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...
As they started back towards the city, they spat and grimaced and scratched their hair to rid themselves of the sand, which was everywhere, in their ears and mouth, under their clothes. Night fell like a curtain, making it a slow and perilous walk. They groped their way through the darkness with only the diffused light from a sliver of a moon to guide them, Hamid on his bare feet, Flora in wet boots that tore at her ankles.
An eerie howling began. It continued from street to street as new dogs joined in, possibly as a warning, as a cry for help, or to gather the pack. A thick, continuous noise, restless and filled with longing. Flocks of rawboned stray dogs appeared. They circled around, so close they had to ward them off with sharp sticks.
When they turned into the Grand Rue de Pera, Flora's shop seemed deserted and obscure, like a bedevilled house, with a single, pale light burning inside.
"The girls must be worried sick," she whispered.
In the doorway, he drew her near, and they remained standing, absorbed by the sense of being close to each other, neither wanting to let go. A question hung, unspoken, between them: what are we to do?
For a whole day, he had brushed aside all thoughts of the prophecy and the dangerous coup that was in the making. Their looming separation brought it all back. Only now, the prospect of a coup did not fill him with a sense of impending doom, but with optimism and hope.
"We will see each other again," he said with conviction.
Struggling with a sob in her throat, she answered quickly: "No. It's not possible." She said the words without letting go of his hand.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat. Tears burnt behind his eyelids, he looked away. His body felt wobbly. He mustn't allow panic to get its hooks into him.
All the way back to Galata, a whisper of a voice in his head told him: you will never see her again. Never. Never again. He willed himself to harden his heart: pull yourself together, stop frightening yourself. It was no use.
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At the sight of Hamid, Reshid fell to his knees and kissed the hem of his tunic.
"Thank God you're here, my Lord. I thought you were dead. What would I have done? What would I have told the Princess?"
He stood and looked at Hamid, trying to comprehend. "Good heavens, your feet! Bleeding! Where are your slippers? Where have you been?"
"To the Grand Bazaar," Hamid said and collapsed on the divan.
Hifsi, who appeared out of nowhere, hurriedly removed Hamid's dirtied clothes, left the room, and returned with hot water to clean his feet.
Tired and despairing of the future, Hamid allowed the words to flow, and it gave him relief. He had left Flora with little hope of seeing her again, resigned to whatever lay ahead of him. Sharing his despondency with Reshid felt like planting a tiny seed of hope his heart.
