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...
The carriage stopped while the driver cleared the road from sleeping stray dogs. He realised this was one of the streets through which he had dragged Reza's limp body. Flora's shop could not be far. His own workshop was more spacious, but the sturdy workbench in the back-room, with a vise and cutting tools for gloves, was similar enough to his own carpentry workbench to make him feel at ease.
Every detail of her shop had been remarkable to him. Most astonishing had been his own presence there, and the natural manner with which Flora treated him. He had felt seen, not only by her, but by himself. It wasn't the simple kaftan he wore or the lines of dirt on his face that had made him feel different. Rather, it was as if, gradually, over the long night, he had shed his Osmanli persona, and another being had been brought forth, completely unknown to him, yet more real and strangely familiar.
So when he omitted to reveal his real identity to Flora it didn't feel like lying. On the contrary, it felt as if, for the first time in his life, he was sincere and truthful. Her kindness and trust in him sparked a warmth in his heart, and an anxious desire to be worthy, to not let her down.
If Reza lived it was thanks to him, she had said, and to his surprise, he did not object. Her praise made him feel weightless, and astonished - reflected in her eyes, he saw an image of himself which he had never seen before, and he believed it. He trusted her judgement, he was worthy and valiant because she was all those things and more, and he was with her, in this unlikely space with her gracious gaze on him like a warm beam of light. The memory made him shiver from pleasure. He would do anything to have stayed in that warmth. He would do anything to not be the man he was, but the man he dreamt of being.
While he daydreamed, the carriage turned into the Grand Rue de Pera. As they rolled past the open iron gates of the Cité, he told himself, if I see her again... Without finishing the thought because, at that moment, the store was there, the door closed, and curtains drawn. What a fool he was. It was the middle of the night, Flora would be asleep in bed.
Awkwardly, he disentangled himself from the back of the seat and turned to look through the back window. For a second, he thought he saw her standing there, sparkling in the dim streetlight. Without taking his eyes off that image, he smiled, not knowing at what.
As he sat back in his seat, a sense of precipitation expanded in his chest. He had the urge to get out of the carriage, to lose himself in these unknown streets and disappear forever.
He didn't move. He never did. Fear was an integral part of his life and he had learnt to pretend not to notice. The harem had taught him to avoid violent reactions; it was safer to sit back, impassive and measured, watch, listen, and bide his time. It was better to count. One, two, three... It didn't keep the fear from expanding inside. He felt swollen with dread, his joints and organs ached from the pressure, as if he might burst.
With painful clarity, he saw the terrible logic of his situation. It was not only that he had to live in constant fear of sudden, brutal death by the hand of an enemy. His own wants and needs were bottled up inside and he had to live in fear of what that might do to him. He had to live in fear of himself.
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