News of the priest’s death cast a pall over their walk to the bookshop. Augusta could no longer enjoy the Bosporus shimmering alongside them, or the clamor of buses and ferries leaving from the busy port, or the supple fishing lines draped over the Galata Bridge as they crossed. Normally Erol wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to shower her with historical facts as they traversed the famous bridge. But now they both walked along quietly, thinking about the frail man they had seen off to the hospital just that morning. Drained of life after a blow to the head.
Despite the heat of the afternoon, Augusta shivered. Calamity seemed to be following her. First her grandfather, then her grandmother, then the book theft, then the priest. She wasn’t usually superstitious, but this pattern seemed like cause for concern. Was it coincidence? Fate? Were the Rumelovs out to get her? She looked with suspicion at everyone who passed. They were all potential suspects—all potential Rumelovs.
Walking up another hill, they twisted their way toward a circular tower reaching out above the cluttered skyline. It was straight out of a fairy tale, Augusta thought, almost expecting to see Rapunzel’s long braid cascading down the side. As they passed, Erol said, dejectedly, “Galata Tower. Now we’re in Pera, the old Greek section of Istanbul.” He sighed. Augusta guessed his thoughts mirrored her own. At the word Greek, the sight of the unconscious priest flashed through her mind again. The long, white beard. The robes folded over one another, billowing onto the wine-red carpet. Erol looking up at her, pale-faced, as she crossed the church.
“We’re almost there.”
Erol turned off the main thoroughfare into a side alley. It was quieter here and completely shaded from the late afternoon sun. A light breeze blew through the lane, and coolness radiated from the paving stones, giving her goosebumps. Was it just the coolness, or was it a premonition? Augusta tried to shake the feeling that nothing good lay down this alley.
A sign beckoned ahead: Hatira, in big, curling letters, with an open book beneath. Erol pulled open a glass-paneled door and held it for her, saying solemnly, “After you.” She noticed he wasn’t smiling. For the first time since she had met him, he seemed tired. But the look of steely determination was back.
Stepping inside, Augusta smiled to herself—were used bookshops the same all over the world? This one looked almost exactly like the one in her hometown, except that it was slightly larger and probably many years older. But everything else was there. The wooden shelves lined with volumes of every size and color, their spines creased with age. The tables stacked with books open to their most inviting pages, from gilded mappa mundi to diagrams of human anatomy. The middle-aged owner perched on a stool behind the counter, reading glasses on the tip of his nose.
Augusta felt herself relax. Surely nothing bad could come from a place like this.
Erol headed straight for the man behind the counter, saying something quietly in Turkish. The bookshop owner—at least she thought he was the owner, he seemed so at home here—regarded the younger man seriously, nodding occasionally as he listened. Erol paused. The owner took his glasses off the end of his nose and played with them in his hand, as if carefully considering what to say. He was quiet for so long that Augusta began to worry something was wrong.
“Is everything okay?” She walked over, looking between Erol and the other man.
Erol nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the bookshop owner. “Yes. Mr. Veysel is just thinking about my request.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. Turning to Augusta, he asked, “Did you look around?”
Upon hearing Erol speak English, Mr. Veysel also turned to Augusta. “Where are you from?” he said in English. “Are you visiting Istanbul for the first time?”
“Yes,” Augusta said courteously. “It’s beautiful here. Including your bookshop. How old is this place?”
“Ah!” The older man came to life. “The building is hundreds of years old, no one knows for sure. But I have a map over here—” he leaned forward and pointed toward a wall on the other side of the shop—“that shows a building on this spot in 1782. Who knows if it was a bookshop then. But I wouldn’t be surprised. This area has always been home to artists and writers and musicians. People who didn’t always fit into polite society.” He winked at Augusta. “Some things never change!”
She smiled. “Are you saying the three of us here don’t fit into polite society?”
“Oh, no, I have no idea about you, I speak only for myself and the majority of my customers. We do get some odd ones here. Then again, that might be because of the books I sell. We are the only bookshop in Istanbul that carries old books on magic, astrology, and the occult sciences. I suppose that’s why you and your friend came to me as well.”
“Yes, naturally,” Erol rejoined. “You are the one people come to when they want to know about the occult. Your shop is a meeting point for people interested in this subject. And it was you who tipped off the Ottoman History Museum about the Rumelov group two years ago. You seem to be the expert on all things related to occultism around here.”
The older man bowed with mock dignity. “You flatter me.”
“But I wouldn’t call them sciences,” Erol continued. “In the Ottoman period they were considered sciences, but not anymore.”
“What then? Would you call them arts?”
Erol shook his head. “More like a scam. Or a pseudo-science at best. How could anyone think they can read the future in the stars? Or predict a favorable date by opening a book at random? It doesn’t make sense.”
“A skeptic, are you?” Mr. Veysel seemed amused rather than offended. “We don’t get too many of those in here. I think I should, rather, be asking you why the future can’t be read in the stars. All things are connected, you know. Perhaps their knowledge was rudimentary in Ottoman times, but today we have the physics to prove how it is so.” He addressed Augusta again. “Surely you know the butterfly effect?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Every event in the universe impacts every other one. The small movement of a butterfly’s wings on one side of the earth can cause a hurricane on the other. The universe is a series of complex systems, all interconnected.” Mr. Veysel paused and looked directly at Augusta. “Why would you think a butterfly’s wings could cause a storm, but something as large as a star could not?”
Augusta blinked. She wasn’t sure.
“No, that’s ridiculous,” Erol said forcefully. “Yes, the universe is a series of complex dynamic systems, but some are more closely related than others. Climatic systems on Earth are all interdependent, but the position of a star a hundred million light years away is only very distantly related to a butterfly’s wings on earth. Some systems are in a position of direct influence on one another, and others are not. A distant star is outside the realm of influence on earth.”
“How can you be sure about that? How can you prove that the position and brightness of planets and stars would have no effect on life here? If you’ve never studied interplanetary alignment, then you have no way of knowing whether or not it impacts you.”
Erol rolled his eyes. “Because I already know what causes earthly events to happen. And it’s all caused by other things here on earth.”
“But how do you know those things are not caused by planetary and stellar motion?” Veysel pressed. “It is still possible that the original causes here on earth were set in motion by them. You would never know.”
“Because it doesn’t make sense!” Erol’s voice betrayed his frustration. “And anyway, even if events on earth were caused by heavenly bodies, how would anyone know how to interpret the motions of planets or stars? It’s not as if there’s a manual, telling us what each planet does to us here on earth.”
“Exactly, just like the rest of nature. Do you think humans are born knowing the second law of thermodynamics or Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle? These ideas were derived from centuries of careful study. Observing patterns in nature, noticing what happened when certain natural conditions were present. For most of history astrology was considered a science. It’s only the short-sighted failure of modern scientists to accept its premises that led to a separation of astrology from astronomy.”
“You mean it’s only the complete failure of astrology to stand up to any scientific scrutiny that led it to be separated from science!” Erol was so absorbed in the debate, he seemed to have forgotten why they had come to the bookshop in the first place.
Augusta decided Erol’s belligerence toward their informant wasn’t doing them any favors. She smiled sweetly at Mr. Veysel and, picking up a book at random from a nearby table, said, “What about this one? It looks interesting.”
Veysel put his reading glasses back on his nose and walked over for a closer look. “Ah! Yes. This one is very beautiful, very important. Hüsrev and Şirin. One of the greatest love stories ever told. This is just a reproduction, but you can see how beautifully it was illustrated by the Ottoman scribes.”
He set the book down and paged through it slowly, pointing at the highly stylized pictures of sultans in their gardens. Green vines twisted around the words, and gilded letters glittered from the pages. It was indeed very beautiful. Augusta felt as if she were looking through her grandmother’s old jewelry box. Everything in it was out of style, but it still shimmered and dazzled, even in the fading light of the bookshop.
“This version was written by Sinan Şeyhi, one of our greatest Turkish poets, in the 15th century. About six hundred years ago.” Veysel glanced meaningfully at Erol. “The occult sciences have been around for millennia. They were much appreciated by the great sultans of our past.”
Augusta, still bending over the beautiful illustrations, looked up at him. “What do you mean? How is a love story related to magic?”
Mr. Veysel chuckled. “Perhaps not the story itself, but the book certainly is. Our greatest sultans—Bayezid II, Selim I, Süleyman—favored bibliomancy as a tool for learning about the future. Do you know it, bibliomancy?”
She shook her head, and Erol rolled his eyes.
“It’s another type of fortune-telling,” Erol said impatiently. “You open a book to a random page, point your finger, and see what it lands on. Then you interpret the verse however you want. It’s even more ridiculous than astrology, if that’s possible.”
“Ridiculous?” said Veysel sharply. “Did you know both these branches of science secured territorial expansions and other victories for the Ottoman empire? The empire as we know it might never have existed without these important predictions.”
Seeing their tempers start to flare again, Augusta put on her most soothing voice and said, “Erol, I saw something interesting over here. Come look at it.” Before he could protest, she grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the farthest corner of the bookshop. Veysel wouldn’t be able to hear her from this far away.
Augusta squatted down as if examining the lowest shelf, motioning for Erol to join her. He didn’t seem pleased about this interruption to his dispute with the Ottoman pseudosciences, but Erol reluctantly crouched down beside her. He stared at the aging volumes on the shelves in front of them. “What are we looking for here?”
“Nothing!” Augusta whispered emphatically. “I just wanted to get you away from Mr. Veysel! What are you doing fighting with him? Aren’t we supposed to be getting information from him?”
Erol sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t come here to talk about astrology with him. I just need his help. He’s supposed to give me information on the Rumelovs.”
“Then why are you antagonizing him? I’m over there trying to be nice, and you keep poking him in the eye. Do you think he’s going to help us now?”
Sighing again, Erol straightened up and started looking over the shelf in front of him. “Right, I’ll just find something I can buy from him. This section doesn’t look too bad, actually. Plain old history.” He ran his finger along the leather spines and pulled one off the shelf. “Hmm. This one might work.”
Together Augusta and Erol walked back toward Veysel’s counter at the front of the shop. Augusta said cheerfully, “I just showed Erol your section on Ottoman history. That’s his specialty, you know. Eighteenth-century books. What was it, Erol, the whole century, or just part of it?”
“Hmm?” Erol was now absorbed in his book, flipping through pages, running his finger beneath the printed lines. “Oh, all of it, really. Most of it.” He held the book up for Veysel to see the cover. “It looks like this is a good copy of the Tarih-i Raşid. I’ll take this one.”
Mr. Veysel nodded. “Yes, I was very pleased to find that one myself. Good choice. Quite similar to the book you’re looking for I believe—the lost discourses of Epictetus?”
Erol snapped the history book shut and turned his attention back to Mr. Veysel. “Yes, that’s the one. What do you know about it? Has anyone been in here asking about it?”
Veysel smiled grimly. “Unfortunately, yes. He calls himself Efendi. He asked me to find it for him. I don’t know what led him to believe I could trace an illegally-owned priceless book. He left a forwarding address. Would you be interested in that?”
Erol nodded. Mr. Veysel scribbled a few lines on a small piece of paper and handed it slowly to Erol, watching his reaction very carefully as he did so.
Erol glanced at the paper and blanched. “Are you sure this is the address?”
“Quite sure.”
“But this place doesn’t exist!”
“I’m certain you will find,” Mr. Veysel said smoothly, “that it does exist if you know where to look for it. And you do, Mr. Yilmaz. I’m certain that you do.”
Erol stared at Veysel for a solid moment, holding his gaze, then nodded curtly. “You’re right. Of course I know where to look for it.” He turned to Augusta and said quietly, “Let’s go. It’s time to find this Efendi.”
As Erol quickly strode to the door and pushed his way into the fading sunlight, Augusta turned and smiled sweetly at the shopkeeper, trying hard to make up for Erol’s brusqueness. “Thank you, Mr. Veysel! We appreciate your time.”
Veysel bowed his head slightly and placed one hand over his heart, a gesture Augusta took to mean “You’re welcome.” As she hurriedly followed Erol out the front door, she could just see Veysel out of the corner of her eye, returning to his stool in the dim light of his shop. She vaguely wondered how many nights he had sat there on that stool, alone, lost in a world that no longer existed.
All these men—Veysel, Erol, Ephraim, Efendi—seemed to live in the past, each in their own way. What was it that drew them to those faded old maps, those books that almost crumbled beneath your fingertips, those antique ideas that just wouldn’t go away? Here the past seemed barely out of view, as if the Ottoman sultan had simply gone away for the weekend and would be returning any day now with his retinue and his astrolabes. It was a world just beyond reach, so near you could almost see it, like silhouettes that would materialize into flesh and blood humans if you just lifted the shade. Tantalizingly near and yet completely ungraspable. Just like the secret her grandfather had kept from her—the secret she was determined to find out.
I'm really enjoying these chapters Brittany! So much about a place and time (and heritage) I knew little about. Looking forward to more!