We have heard a number of amazing things about you. But it is difficult sometimes to know what is true and what is not true.”

“Yes,” Eleonora said. Her voice croaked. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Is it true that you can read in five languages?”

Eleonora counted in her head. She didn’t want to contradict the Sultan, but the truth was that she could read in seven languages: Romanian, Greek, Latin, Turkish, French, English, and Arabic.

“If you please, Your Excellency. That is not true.”

The Grand Vizier jotted something in his notebook.

“How many languages can you read in?”

“Seven, Your Excellency.”

“And is it true,” the Sultan continued, with a sly smile, “that you have read all the books in the library of your guardian, our friend Moncef Barcous Bey?”

“Your Excellency, I have read many of the books in the library, but I have not read them all.”

The Sultan nodded.

“And which, of the ones you have read, is your favorite?”

“
The Hourglass
, Your Excellency.”

She glanced at the Grand Vizier, who was recording her answers in his notebook.

“The Hourglass,”
Abdulhamid mused. “I do not think I have ever come across that book.”

“It is quite wonderful, Your Excellency.”

He turned to the Grand Vizier.

“Have you read
The Hourglass
?”

“No, Your Excellency, I have not.”

Then the Sultan turned to the line of Viziers on his left.

“Have any of you read
The Hourglass
?”

There was a shower of nervous murmuring before one of the Viziers spoke.

“Your Excellency, I don’t believe this book has been translated into Turkish.”

“Well, then we will have to have it translated—”

Just then, a herald entered the room and whispered something in Jamaludin Pasha’s ear. He nodded and the herald left as silently as he had come.

“I myself,” the Sultan continued, “am quite partial to stories of mystery and suspense. The authors are British in the main. Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins are the best, though there are some French writers I admire as well.”

He paused and regarded the ceiling.

“Then, of course, one is also drawn to the great Arab and Persian poets.”

Before Eleonora could respond, a new herald came into the room and handed a telegram to the Grand Vizier.

“Your Excellency,” Jamaludin Pasha said, after reading the telegram. “I am very sorry to disturb our conversation with Miss Cohen, but a matter of the utmost urgency has just come to my attention.”

One of the guards stepped forward to lead Eleonora out of the room, but the Sultan lifted his hand and stopped him.

“She can stay,” he said. “This will not take more than a few moments, I presume, and I would not like to leave our guest waiting outside.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” said Jamaludin Pasha. “Of course.”

He pressed the telegram flat against his notebook and read it again to himself before summarizing its contents for the court.

“The German Imperial Admiralty informs us that the
Mesudiye
continues to be harassed by Russian torpedo boats, even after withdrawing toward Sinop. They say they have made numerous attempts to contact Russian naval commanders in both Sevastopol and St. Petersburg, with no success. It appears from the Russians’ silence that this is an official act of belligerence.”

Abdulhamid sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose.