The Oracle of Stamboul

by Michael David Lukas

  “You have read Jean-Jacques Rousseau?”

  She nodded.

  “As a young man,” the Bey began to explain, “I was quite taken with Rousseau’s ideas: the social contract, civil society, the general will of the people, and so on. You might say his ideas were a kind of revelation to me. And I was not alone. At that time there were a number of young men like myself—sons of businessmen, bureaucrats, military officers, and tax farmers—who took to Rousseau’s ideas with full force. I started a reading group, which met once a month and was quite popular. I also wrote a number of forceful essays in the newspaper, advocating for the rights of man.”

  The Bey caught her eyes, to make sure she was following.

  “It was as a direct result of Rousseau and my advocacy for his ideas that I was sent to Constanta. At the time I was a member of parliament and my father was a very important businessman, one of the largest suppliers of textiles to the military. So instead of putting me in prison, as he no doubt would have liked to do, the Sultan honored me with a diplomatic post at the edge of the empire.”

  Eleonora nodded, indicating that she understood.

  “It was in Constanta that I met your father and there that I established many of my most important business connections. But as much as I enjoyed my time there, Stamboul is my home. And so, when the political climate calmed down, I returned. I returned on the condition that I never participate in politics again. And I have not. I still hold my views, but my methods have changed. Since I returned, the Grand Vizier has kept a close watch on my movements. His suspicions are unfounded, I can assure you of that. I do not nor have I ever advocated for a constitutional revolution. But I understand why he would want to keep a close eye on me, with my past and all the clamoring about the boat accident. I must say, I never suspected the Reverend. I don’t know why I did not. In retrospect it makes all the sense in the world. I don’t know if he is working for the palace, for the Americans, or both, but in any case there is no way we could continue with your lessons. You understand, don’t you?”

  Eleonora swallowed and looked up at the Bey. She understood what he was telling her. Still, her mind was buzzing with questions like a band of insects trapped in a jar of preserves.

  “All this is to say,” he concluded, “I’ve had a good life, a charmed life, but lonely, devoid of a female touch, and without children—until now, of course. You know I take my responsibilities as your guardian very seriously. To that end, I must ask that you not poke through my documents. It is in your own best interest that I ask this of you. I will give them to you one day, but not now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the Reverend approached the Gate of Greeting, he removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was his first visit to the palace, and, in spite of his best efforts otherwise, he couldn’t help but marvel. Flanked on either side by a pair of massive stone turrets, the sheer immensity of the gate, and the delicacy of the carvings that adorned it, conveyed both hospitality and impregnable hostility. Which made sense, he supposed. Although he presumed that he himself was in the good graces of the palace, one never knew when one’s welcome would wear out. The Reverend folded his handkerchief in quarters and returned it to his jacket pocket. As he did, one of the purple-coated palace guards approached him and presented arms.

  “The Gate of Greeting is closed to visitors,” he grumbled, oblivious, apparently, to the irony of this sentiment.

  When the Reverend mentioned the name of Jamaludin Pasha, however, the guard dropped his bayonet and stood aside. A foreigner meeting with the Grand Vizier was not a person one wanted to offend, it seemed. The guard motioned to another, stationed at the base of the ramparts, and Reverend Muehler was escorted through a series of thick wooden doors to the inner sanctum of the palace’s second courtyard.

  Once he was within the bulwarks of the palace, the rush and tumble of Stamboul fell away. He could still feel the presence of the city, like the moon hanging in its pale sky, but the concerns of the palace were of another, more delicate sphere. Reverend Muehler took in the cool trickle of water on marble, a bird setting up roost for the night, and the faint smell of hibiscus flowers in bloom. Foot traffic in the second courtyard was sparse as diplomats, chefs, and musicians headed home for the night, back to their families, the cafés, or some other late-night amusement. The guard who had led him through the gates said a few words to a herald, who then conducted him up one of the many leafy paths radiating from the Gate of Greeting. Up until this point, the Reverend’s meetings with the Grand Vizier had taken place at the end of each month, in a clandestine location such as a graveyard or an empty bathhouse. He had no idea why Jamaludin Pasha would want him to come to the palace in person. Perhaps he had obtained word about his dismissal from the Bey’s service. Perhaps the higher-ups at the department had crossed him. Perhaps it was about his recent interactions with the Russians. Or maybe it was nothing; maybe the Grand Vizier was just too lazy to leave the palace. With a nod, the herald unwound another tense knot of guards and led Reverend Muehler into a marble hallway lined with antique weaponry. This was, according to the herald, the Great Hall of the Council of Viziers. Jamaludin Pasha’s audience chamber was located at the end of the hall to the left.

  “You will know when you see it,” the herald said before scurrying off around some corner.

  And indeed he did. Swathed in red and green tiles, the audience chamber was no larger than a classroom at Robert’s College, but its ceiling rose as high as a church. Against the far wall was a square mahogany divan and, reclining in the middle of it, the Grand Vizier. A nervous man in a white silk robe and green turban, he had the aspect of a well-fed rodent and eyes the color of unripe grapes. When Reverend Muehler entered the room, he rose slightly by way of greeting.

  “Hello, my friend. I trust you found your way without much difficulty.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said the Reverend. “Your heralds were very helpful.”

  The Grand Vizier clasped his hands together and wrinkled the base of his nose, as if considering the vicissitudes of this response. He concentrated fully on his guest but did not offer him a seat. In fact, the Reverend noticed, there were no seats to offer. Whether this was a conscious snub, he did not know, nor did he much care.

  “Would you like a glass of tea?” Jamaludin Pasha asked. “Or coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “The coffee in the palace kitchen is the finest in the world,” the Grand Vizier pressed. “I can assure you, you will not regret it.”

  “Yes,” said the Reverend, adjusting his collar. “I can only imagine. But I think I will refrain nonetheless. I have trouble sleeping, you know. If I drink coffee too late I will never be able to get to bed. I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “Not at all.”

  Tapping the side of his nose, the Grand Vizier said a few words to one of the guards, who disappeared through a door hidden in the back wall. They were both silent until the guard returned a few moments later, balancing a single tulip-shaped glass of tea on a silver tray.

  “Now,” said Jamaludin Pasha, stirring in a spoonful of sugar. “I assume you have seen the news about our situation with the Russians?”

  “Yes,” the Reverend said. “I read a piece about it yesterday in the paper.”

  “As I am sure you can imagine, we are troubled by the insinuations in the Tsar’s report. On balance, however, this is not a particularly consequential matter and we would like to be done with it as soon as possible.”

  The Reverend mumbled his agreement.

  “Of course, we cannot accede to the Tsar’s demands as they stand.”

  “Of course not,” said the Reverend.

  “His threats are empty,” said the Grand Vizier, raising the twinge of a question.

  “They would seem to be.”

  “We would like to know this for certain. I assume you don’t have any information that might help us assess the possibility of reprisal should we r
efuse to meet his demands for restitution.”

  “No,” said the Reverend. “Unfortunately, I do not.”

  “No connections to the Russians we might exploit for further information?”

  The Reverend shifted and crossed his hands in front of him. Jamaludin Pasha clearly knew about his recent association with the Russians. The last thing he wanted, however, was to negotiate between these two intractable empires. He had enough trouble juggling his current obligations. Add another ball and he would drop them all.

  “None that would be of any use to the palace.”

  Jamaludin Pasha smiled and stroked the tip of his nose.

  “Very well,” he said. “Tell me, how are things otherwise?”

  “Quite well,” the Reverend replied. “Robert’s is Robert’s. My article on the religious rites of the Yazidis is coming along well and a new volume of my translations should be coming out soon.”

  Nodding, though mostly to himself, Jamaludin Pasha stared down into the folds of his robe. He pursed his lips, as if considering a perplexing moral question, then looked up again at Reverend Muehler.

  “I am assuming you have no new information for me, beyond your academic pursuits.”

  “No,” the Reverend said. “I do not.”

  “What about Moncef Barcous Bey?”

  The Reverend uncrossed his hands and held them at his side.

  “Yes, well, there has been an unfortunate turn of events regarding Moncef Bey.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Moncef Bey and Miss Cohen decided recently that they no longer require my services as a tutor.”

  “And why was that?”

  The Reverend paused to collect his thoughts.

  “Circumstances beyond their control, that was how they put it.”

  “You have no idea what those circumstances may be? You didn’t press him for more information?”

  “They informed me of their decision in a letter, which stated in no uncertain terms that they were unable to discuss the circumstances leading to their decision. I assumed it was a financial question.”

  The Grand Vizier pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumbs.

  “Can you think of any other reason why you might have been dismissed? Is it possible that Moncef Bey might have suspected your intentions?”

  “That was what I imagined at first,” said the Reverend.

  He thought back to the incident that afternoon in the library. Any number of people could have seen him taking those papers from the desk—Miss Cohen, Monsieur Karom, Mrs. Damakan—but even if someone had seen him, even if he knew for certain that he had been dismissed for spying, he wasn’t going to tell the Grand Vizier.

  “After careful consideration of my activities,” the Reverend continued, “I have concluded that there is no reason to believe Moncef Bey had any suspicions.”

  “None that you can think of?”

  “No,” the Reverend said after a pause long enough to suggest serious consideration. “None that I can think of.”

  “Well,” said Jamaludin Pasha. “That is most regrettable. Fortunately, we have other people watching Moncef Bey, other people very close to him.”

  He paused to take a sip of his tea, allowing the Reverend to wonder who these other informants were.

  “Now tell me, what do you know about the student?”

  “Miss Cohen?”

  “Yes, Miss Cohen. You mentioned before that she is a savant of sorts?”

  The Reverend unclenched his sweaty hands, glad to be done with the previous line of questioning.

  “Miss Cohen has a phenomenal aptitude for languages, a nearly perfect memory, and an understanding of history and philosophy far, far beyond her years. It’s really quite extraordinary. Just a few weeks ago she recited the entire first book of The Iliad from memory. I mentioned, I believe, that I am planning to write a paper about her.”

  “Yes, I believe you did.”

  “It will be more difficult now that our lessons have been terminated, but I am confident I have enough information to proceed.”

  The Grand Vizier took another sip of tea.

  “Can you think of any way we might use Miss Cohen in the palace?”

  Reverend Muehler shifted his stance, looking down at the floor to think. He did not want to embroil Eleonora in palace politics, but he needed first and foremost to preserve his own well-being. The Reverend had seen what happened to spies who lost their usefulness, and he had far too many skeletons to risk drawing Jamaludin Pasha into his closet.

  “You might,” he began, without knowing how he would end the sentence. “You might be able to put her to use in the Bureau of Translation.”

  “We already have more interpreters than we know what to do with.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Reverend. “Do you have any cryptographers?”

  “We do.”

  “Are there any encryptions they are unable to break?”

  The Grand Vizier leaned back into the cushions of the divan, as if to better consider the proposal.

  “There are a few that have given us trouble.”

  “With a bit of training, Miss Cohen could be a master cryptographer. To her, breaking a code would be as easy as learning a new language.”

  “Interesting,” said Jamaludin Pasha and wrote a few words in the small black notebook he always kept in his pocket. “What about her relations? I know she lives with Moncef Bey. But does she have any familial connections in Constanta?”

  “Her father is deceased,” said Reverend Muehler. “I believe I heard mention once of an aunt or a stepmother, but she seems rather peripheral.”

  “Is there anything else we should know about her?” the Grand Vizier asked. “What are her political sympathies?”

  “As far as I know, she doesn’t have any,” said the Reverend. “She is only a child, after all.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “There is one more thing you might want to know about Miss Cohen,” the Reverend said. “She tends to keep her thoughts, and any feelings she might have, to herself; it’s a trait which is only exacerbated by her refusal to speak.”

  Jamaludin Pasha raised his eyebrows, encouraging the Reverend to continue.

  “She has not spoken since her father died, in the crash.”

  Moving his lips slightly, Jamaludin Pasha wrote a few more notes in his book, then stood. The interview, apparently, was over. He produced a pouch from the pocket of his robe and handed it to the guard closest to him, who crossed the room and gave it to the Reverend.

  “I hope this will compensate you for your trouble,” said the Grand Vizier. “It should more than supplement the income lost by your lessons.”

  The small leather pouch felt much heavier than usual.

  “Thank you, Jamaludin Pasha. It was my pleasure.”

  “If you hear anything more from Moncef Bey or Miss Cohen,” the Grand Vizier continued, “please do notify us immediately. Otherwise, we will contact you when we are in need of your services.”

  As the import of these words sunk in, the Reverend was escorted out the door and down the Great Hall of the Council of Viziers to a hidden exit that deposited him just outside the palace walls. Ducking behind the dark facade of a shuttered fishmonger, he opened the pouch and counted fifteen pounds—three times his normal rate. Apparently, he had given Jamaludin Pasha something of interest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the dream, she’s rowing. The clouds are dusty purple, and behind them stars flicker like jellyfish. There is a crowd of people lined up along the shore. They’re trying to tell her something, but she doesn’t look back. If she looks back, it will only slow her down and she’s slow enough already. She has a message for the person in the tower. The message is written on the piece of paper in her hand and she is rowing.

  Haydarpasa Station is a giant sleeping on the edge of the horizon, a Cyclops in the opening of his cave. Pulling itself up to its full height, it yawns. Those tracks are veins, connectin
g the fingers to the heart. Those trains are arms. The clock is its eye. Behind the station is an island with a boxy white tower like a jail. That is where she is taking her message. The moon winks. She understands.

  Kiz Kulesi, she thinks. Maiden’s Tower. The name sticks in her mind like taffy. She tries to remember the story of the tower. There was a girl and her father, who was the Sultan. There was a curse, an asp, and a basket of grapes. The girl was locked in the tower. Aphrodite may have been involved. Or was that another story? Does it even matter? Now that she is rowing through the stiff-peaked straits and waves spackled with jellyfish, does the story matter?

  The strange thing is that she can’t remember the message. She can’t remember what she is supposed to say to the person in the tower, or why. But she knows that it is important. She knows the message is written on the piece of paper in her hand. She rows past Haydarpasa Station and a fish jumps out of the water, whipping drops from its tail. Then there’s another fish, then another. Then the water is alive, teeming with fish. They splash her, flopping like rubber erasers, but she rows past. She rows as hard as she can past the train station, through the fish and the slow water.

  Her boat runs aground with a crunch. The tower sways, pale and sticky, a drunk stabbing the night with his cane. When she hears the crunch of her boat running aground, she sees the birds. It’s her flock, hundreds of purple-and-white hoopoes swirling like violins. They are swallowing the stars. They’re saying something. They’re trying to tell her something. But even if she could hear, even if she could understand, she doesn’t want to know. That is not what she came for. She has come with a message for the person in the tower.

  She opens the door to the tower and the staircase is filled with birds. It is damp and flapping with purple, an anxious spiral chattering with voices. She lifts the hood of her coat and shakes her hair out. They’re all talking at once, they’re all trying to tell her something. Are they saying it or singing it? She can’t tell. She is pushing up the stairs, through the birds, toward the room at the top of the tower.