“If possible,” Rustem said. He was listening with attention now, warmed by the tea. The room around him was like a library, in which he was listening to a private lecture on the obscurities of Ottoman animal care.

The man gestured for another glass and continued: “But when the Ottomans were trying to modernize themselves, trying to fit the old empire into a European mold, they began to see the animals as an embarrassment. So, in 1909, the municipality collected all of Istanbul’s stray dogs, ferried them to an island in the Sea of Marmara, and abandoned them. They were left with no food or water. Their cries were heard throughout the city.”

“Terrible,” Rustem said.

The man nodded. “Yes. Terrible. Those who pitied them threw them food from boats. But all the dogs on the island died. For years afterward, the residents of the city were disturbed by the smell of their corpses—even long after the bodies should have rotted away. And there was a superstition, later, that the defeats of the empire following this incident were punishment for what was done to those animals.”

Both were quiet for a moment. Rustem thought he could hear, from somewhere beyond the frosted windows, the howling of dogs.

The man nodded. “I hear it, too. I always do, after telling that story.”

He pushed a piece of palimpscreen across the table.

“Tell me—do you know this woman?”

Rustem looked at the picture. A woman, possibly in her thirties. She was at the rail of a ship. The background behind her was blurred, but he thought the photo was taken here in the republic: it had the same quality of light. Her face was nearly in profile, her hair cut short, caught in the wind. A large nose, dark eyes. She might be speaking to someone out of the frame. He did not know her.

He shook his head.

“You might know her better by her hands. Or her height. No, don’t say anything. Don’t lie. We are doing well, so far.”

Two glasses of tea arrived. Rustem felt a surge of gratitude, looking into the red-amber warmth. At least there was this. What had the man said? Sometimes tea was enough to live for.

“She belongs to a group calling themselves by a strange name. The Neo-Ottoman Stork Society. Have you heard of such a thing?”

Rustem shook his head. “No. I’ve never heard of it.”