An hour later, Augusta had made some startling discoveries. She had discovered that life in Istanbul revolved not around the calls to prayer she heard echoing in tinny voices from mosques all over the city, but around the traffic clogging every road, from the smallest alleyway to the eight-lane mega-highways running around its periphery. Their taxi driver, like every other driver on the road, didn’t seem to care much about the other vehicles that happened to be on the road in front of, beside, or behind him. He stopped when he felt like it, ignored inconvenient red lights, and set the old Renault at full throttle at the merest hint of open road.
Augusta couldn’t really blame him, though. Confronted with the frenzied driving of the other drivers around them, there wasn’t much alternative. They wouldn’t have gotten anywhere if their driver had been faint of heart. By the time they reached Eda’s apartment, she had relinquished her tight grip on the leather seat and settled back for a long, absorbing conversation with Erol.
Which led to her next great discovery: the origin of the book nesting inconspicuously at the bottom of her old duffel bag. During their two-hour drive, Erol explained how the old, leathery pages had been copied, in Ottoman Turkish, from an older Greek manuscript dating back to the early Byzantine empire. How everyone had thought the final four discourses of Epictetus were lost forever, despite rumors that the lost books had secretly survived in the collection of a powerful Ottoman vizier. How an 18th-century Turkish diplomat had given them to Englishwoman Elizabeth Carter as a token of his admiration and, perhaps, undying love.
“But who was Elizabeth Carter?” Augusta interrupted, remembering the name Erol had mentioned in their very first phone conversation. A relation of hers, he had said, but in what way?
“The first English translator of the Discourses of Epictetus,” Erol told her with a smile. “She was very interesting. Back then, women were not supposed to be scholars, but she taught herself Greek, Latin, and even Arabic. She refused all offers of marriage so she could continue a life of reading and study. Instead of having a family she became internationally famous as a writer and translator.”
This revelation, however, provoked more questions. “But if she never had children, how can I be her descendant?”
“You’re not her descendant,” Erol corrected. “You’re the descendant of her brother. No one knows for sure, but apparently she left the lost discourses to her brother’s children, and they must have passed it down through the family for generations.” He looked at Augusta with curiosity. “Did you really not know any of this? Your family never told you anything?”
She shook her head. All those times with her grandfather, and he had never said a word about Elizabeth Carter, or Epictetus, or the lost discourses. Had he not known? If he had, why had he kept such important information hidden from her? She might very well be the last direct descendant of Nicolas Carter, the last of her family to inherit this extraordinary book. This was vital information for her to know. Her grandfather’s silence just didn’t make sense.
Sinking back onto the wizened seat, Augusta stared out the taxi window, watching half-heartedly as the city whizzed by. They must be nearing the city center. The buildings streaking past her window became taller and denser, the sidewalks more and more crowded. Buses slowly edged their way in and out of traffic. Mopeds darted around rows of cars as everyone honked impatiently at everyone else. Augusta had never seen so many people doing so many different things at once. No wonder Erol Yilmaz was so eager to get things done. It was the spirit of the city.
Out of the corner of her eye, she now carefully considered her companion. Erol was aggressively rummaging through his bag for his half-eaten sandwich, humming a tune under his breath. It seemed he was never still. Augusta smiled to herself as he bobbed his head to the beat of his own song, alternating bites of his sandwich with offhand comments to the taxi driver in Turkish. In spite of herself, she felt drawn to his enthusiastic sincerity. Was it the openness of his smile? His contagious energy? She didn’t know why, but she trusted him.
“What I don’t understand,” she commented, picking up the thread of their conversation, “is how you were able to trace my grandfather’s book. If no one knew about it for years, how did you find us?”
“Ah. Yes.” Erol looked very proud of himself. “It was because of something my professor said. I studied 17th century Ottoman history at university, and it’s one of the great mysteries of early Ottoman printing. You know, the sultans were very late to adopt book printing. They were suspicious of it. They had armies of scribes and calligraphers who created beautiful books for them, so they had no need for mechanical printing. Only non-Muslims, like the Jewish and Christian residents of the empire, were allowed to use the printing press for the first two hundred years.”
Erol spoke excitedly, as if he had been waiting his whole life to share this information with someone.
“Then in 1726 Sultan Ahmet III agreed to the first printing press, but only for non-religious texts. The Ottoman ambassador Müteferrika was a book collector who had seen books all over Europe. He opened the first press in Istanbul and printed everything. Maps, medical texts, dictionaries, astronomical works. It is believed that he also printed works of Greek philosophy passed down through the Byzantine Empire. When the Ottomans conquered Constantinople in 1453, they inherited many of the empire’s ancient manuscripts. Some were destroyed. Some were taken by scholars fleeing to Italy, where the Renaissance was underway. Some remained in Ottoman libraries and were later translated into Ottoman Turkish.”
“So, theoretically,” offered Augusta, trying to cut to the chase, “my book was published by this, uh, Müteferrika in 1726.”
“Well, the press operated between 1729 and 1742, so it would have been printed sometime in that period. Very few books survive from this time. Those that do survive are incredibly rare and valuable, as you can imagine. But the most special, the most mythical by far, is the lost discourses of Epictetus.”
Erol eyed her duffel bag, where the valuable book was hidden, and lowered his voice. “We’ll look at it when we get to Eda’s place. The taxi isn’t a good place to take it out.” Augusta knew it must take considerable effort for him to resist asking to see the book right then and there. But she agreed—this dirty taxi, bumping over potholes and around pedestrians at top speed, was not a good environment for careful perusal of a delicate, incredibly rare book.
At a higher volume, he resumed his story. “Almost all Müteferrika’s books were printed in Ottoman Turkish, and a few in Arabic. We don’t know how many copies were printed of Epictetus’ Discourses, but we have a record that a copy was in the possession of Mehmet Ragıp Pasha in 1751. Mehmet Pasha was an important person in the empire. He held various positions, like ambassador, treasurer, and governor of Egypt. At one point he was foreign minister. He traveled all over Europe and met many people.”
Here Erol paused and raised his eyebrows dramatically. “Who do you think he met when he went to London in the 1750s?”
There could be only one right answer, Augusta knew. “Elizabeth Carter.”
“Right. Several letters, now owned by private collectors, show they met frequently in the period when Mehmet Pasha was in London. They doubtless had much to discuss. Elizabeth Carter had just translated the four known discourses of Epictetus from Greek into English, to much acclaim in the English-speaking world. The pasha must have told her about the other four discourses, which were presumed lost to Europeans. I’m sure they had some interesting conversations.”
For a moment he was silent, looking thoughtfully out the window ahead of them. Augusta, too, was imagining ardent philosophical conversations between the demure English scholar in her lace and sashes, and the exotic Turkish pasha in his silk turban and fur-trimmed capes. What had they said to each other? What looks had they exchanged? What feelings had they left unspoken? Augusta could only guess.
“In the letters we have, there is no mention of Epictetus or any exchange of books. No one knows for sure if Mehmet Pasha gave Müteferrika’s book to Elizabeth Carter. Up until now it has been a rumor, a suspicion. In 1757 Mehmet was called to Istanbul and appointed Grand Vizier, the most powerful man in the empire after the sultan himself. He later married the sultan’s sister. It’s safe to say he never saw the Englishwoman again.”
The sun was drooping toward the horizon now, hanging low and orange in the hazy sky. Wispy clouds trailed out around it, reflecting coppers and pinks from the mellowing rays. As they paused at a traffic light, Augusta tried to read the shop signs, looking at the Turkish letters to see if she recognized any from her book. She turned back to Erol. “This writing isn’t the same as the writing in my book.”
“No, this is new Turkish writing. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the first president of the Republic of Turkey, changed everything in the 1920s. He got rid of the old Ottoman writing, which was based on the Arabic script. He had linguists create a new writing system based on the Latin alphabet, to make everything more Western. That’s the writing we use now. Your book would use the old Arabic-style script.”
Yes, that made sense. Old versus new. Permanence versus change. Progress.
“So, you were going to tell me how you found my book?”
Erol nodded. “Most people didn’t take the Elizabeth Carter connection seriously, but Professor Meral did. She’s the world’s leading expert on 17th century Ottoman books.” He paused and looked at Augusta expectantly.
“Oh wow,” Augusta offered. “She must be really smart.”
“Yes. She always believed Mehmet Ragıp Pasha gave the book to Elizabeth Carter. So I concentrated my efforts on what could have happened to it after that.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t easy. I spent months looking at her family records. Bills of sale, official registries, births and deaths. I finally found traces of a descendant who emigrated to America, to North Carolina.” He looked pointedly at the young American beside him. “Your great-grandfather, I believe. I only picked up the trail again with your grandfather, Nicolas Carter.”
At the mention of her grandfather’s name, Augusta felt uneasy. Thinking of her grandfather as part of this grand story, from Sultan Ahmet III to her small town in North Carolina, somehow spooked her a bit. And not just her grandfather. Augusta herself! She was the inheritor of this legacy, the person responsible for the fate of this semi-mythical book. It seemed a huge burden to bear. She vaguely wondered if that was the reason Grandfather hadn’t told her about the discourses. But she also felt that she would rather know the whole, unprotected truth than be coddled like a child. She was twenty now, almost twenty-one. She was more than capable of handling this responsibility.
The taxi twisted its way up a long cobblestone street and pulled to a stop in front of a tall, white building lined with rows of balconies. This must be Eda’s apartment building. Like most of the others they had passed, this one stood shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors on either side, compressed upward by the cobblestone streets, trash bins, buses, and people churning around its base. Augusta couldn’t tell how old this neighborhood was. The buildings somehow managed to look old and new at the same time.
As Erol paid the taxi driver, Augusta climbed out of the battered old Renault and glanced cautiously up and down the busy street. If there was safety in numbers, this place was certainly safe. People were everywhere, pushing strollers, carrying shopping bags, talking on mobile phones, laughing with friends in bunches of twos and threes. On the other side of the street shoppers spilled in and out of the clothing boutique, the jewelry store, and the pastry shop displaying delicious cakes in its windows. Augusta was suddenly reminded that she hadn’t eaten anything in almost a day. If worse came to worse, she could sneak out later and get herself a chocolate croissant. Or whatever else they sold in Turkish pastry shops.
With her duffel bag over her shoulder, she followed Erol to the sturdy metal door of number 34. She had to admit, Erol wasn’t wrong about the security at this building. It would not be easily broken into. Through the front window she could see a mustachioed security guard waiting at attention, a pistol holster around his waist. Under the watchful eye of a security camera, Erol pressed a button on the intercom and the door buzzed open.
“Yusuf!” Erol called jovially, clasping hands with the guard. They slapped each other on the back like long-lost brothers, speaking rapid-fire Turkish at what sounded to Augusta like an incredible volume. After a few moments, Erol turned back to Augusta, smiling radiantly. “Great news. Yusuf will take good care of you and Eda. He’s on duty all night. He’ll make sure you stay safe until we leave for the museum in the morning.” He shook the guard’s hand again and then led Augusta away from the security desk and into the elevator, where he pressed the large number 5 on the backlighted panel.
When the elevator doors opened onto the fifth floor, they stepped out into a small hallway, elegantly lit by the fading sun streaming in through an open window at its far end. A few feet away Eda’s apartment door was standing wide open. The sound of vigorous activity emanated from the apartment—clinking pots and pans, cabinet doors opening and shutting, plates and silverware clattering on a table. A Turkish pop song played loudly over the noise.
Erol headed straight for the open door, looking delighted. “Good, dinner’s ready. I’m starving!”
Wonderful. Lovely how you bring the city, the past, and mystery to life.
Wonderful writing and story telling Brittany. I am eagerly awaiting the next instalment!