“While I was busy in the garden, working, you thought you might make yourself a jam sandwich? That was the last jar of blackberry jam, you know.”
As Ruxandra spoke, Eleonora stepped down from the stool and hung her head in surrender. She had been caught, but Ruxandra had no idea what she intended to do with the jam, and it was the motive that mattered.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Ruxandra,” she said. A smile fluttered to her lips, but she held them tight. “I was hungry.”
“Well, you’ll be hungry until dinner. Now clean this up and I had better not see you poking around the pantry again.”
That night, Ruxandra prepared Yakob’s favorite autumn meal: squash soup, chicken with plum sauce, and apple pie. Although Eleonora was quite hungry, she was too excited to eat. In less than twelve hours, she would be stowed away on the boat to Stamboul. Stomach churning with the thought, she listened to her father and Ruxandra discuss the last-minute details of his trip: when the carriage was coming to pick him up, what time the steamer left, whether the Viennese brocade had arrived, who his cabin mate might be, and so on. All the while, Eleonora’s mind was racing with pictures of Stamboul, details of her plan, and everything that could possibly go wrong.
After dinner, having hardly touched her food, she asked to be excused. She wasn’t feeling well, she said. Her father, who was involved in a bit of last-minute packing, told her he would come in to check on her when he was finished. As always, he was true to his word.
“Ellie,” he said, poking his head into the room. “Are you awake?”
She rolled over onto her side and blinked. Though she hadn’t slept, she figured it was best to pretend that she had. Her father was wearing his usual gray wool suit, but it looked crisper than normal. His mustache was freshly trimmed, and there was a sparkle of anticipation in his voice.
“I brought this for you,” he said, placing a piece of pie on her dresser. “In case you’re hungry. I noticed you didn’t eat much at dinner.”
Eleonora could hear her stomach growling, gurgling up around her lungs like an impatient volcano.
“Thank you, Tata.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, stroking her forehead. “I thought I should say good-bye now so I don’t wake you in the morning.”
Eleonora looked up at her father, leaning over her bed. The light from the open door made a halo around his head. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.
“I’ll miss you, Ellie.”
“I’ll miss you too, Tata.”
A tear grew against his lashes like rainwater collecting at the edge of a leaf, and he stood to leave.
“Good night.”
Eleonora did not feel good about deceiving her father, but she knew it was for the best. When she finally revealed herself, on the boat to Stamboul, too far out to turn back, he would take her up into his arms and thank her. She knew he would. If there was one thing she had learned from The Hourglass, it was that you should always follow the dictates of your own personal heart. That was how Miss Ionescu had put it. There is no sage wiser than the dictates of your own personal heart. She considered for a moment whether Miss Ionescu’s dictum contradicted Miss Holvert’s. She decided that it did not. Indeed, both pressed the reader toward the same ultimate end: to look inside one’s own personal heart, determine what was right, and do it without regret.
Many restless hours later, when she was sure that her father and Ruxandra were asleep, Eleonora slipped out of bed, changed silently into her traveling clothes, and made straight for the row of steamer trunks next to the front door. With a twist, she unlatched the trunk closest to her and pushed up on the lid. Just as she had imagined, it was stuffed full with rugs. Looping her arms underneath a large purple Hereke, she braced herself against the foot of the trunk and, with the full thrust of her weight, jerked it onto the floor. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, she dragged the carpet across the living room and into her bedroom. With all her strength, she pulled it onto her bed and tucked it under the blankets. Stepping back, she examined the tableaux. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to work.
As she was about to leave, Eleonora paused to look back at her room one last time. There was her dresser, her bed, and there, on the nightstand, was volume five of The Hourglass. For a moment she thought about taking it with her, but there was no room for extra baggage. Instead, she opened the book and removed the wooden bookmark she had found in volume four. Then, she was off. Throwing the sack of provisions over her shoulder, she crept out into the living room and scrunched herself into the battered old steamer trunk almost, but not entirely, filled with carpets her father planned to sell when they arrived.
Chapter Five
Lifting his foot to the edge of his bed, Reverend James Muehler bent over himself to tie his laces. Rabbit around the tree and into its hole. He was nearly forty, a distinguished scholar and educator, yet here he was, humming a song he had memorized more than thirty years previous. There was an article there, on the connection between melody and memory, or perhaps an investigation into the childish rituals of great men, another article he didn’t have time to write. Brushing a piece of lint off the tip of his shoe, he stood and shrugged into his coat. The schedule for the day indicated that they would be stopping in Constanta briefly to take on new passengers and, according to the card on his door, his new bunk mate, a Mr. Yakob Cohen, would be among them. Mr. Cohen was a Jew, no doubt, which was fine with the Reverend. He had known his fair share of the chosen in New Haven, though of course this particular Mr. Cohen would not be a Yalie. Patting his breast pocket for cigarettes, he glanced about the cabin and, seeing nothing particularly embarrassing or revealing, proceeded up to the deck.
It was a bright winter day, cold but otherwise quite pleasant. The smell of burned coal mixed with pine and the docks bustled with activity. A horde of stevedores humped trunks from carriage to hull. There were a few teary good-byes and a carriage driver gesticulating wildly over what was likely no more than a pittance. Beyond the docks, the remainder of Constanta arranged itself along the ridge of two hills, a few hundred gray stone houses gathered in a semicircle about an unremarkable town square. Inhaling deeply, James took a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it with a small flourish. Constanta wouldn’t be a terrible place to live for someone who didn’t know any better. The climate was pleasant enough and, if he remembered correctly, it had played a role of some importance toward the end of the Roman Empire. He took a long drag and tapped off his ash before recalling what it was: Ovid had spent the final, unhappy years of his life in Constanta, then known as Tomis. The last outback at the world’s end, he called it, and so it must have seemed to that sweet, witty soul in exile.
As he finished his cigarette, Reverend Muehler noticed a curious bird perched rather close to him on the railing. It looked to be a hoopoe, though its coloration was unlike any he had ever seen, light purple with bright white streaks along the wings and breast. Hoopoes tended to be reticent of human contact, yet this one held his gaze with an unnatural intensity, almost as if it were requesting something. He returned its gaze, focusing on the patch of purple just above its thin, pointed beak. After a few moments, the bird flew off to join two of its brethren perched on the top seat of a carriage waiting to be unloaded. James dropped the butt of his cigarette into the harbor and leaned over the wooden rail, watching stevedores unload the carriage’s luggage compartment while a stout man with a thick black beard looked on. The man was a merchant, no doubt, and looked to be a Jew. Perhaps this was Mr. Yakob Cohen. Perhaps it was just another Jew. When the final trunk was stored safely in the hull, the bearded man boarded ship and the hoopoes took off up the hill.
Straightening himself up, Reverend Muehler shivered and pulled his coat close around him. He had been away from Stamboul for an entire semester and a mess of work would be waiting for him when he returned. The new term would begin just four days after he was set to arrive. There were three new teachers in the upper school. And he would
have to write a speech for convocation. In addition to his responsibilities at Robert’s College, he had a paper pending for the Annals of Education, and the American Vice Consul was anxious to receive his report on the condition of religious minorities under the new capitulatory system. On top of all this, he was a disappointment to his handlers from the Department of War. It had been more than a few years already, and he was still unable to uncover any actionable intelligence regarding German influence in Stamboul. This final, covert charge worried him more than anything else. He knew how to write a report, how to train new teachers, how to edit a paper for publication, but he had no clue how to go about gathering intelligence. He was not a spy, or at least had not received any formal training in the art. His successes in Beirut, as he readily admitted, were nothing more than good luck, but the higher-ups in the department had taken his candor for modesty, and now here he was, beholden to them for his position at Robert’s and unable to provide what they wanted.
He lit a second cigarette and allowed his thoughts to wander back to the warm fires of Yalta, its windy esplanade and the melancholy facade of empty summer homes. Yalta had been the perfect respite from Stamboul, far from its parties, far from all the treachery and intrigue, but he knew all along that he would have to return. Butting his cigarette on the rail, he watched impassively as a handful of new passengers boarded and, amid a flurry of handkerchiefs, the ship puffed away from the harbor. He was beginning to regret not taking the direct service from Sevastopol to Stamboul. This local steamer docked at least once a day and, more to the point, there was no one on board with whom he could have a decent conversation. He would be spending New Year’s Eve on the ship, he had realized that morning, not that anyone on board followed the Gregorian calendar. James forced a grin as he recalled his dear mother’s favorite maxim: We can only but make the best of the situation the Lord gives us. Patting his breast pocket, he bid a hearty though somewhat sardonic farewell to those few souls remaining on the docks, then ducked below deck to meet his new cabin mate.
Mr. Yakob Cohen, as it turned out, was indeed the same stout bearded fellow Reverend Muehler had observed from above deck. Upon entering their shared cabin, he found the man engaged in unpacking a battered portmanteau.
“Hello there.”
Mr. Cohen turned and stuck out a paw.
“Mr. Muehler?”
“You can call me James,” the Reverend said, as he did when people neglected his title. “Or Reverend Muehler, if you please.”
“Yakob Cohen,” his cabin mate said, and they shook hands. “I’m on my way to Stamboul.”
“Well then.” James smiled. “I can attest that you are on the right ship.”
Mr. Cohen spoke English tolerably, as well as some French and a smattering of Russian. After trying on these and a few other languages, they settled on Turkish as the best conduit between them. While his new bunk mate unpacked, James seated himself at the table in the corner of the cabin and they chatted loosely about their journeys. As he had guessed, Mr. Cohen was visiting Stamboul on business. Specifically, he was engaged in the textile trade and intended to sell off some excess stock. Although Constanta was no longer under Ottoman political control, Stamboul exerted a residual economic influence over the region. The pull was especially strong, Mr. Cohen explained, in the textile trade. While Constantans and Russians appreciated oriental carpets as much as anyone else in Europe, certain more sophisticated styles were easier to sell in Stamboul, or so he hoped.
Reverend Muehler was pleasantly surprised to find that Mr. Cohen was much more intelligent and worldly than he appeared. He had spent much of his youth traveling about Central Asia and the Middle East, using a small inheritance to acquire the germ around which he built his business. He had visited dozens of countries and, although his formal education did not extend much beyond the age of thirteen, he was as well-read and informed as any of the teachers at Robert’s College. They probably would have continued their conversation through lunch had Mr. Cohen not become suddenly and violently sick in the cabin’s tiny sink. Excusing himself profusely, he explained that he was cursed with a debilitating seasickness and, waving away all offers of assistance, insisted that the best remedy was to lie down and rest until the seas calmed.
James took this opportunity to go outside for a turn and write a few letters in the library. When he returned to their cabin just before dinner, he found Mr. Cohen lying with his back to the door in the upper berth of the bunk bed. The room smelled of dry sweat and the lingering tang of sickness. Approaching the bed, James put a hand on Mr. Cohen’s shoulder and lightly roused him.
“Mr. Cohen,” he said. “Welcome to the world of the awake.”
“Mr. Muehler,” Yakob mumbled, rolling onto his back.
“It’s James,” the Reverend corrected. “Or Reverend Muehler, if you please.”
Yakob blinked and tasted the inside of his mouth.
“Excuse me.”
“Not a problem,” James replied and seated himself on the bottom bunk. “Not a problem at all. Tell me, sir, how are you feeling?”
“Not so bad as before.”
“That’s good to hear.”
As they spoke, James took off his shoes and slipped on a fresh pair of slacks.
“What time is it?” asked Mr. Cohen.
“It’s seven o’clock on the dot,” said James, taking out his pocket watch to confirm. “Dinner will be served in half an hour.”
Washing his hands briskly, James splashed a bit of water on his face and glanced at himself in the mirror.
“I was planning to go up early and secure a table,” he said as he slipped into his dinner jacket. “If you would like to join me, however, I’ll gladly wait.”
With some exertion, Yakob sat up and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, bending forward slightly at the hip to avoid knocking his head on the ceiling. He looked like a gypsy, dressed as he was in an undershirt and crumpled trousers. His hair was disheveled and his bright blue eyes jumped about the room.
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his face. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
Rung by rung, Yakob climbed down the thin metal ladder and took his place in front of the mirror. It wasn’t a particularly promising foundation, but with a splash of water, a comb through his hair, and a change of clothes, Mr. Cohen was able to transform himself into a rather presentable-looking fellow, at least by the standards of the ship. Although breakfast and lunch were informal affairs, the crew did their best to instill a sense of elegance at dinner. Because it was a primarily second-class ship, there were no tails or tuxedos, no glint of emerald brooches or crystal chandeliers. With some red bunting, however, crisp white tablecloths, and an endlessly resourceful chef, the proceedings came off rather well.
James and Yakob spent much of dinner that first night comparing stories from their travels. It goes without saying, perhaps, that a missionary and a carpet dealer would encounter vastly different segments of a city’s population; still, James was astounded at just how dissimilar their anecdotes were. In all his visits to Shiraz, he had never once met a fortune-teller or a professional thief, yet in Yakob’s telling, the city was teeming with both. On the other hand, Yakob had never dined with a Head of State or an Ambassador, though he insisted he had become close with Moncef Barcous Bey when he was the Ottoman governor in Constanta. This divergence of experience was not a stumbling block to conversation; indeed, it was what made the conversation interesting. After dinner, the two men retired to a makeshift drawing room known as the smoking lounge, and, over a bottle of port, they continued in this same manner until quite late.
More than anything, James was impressed by his bunk mate’s knowledge of textiles. He could spot a flaw in a piece of fabric across the room and knew more about the history of carpet-making than any dealer in the Grand Bazaar. His most remarkable skill, however, was as a salesman. Although his wares were stored safely in the hull of the ship and could not be brought up for display, Yakob’s descriptions of his ca
rpets, their vibrant colors, classical designs, and the elegance of their workmanship convinced more than one passenger to put a down payment on a piece for later delivery. Even James, who saw through the sales pitch and, moreover, was tight on money after such a long vacation, was convinced to put down 10 percent on a magnificent purple-and-white Hereke that Yakob was sure would fit beautifully in his office.
Their relationship was a perfect example of the friendships one forms on ships, when there is nothing much to do but talk, and one need not consider issues of status or class. It was a pure and simple bond, of the sort James had not known since his early days as an undergraduate. He kept his darker secrets to himself, of course, but as the week progressed, he shared with Yakob the story of his father’s death, some of the worst humiliations he had encountered upon arriving in New Haven, and the events leading up to his decision to pursue a degree at the Divinity School. For his part, Yakob shared some of the harsher details of his upbringing, the tragic story of his first wife’s death, and the loveless marriage that ensued. It wasn’t until the final night of the trip, however, that he revealed anything about his daughter, Eleonora.
In addition to being the last night on the ship, it was also the last night of the Year of Our Lord 1885, and they were celebrating accordingly. They had retired to the smoking lounge, drinking the last bottle of Reverend Muehler’s port and smoking a few crumbs of Yakob’s tobacco. It was quite late already—or early, as the case may be—and they had the room to themselves. A bluish pipe smoke hung thick above their heads, and only the brightest stars peeked through the foggy portholes.
“There is something,” Yakob began, straightening himself up in his chair, “I would like to ask your advice about.”
“Of course,” said James, crossing his ankles as he leaned back to listen.
“It concerns my daughter.”
“Yes, you mentioned her the other day. Eleanor, right?”
The Oracle of Stamboul Page 5
