The Blue Hour

Chapter 31: Flora

In the harbour, the customs procedure had been smooth, not the usual, absurdly long hours of waiting to get the import papers signed by an obscure hierarchy of Ottoman civil servants. Flora had paid the import duty and arranged for the fabrics to be delivered by coach later in the afternoon.

Now they made their way empty-handed through Galata, in the direction of the "Tunel," the newly inaugurated funicular railway. It was the second in the world after the London Underground, and the pride of Sultan Abdulaziz and of the whole of Constantinople. It only had two stops, but it spared those who could afford it the steep climb from the harbour, banks, and businesses of Galata, to the luxury stores, hotels, and embassies of Pera. Flora hoped the excitement of trying it for the first time would lighten their spirits.

Normally, the arrival of the fresh bolts of fabrics made their stomachs flutter, the challenge of identifying new best-selling glove models and the delightful prospect of burying themselves in creative work. But today, Anoush had an ugly expression of discontent, her lips pressed tightly together. Since the night of the softa protests, she had been restless and brooding.

Flora's mood was no better. Encouraged by Hélène, and armed with lies, she had returned to Dr Droit the day before. A wounded softa outside her shop had begged her for help, she told him. She directed him to the doctor's house, but blamed herself for not having done more to help the poor man - did he make it? He survived, the doctor said, and soldiers had taken him away.

"Ottoman," she asked breathlessly.

"You did well not to engage with him," he said. "The softa are fanatic Muslims who hate Christians, and they're armed and violent. That's why I denounced the man to the Ottoman authorities." 

An emptiness settled in her chest. It weighed her down. For the second time, she decided the strange night with the softa was best forgotten. She would tell Hélène this. No more reckless games. Her resolve made her feel better. It released a comforting feeling. An order which lately had seemed to collapse, could once again be restored.

The desolate feeling returned the next morning when she remembered she would dine with William in the evening to plan their engagement. She still hadn't announced the wedding to the girls, she didn't know how. It had been two years since she invited the sisters into her home, and they had grown close, almost like family. What would become of them now?

She fixed her gaze on Anoush's fluttering blue dress. The girl was one step ahead of her, clearing a path for them through the crowd of people, sailors loading and unloading on the quays, women selling their wares, heavy carts loaded with goods, soldiers in colourful uniforms. Thick curls flowed down her back; she had acquiesced to arrange it in European fashion but refused to trim it in a strange homage to her massacred family, crooked, scorched bodies on the stone floor of a burnt-down Armenian Church.

From the quays they entered the narrow alleyway where Flora had found the sisters two years ago. It snowed that day. Heavy wet flakes turned into muddy water which penetrated her shoes and numbed her toes with cold. The sisters huddled in a doorway, vulnerable, young, only twelve and fifteen years old, dressed in rags and - Flora couldn't help noticing - with bare feet wrapped in paper.

The younger, her tiny face fever-flushed, coughed. The older begged passerby for money. No one paid attention - or pretended not to see. Already at that time, the city streets overflowed with refugees, so many they had grown invisible.

The girls stirred something inside her, and, for a moment, she stood amidst shouts and curses and the creaks of wooden carriage wheels, as people around her hurried past. She brought them home. It was dark, she reflected, and her nosy neighbours would never know.