Introduction

An elegantly crafted, utterly enchanting debut novel set in a mystical, exotic world, in which a gifted young girl charms a sultan and changes the course of an empire's history

Late in the summer of 1877, a flock of purple-and-white hoopoes suddenly appears over the town of Constanta on the Black Sea, and Eleonora Cohen is ushered into the world by a mysterious pair of Tartar midwives who arrive just minutes before her birth. 'They had read the signs, they said: a sea of horses, a conference of birds, the North Star in alignment with the moon. It was a prophecy that their last king had given on his deathwatch.' But joy is mixed with tragedy, for Eleonora's mother dies soon after the birth.

Raised by her doting father, Yakob, a carpet merchant, and her stern, resentful stepmother, Ruxandra, Eleonora spends her early years daydreaming and doing housework?until the moment she teaches herself to read, and her father recognizes that she is an extraordinarily gifted child, a prodigy.

When Yakob sets off by boat for Stamboul on business, eight-year-old Eleonora, unable to bear the separation, stows away in one of his trunks. On the shores of the Bosporus, in the house of her father's business partner, Moncef Bey, a new life awaits. Books, backgammon, beautiful dresses and shoes, markets swarming with color and life?the imperial capital overflows with elegance, and mystery. For in the narrow streets of Stamboul?a city at the crossroads of the world?intrigue and gossip are currency, and people are not always what they seem. Eleonora's tutor, an American minister and educator, may be a spy. The kindly though elusive Moncef Bey has a past history of secret societies and political maneuvering. And what is to be made of the eccentric, charming Sultan Abdulhamid II himself, beleaguered by friend and foe alike as his unwieldy, multiethnic empire crumbles?

The Oracle of Stamboul is a marvelously evocative, magical historical novel that will transport readers to another time and place?romantic, exotic, yet remarkably similar to our own.

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

Eleonora Cohen came into this world on a Thursday, late in the

summer of 1877. Those who rose early that morning would recall

noticing a flock of purple-and-white hoopoes circling above

the harbor, looping and darting about as if in an attempt to mend

a tear in the firmament. Whether or not they were successful, the

birds eventually slowed their swoop and settled in around the

city, on the steps of the courthouse, the red tile roof of the Constanta

Hotel, and the bell tower atop St. Basil’s Academy. They

roosted in the lantern room of the lighthouse, the octagonal

stone minaret of the mosque, and the forward deck of a steamer

coughing puffs of smoke into an otherwise clear horizon. Hoopoes

coated the town like frosting, piped in along the rain gutters

of the governor’s mansion and slathered on the gilt dome

of the Orthodox church. In the trees around Yakob and Leah

Cohen’s house the flock seemed especially excited, chattering,

flapping their wings, and hopping from branch to branch like a

crowd of peasants lining the streets of the capital for an imperial

parade. The hoopoes would probably have been regarded as an

auspicious sign, were it not for the unfortunate events that coincided

with Eleonora’s birth.

Early that morning, the Third Division of Tsar Alexander II’s

Royal Cavalry rode in from the north and assembled on a hilltop

overlooking the town square: 612 men, 537 horses, three cannons,

two dozen dull gray canvas tents, a field kitchen, and the yellow-and-black-striped standard of the tsar. They had been

riding for the better part of a fortnight with reduced rations and

little rest, through Kiliya, Tulcea, and Babadag, the blueberry

marshlands of the Danube Delta, and vast wheat fields left fallow

since winter. Their ultimate objective was Pleven, a trading

post in the bosom of the Danubian Plain where General Osman

Pasha and seven thousand Ottoman troops were attempting to

make a stand. It would be an important battle, perhaps even a

turning point in the war, but Pleven was still ten days off and the

men of the Third Division were restless.

Laid out below them like a feast, Constanta had been left almost

entirely without defenses. Not more than a dozen meters

from the edge of the hilltop lay the rubble of an ancient Roman

wall. In centuries past, these dull, rose-colored stones had

protected the city from wild boars, bandits, and the Thracian

barbarians who periodically attempted to raid the port. Rebuilt

twice by Rome and once again by the Byzantines, the wall was

in complete disrepair when the Ottomans arrived in Constanta

at the end of the fifteenth century. And so it was left to crumble,

its better stones carted off to build roads, palaces, and other walls

around other, more strategic cities. Had anyone thought to restore

the wall, it might have shielded the city from the brutality

of the Third Division, but in its current state it was little more

than a stumbling block.

All that morning and late into the afternoon, the men of the

Third Division rode rampant through the streets of Constanta,

breaking shop windows, terrorizing stray dogs, and pulling

down whatever statues they could find. They torched the governor’s

mansion, ransacked the courthouse, and shattered the

stained glass above the entrance to St. Basil’s Academy. The

goldsmith’s was gutted, the cobbler’s picked clean, and the dryoracle goods store strewn with broken eggs and tea. They shattered

the front window of Yakob Cohen’s carpet shop and punched

holes in the wall with their bayonets. Apart from the Orthodox

church, which at the end of the day stood untouched, as

if God himself had protected it, the library was the only municipal

building that survived the Third Division unscathed.

Not because of any special regard for knowledge. The survival

of Constanta’s library was due entirely to the bravery of its

keeper. While the rest of the townspeople

cowered under their

beds or huddled together in basements and closets, the librarian

stood boldly on the front steps of his domain, holding a

battered copy of Eugene Onegin above his head like a talisman.

Although they were almost exclusively illiterate, the men of

the Third Division could recognize the shape of their native

Cyrillic and that, apparently, was enough for them to spare the

building.

Meanwhile, in a small gray stone house near the top of East

Hill, Leah Cohen was heavy in the throes of labor. The living

room smelled of witch hazel, alcohol, and sweat. The linen chest

was thrown open and a pile of iodine-stained bedsheets lay on

the table. Because the town’s sole trained physician was otherwise

disposed, Leah was attended by a pair of Tartar midwives

who lived in a village nearby. Providence had brought them to

the Cohens’ doorstep at the moment they were needed most.

They had read the signs, they said: a sea of horses, a conference

of birds, the north star in alignment with the moon. It was

a prophecy, they said, that their last king had given on his deathwatch,

but there was no time to explain. They asked to be shown

to the bedroom. They asked for clean sheets, alcohol, and boiling

water. Then they closed the door behind them. Every twenty

minutes or so, the younger of the two scuttled out with an empty pot or an armful of soiled sheets. Apart from these brief forays,

the door remained closed.

With nothing for him to do and nothing else to occupy his

mind, Leah’s husband, Yakob, gave himself over to worry. A

large man with unruly black hair and bright blue eyes, he busied

himself tugging at the ends of his beard, shuffling his receipts,

and packing his pipe. Every so often he heard a scream, some

muffled encouragement to push, or the distant sound of gunshots

and horses. He was not a particularly religious man, nor

superstitious. Still, he murmured what he could remember of the

prayer for childbirth and knocked three times three times three

on wood to ward off the evil eye. He tried his best not to worry,

but what else can an expectant father do?

Just after twilight, in that ethereal hour when the sky moves

through purple to darkness, the hoopoes fell silent. The gunshots

ceased and the rumbling of hoofbeats whittled to nothing.

It was as if the entire world had paused to take a breath.

In that moment, a weary groan choked out of the bedroom,

followed by a fleshy slap and the cry of a newborn child. Then

the older midwife, Mrs. Damakan, emerged with a bundle in

the crook of her arm. Apart from a soft infant gurgle, the room

was silent.

“Thank God,” Yakob whispered, and he bent forward to

kiss his daughter on the forehead. She was magnificent, raw and

glowing with new life. He reached out to take her into his own

arms, but the midwife stopped him.

“Mr. Cohen.”

He looked up at the tight line of her mouth.

“There is some trouble.”

Leah’s bleeding had not stopped. She was gravely weak. Just

a few hours after giving birth, she succumbed. Her last word was to name her newborn daughter, and as she spoke it, the sky

opened.

It was a downpour unlike anyone in Constanta had ever seen,

an endless cavalcade of rain and thunder. In torrents, waves,

and steely sheets, it strangled fires, erased roads, and wrapped

the town square in a blanket of wet smoke. Through the worst

of the storm, the hoopoes concealed themselves in entryways

and the hollows of dead trees. For their part, the men of the

Third Division rode south toward Pleven, their plunder lashed

like spider nests to the backs of their horses. It rained for four

days straight, during which time Mrs. Damakan and the young

woman, her niece, cared for the newborn child. Leah was buried

in a mass grave with a dozen or so men killed trying to defend

their property, and Yakob filled the house with wails. By

the end of the week, refuse clogged the harbor and the town

square was strewn with soggy cinders.

Life, however, must continue. When the clouds finally retreated,

Yakob Cohen took a coach to Tulcea and sent two telegrams:

one to Leah’s sister in Bucharest and the second to his

friend and business partner in Stamboul, a Turk by the name of

Moncef Barcous who had recently been granted the title of Bey.

The first telegram informed his sister-in-law of the tragedy, and

requested any assistance she could provide. The second message

was sent at the behest of Mrs. Damakan, and recommended her

and her niece for any open positions Moncef Bey might have in

his household. As with most of the Tartars living in the villages

around Constanta, Mrs. Damakan and her niece planned to leave

soon and seek a new life in Stamboul, which would be more hospitable

to Muslims. In the meantime, they agreed to stay with

Yakob and assist him as best they could.

Moncef Bey’s response arrived a few days later. In it, he indioracle view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. A prophecy foretold the birth of a girl like Eleonora Cohen. Do you believe in mystical propositions such as prophecies? Do you think the events surrounding her birth were truly foretold or just coincidence? Why do we in the West dismiss the idea of prophets and prophecies? Have we lost something in doing so?

2. What were your impressions of Eleonora? What made her different from others, especially other children?

3. What was the significance of the purple and white hoopoes in the story? Why did animals behave as they did around Eleonora? Do you believe animals can sense things differently—perhaps better—than humans?

4. Eleonora's life touched those of many adults, including her father, Yakob. Talk about their bond. How did the various characters in the story view Eleonora? How did her father see her? What about her tutor, the Reverend James Muehler ? Her father's friend and her guardian, Moncef Bey? The sultan and the other people in his palace, including his mother and his counselor, the Grand Vezir? What about the American journalist? What impact does Mrs. Damakan, the Bey's housekeeper, play in the course of the girl's early life?

5. When she mastered reading, Eleonora's favorite saga was a seven-volume epic called The Hourglass. What lessons did she learn from the novel? How did the book impact the events that followed? Do you have a favorite book that has influenced you?

6. Why was Ruxandra, the girl's stepmother, suspicious of her gifts, and especially hostile to her reading? Why are so many people afraid of learning and knowledge? Are some people too wise for the world?

7. When it comes to books, Eleonora's tutor, the Reverend Muehler tells her guardian Moncef Bey, "I have never held the novel in much esteem. It is a genre for idle women and romantic young boys. Such frivolousness, even a masterpiece such as The Hourglass, cannot have any real utility. But I would think that if she were given more serious reading material—philosophy, history, rhetoric—it might do her some good." What do you think of the reverend's condemnation of the novel? Can we learn as much from fiction as nonfiction? Should we teach more literature to young people? Does it matter if they read novels or not?

8. "If there was one thing she learned from The Hourglass it as that you should always follow the dictates of your own heart." Do you agree with this? What happens when we don't follow the dictates of our hearts? When might we choose not to do so?

9. When the Reverend Muehler and Yakob met on the ship, they exchanged stories of their travels. "It goes without saying, perhaps, that a missionary and a carpet dealer would encounter vastly different segments of a city's population." What kinds of people would both meet? Might their lives have crossed if they hadn't shared a cabin on the boat to Stamboul? Do you think their meeting was fate—part of the prophecy surrounding Eleonara's birth? Do you believe in fate or destiny? How does choice impact fate?

10. Speaking of destiny, Eleonora pondered the losses she had suffered while rereading The Hourglass. "She had a small comfort in the sentiment that our paths in life are laid according to a plan more grandiose that we could ever conceive or comprehend." Do you share her sentiment? How does believing in this offer solace?

11. The city of Stamboul is more than just a backdrop to this novel. It is a character in itself. How did Eleonora imagine Stamboul to be? What were your impressions of the city? Has there ever been a place that has sparked your imagination as Stamboul did for Eleanora?

12. Early in her stay in Stamboul, Eleonora wished she could stay in the city forever. Do you think she does? Or will fate take her somewhere else? Can someone of her gifts truly hide in plain sight?

13. The sultan disagreed with his closest councilor on the methods of effective governance. For the sultan, "an effective ruler needed more than anything to maintain a proper distance from the events that occurred within his domain. If he allowed himself to fret over the particulars of every battle and infrastructure project, he would never be able to focus on the decisions that truly mattered." Do you agree with this? Can a leader become too caught up in the details? But might ignoring details be detrimental for good leadership?

14. Why was the sultan willing to grant Eleanora an audience? What advice do you think she gave him? If you heard that the president met with someone like Eleonora, what would you think? What is the reaction in Stamboul after word of Eleonora's visit spreads?

15. When Eleonora discovers something incriminating about the reverend, she isn't sure whether or not to confide in the Bey. "Plato would seem to think she should. Truth is the beginning of every good to the gods, and of every good to man. Then again, there was Tertullian. Truth engenders hatred of the truth. As soon as it appears it is the enemy." Discuss both of these viewpoints. Which do you side with more? Why does the truth engender hatred?

16. Another philosophical debate Eleonora has is between doing something wrong and not yet doing the right thing. "Was there a difference between these two sins?" she wonders. How would you answer this question?

17. After her tragedy, Eleonora stops speaking. What does being "voiceless" offer her? If you chose not to speak for a few days, what might you learn? Do you think it would make you a better listener?

18. Is history important? Who ultimately writes our history? Do you think Eleonora changed the course of this particular empire?

19. Why did Eleonora make the choice she did at the story's end? Was she walking away from her "fate"—or was she ultimately saving her life?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Michael David Lukas' web site

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