The Blue Hour

Chapter 28: Murad

Murad lay on his divan, trembling. Although he knew he wasn't having a bad dream, he cried because he felt as if he was. Hamid had abandoned him. The walls had ears. Spies were lurking behind the curtains. Venomous spirits drifted through air, trailing a scent of incense. Cloaked assassins schemed and sharpened their blades. These were not paranoid delusions, though sometimes he was not entirely sure.

"I am Murad," he mumbled. "The son of Medjid. Crown Prince to the Ottoman throne." These were the tests, and he was sane.

It had taken a while before Murad noticed Hamid's absence, and sent his Master of the Chambers to investigate.

The previous evening had been spent in the hammam in the company of some odalisques and too much raki. He'd fallen asleep; slight, tender hands carried him to bed. In the morning, his head felt as if it might crack open. Best keep still, he had thought and lazed on the divan, motionless, for hours.

He ordered three cups of strong coffee, which he drank one after the other. A memory from the previous night emerged. A story which an odalisque had told him about Yusufeddin. The fat idiot. His carriage had been held up by men armed with kitchen utensils. Yusufeddin had cried like a woman and peed in his pants. It made Murad laugh out loud even now, but instantly stop because his head throbbed.

A sharp beam of light came through the window, he turned his back on it and shut his eyes. Hamid would not abandon him.

To compose himself, he focused his mind on the image of a crying Yusufeddin surrounded by softa, thousands of them, whatever they were - he imagined malevolent dancing creatures with thick, hairy fur casting evil spells, like in the stories the harem eunuchs liked to tell.

His jittery mind stumbled across a hazy memory of a crowd, the first time he was confronted with the subjects of the empire. Barely seven years old, selected to join his father, Sultan Medjid, under the gold and purple canopy of the Imperial caique, and Hamid left behind in the harem. Afterwards, he had boasted to Hamid how fourteen oarsmen rowed him across the Bosphorus and how all the time, Medjid had held his hand in his. He confessed nothing about his terror at the sight of the staring, cheering crowds lining the pier. The Sultan's subjects are dangerous, the eunuchs had impressed on the boys. No one can be trusted, every hand hides a weapon ready to strike and every friendly smile conceals a devious threat.

The sun went and left Murad chilled. He moved from the divan to the piano. Hamid could not possibly have left the harem, but his Master of the Chambers had insisted. Hamid left before sunset yesterday, he reported back. The new Grand Vizier, Midhat Pasha, had provided the authorisation for him to leave the harem to visit Princess Cemile. And Jurad's replacement, whatever the damned eunuch's name was: Habeshi? Fahreddin, had left with him.

"Liar! My brother would never leave me," Murad had howled at the miserable, double-dealing eunuch. And he had searched everywhere. Like a haunted soul. Wandered in and out of the rooms of the Palace-of-the-Heirs, along the stoned walls of the gardens, past the falconry, through the hammam with its many secret marbled niches, past the piano room, and down the flight of stairs into Hamid's carpentry workshop. He had wandered through their entire world. Nothing.

He returned to the piano room and played one melancholic melody after another: Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninov and Chopin again. The panic mounted. Had Abdulaziz killed Hamid? Why would he?

He ordered wine. A couple of glasses made him feel better. He was Crown Prince, so he should be the first to die, he decided and sent for Hatice. He spent some time teaching her to play and his heart filled with pride. His daughter was gifted. In a year or two, she could become a member of the harem orchestra and play for the Sultan. He had also been a gifted child. What might it be like, he wondered, to play in an orchestra?