Read Online The Oracle of Stamboul by Michael David Lukas - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael David Lukas
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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 carpets, 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 salespitch 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?”
“Eleonora.”
Yakob was silent for a moment, staring into the bowl of his pipe.
“I have mentioned her,” he said. “But I haven’t told you anything about her.”
James took a sip of port and raised his eyebrows.
“Eleonora is—” Yakob paused, looking down at his hands. “If you met her you would know right away. You might call her a genius, or a savant. I don’t know what the right word is to describe her.”
Reverend Muehler leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had encountered a number of supposedly extraordinary children over the course of his career, children who had learned to read early, could perform difficult sums in their heads, or took easily to foreign languages. The subject was of some interest, both professional and personal, and he had often considered compiling a compendium of savants throughout history. However, the majority of the children he had encountered were not geniuses, at least not in the mold of Bentham, Mendelssohn, or Mill.
“You said before that you entered university at the age of sixteen?”
“Yes,” said
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 carpets, 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 salespitch 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?”
“Eleonora.”
Yakob was silent for a moment, staring into the bowl of his pipe.
“I have mentioned her,” he said. “But I haven’t told you anything about her.”
James took a sip of port and raised his eyebrows.
“Eleonora is—” Yakob paused, looking down at his hands. “If you met her you would know right away. You might call her a genius, or a savant. I don’t know what the right word is to describe her.”
Reverend Muehler leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had encountered a number of supposedly extraordinary children over the course of his career, children who had learned to read early, could perform difficult sums in their heads, or took easily to foreign languages. The subject was of some interest, both professional and personal, and he had often considered compiling a compendium of savants throughout history. However, the majority of the children he had encountered were not geniuses, at least not in the mold of Bentham, Mendelssohn, or Mill.
“You said before that you entered university at the age of sixteen?”
“Yes,” said
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