Inspired by true events, 'The Blue Hour' is a story of political intrigue and doomed love set in the dying days of the Ottoman Empire during the summer of 1876. All Prince Hamid and the Belgian glove-maker, Flora Cordier, want is to pursue their for...
Two servants appeared on the porch. The Doctor directed them as they placed Reza on a stretcher and carried him inside. There was a faint shuffle and hushed voices. The doctor's wife reappeared in the doorway. She lingered. A light came on in a room next to the entrance. The door closed.
For the second time that night, tears welled into Hamid's eyes, and he swallowed hard to suppress them. They were still, pressed against each other. He inhaled, and smelled the sweat on Flora's body, replete with unknown scents. His own body felt humid and itchy, and he trembled, not from cold, but from nerves.
"When I left him he was praying, he was preparing for death," he said and felt his throat thick with emotion.
"He'll live," she said in an unsteady voice, which he found reassuring. Or was it the warmth of her body which came inching towards him through the fibres of their clothes? Flora's face looked pale and strained. He noticed stains of dirt on her face which had appeared during their journey, and that a small scar on her cheek made her dimple more pronounced. He shuddered. Or quivered? Something fuzzy stirred in the pit of his stomach, which took him by surprise. His chest moved as he breathed, the tension of the past couple of hours just melting away. Next to him, Flora suppressed a shaky sigh, it came out as a stifled giggle which made him choke back laughter.
"Hard duty, my friend, we'll be glad to help," said a coarse voice behind him.
He felt Flora freeze. Right next to them, a couple of soldiers had appeared, they swayed on their feet and reeked of alcohol. He summoned what little knowledge he had of English to understand what they were saying.
"You bring the whore, we supply the feather-bed and the wine," the second man pitched in with a chuckle.
Flora kept her eyes lowered. She seemed to shrink, as if all her courage, or all her power, had deserted her. Harmless drunks, and yet, he too felt threatened without quite understanding why. He had known danger all his life, but of a different sort, more underhanded and sly. And Jurad had been the sharp dagger by his side.
He broke away from Flora and stepped forward, out of the doorway into the dim gaslight. In their drunken state, the men were taken by surprise, got their feet entangled under them and tumbled backwards.
"Oh, they're Turks," one of them said, his voice contemptuous. As he steadied himself, his rough fingers searched for the knife tucked inside the belt at the waist. His friend giggled and tugged at his arm. "C'mon. We've come to the wrong place, this whorehouse stinks."
Flora held him back. "Leave it," she whispered.
With an arm around the other's shoulders, the men skulked off. One of them started singing: "Oh, dirty Maggie Mae they have taken her away," and, in a rich baritone, his friend joined in: "And she'll never walk down Lime Street anymore."
A dog barked, setting off another dog and another. Silence descended over them. The connection they had felt a few moments ago was gone.
She emerged from the doorway.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I'm afraid... I should get back."
"Let me go with you. The soldiers are out there."
She shook her head wearily. "I'm better off without you."
Her words were true, yet accusing and hurtful. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and resisting the impulse to hold her back, he watched as she started down the street without turning around. Within seconds, the darkness absorbed her.
"Wait!" He caught up with her and cautiously took her arm. "How can I thank you?"
"Don't."
His fingers slipped from her arm, he felt lost and desolate. "Will I see you again?"
"I will forget this night and no one will ever know. You should do the same. This night never happened."
Somehow, he made his way down the hill from Pera and chanced upon the path along the seashore, which he had taken earlier with Jurad. They had walked west towards Stamboul, but now, he traced his steps back east, back to the 'wudu' of the mosque in the hills. Through the silence he could hear the rustling of leaves. What time was it? Were the soldiers still searching for softa? He didn't care. His whole body ached, he felt alone and empty. One, two, three, he counted, but his thoughts strayed aimlessly. Incoherent scraps and threads of thoughts swarmed in his brain, like pieces in a puzzle that should make a whole. Only they did not. Nothing made any sense to him.
Beneath it all reverberated a painful longing to forget himself altogether, to forget everything. Forget this night, Flora's voice urged him. It was the only way. No. Impossible. This night was all he could think of, every detail of it, and the bewildering surge of violent emotions it provoked. A humming, inner voice told him to lay down and sleep right there, by the roadside. He looked to the moon.
"Walk," he said out loud. "One, two, three, four."
Images of Jurad's eyes flashed through his brain. His heart was beating hard. And the knife. Had it really floated in the air? It was a sign, but of what? He scoffed out loud. "Superstitious eunuch." Tears welled into his eyes.
A new rush of intense and muddled feelings overwhelmed him, which, instinctively he pushed away. He had no desire to clarify anything, it was pointless to try to understand himself. And yet, he refused to let the feelings go, as if his body told him that keeping them alive and vibrant - all of it, the excitement, the grief, the joy, the fear, the bewilderment - was as important to him as breathing.
He stopped and looked back over this shoulder at Pera, to the glowing settlement perched on the hilltop.
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Author's note
The embedded image is of British soldiers in the Crimean War, 1854-1856, when the Ottomans fought against the Russians alongside their British and French allies. After the war, Britain maintained a significant military presence in the Empire to protect its interests and assert its influence in the region. In particular, Britain wanted to safeguard trade routes to India, and significant economic interests in the empire.
To celebrate the end of the war, the British Ambassador organised a fancy dress ball. For the first time in history the Sultan honoured a foreign embassy with his presence. Hamid and his brother, Murad, were not considered of an age to be contaminated by alien influences, so they had to stay behind in Dolmabagche Palace.
