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...
It was safer to stay off the main road so they padded down a narrow path which cut through the wet spring grass. The air was filled with the dampness of the budding earth.
Breathless with excitement, Hamid followed in Jurad's footsteps, lured by the barely distinguishable city skyline across the narrow Bosphorus strait. In the obscurity, the rounded dome of the Hagia Sophia with its four minarets, hovered over Stamboul like a huge black spider.
Above, the silvery moon cast a weak glow across Stamboul, but in the crammed heart of the city it was almost pitch black. The Turkish side of the city spread out across five hills, an ensnaring labyrinth enclosed by dilapidated Byzantine stone walls.
They roamed aimlessly through narrow, winding streets, following a curious odour, an unexplained sound, the sudden flicker of a light or an urge to explore a mysterious alleyway or an enchanting square.
Jurad was hesitant and looking over his shoulder. Ignoring his apprehensiveness, Hamid felt joyfully open and curious, everything was new to him, intriguing, or funny, or bewildering. Stray dogs fighting over scraps of food, skinny and fierce looking with bushy tails; they stepped into the gutter to inch past the growling beasts. A lone, whining dog driven away by another scrawny dog pack. A donkey making its way slowly, up an indistinct pathway underneath bulging, wooden eaves that prevented passersby from glimpsing the women within. An old man smoking in a doorway and a cat who stopped cold, hunched its back and stared threateningly at them.
A winding passage funnelled them into a large square. They stopped, rooted to the spot. Young men, thousands perhaps, huddled by fires. The smell of smoke and stale, burnt grease tickled Hamid's nostrils. A faint wind made the plane tree leaves flutter. At the centre was a large fountain. To the other end of the square, the white marble of the Sublime Porte, the seat of the Ottoman government, gleamed in the moonlight.
The Italian styled building, an inferior copy of western models, made the square look rather ugly. It was only a century old, but its name dated back to Byzantine times, when the Christian emperor announced decisions and judgements to his subjects at the gate of his palace. After the Ottomans conquered the city, the victorious Sultan adopted the practice of communicating with his subjects at the gate of his new residence, the Topkapi Palace. The palace gate became known as Bab-i-Ali, or the Sublime Porte. Centuries later, when Topkapi Palace was abandoned for the new, marbled Dolmabahçe Palace, the Sublime Porte remained on the sleepy square. People across the world continued to refer to the Ottoman government, and even to the empire itself, as the Sublime Porte.
"Let's turn back," Jurad whispered.
Hamid could not take his eyes off the stooping shadows around the fires.
"They are softa?
"You cannot be here."
"These are the riots everyone is talking about?"
What miserable-looking creatures, ghost-like, huddling around the camp fires, cooking their evening meals or sleeping. Hard to believe these were the same softa who, for weeks, had paralysed the Sultan's government. The softa had moved from the countryside to the city to study Islam in religious schools, the so-called medreses. Frustrated and unemployed, they moved around the city in hoards. With their unkempt hair, greasy beards, their wide pants, long shirts and torn kaftans they looked pitiful. As miserable and threadbare as the Stamboul stray dogs. Hamid glanced at Jurad: as threadbare and scrawny as they, themselves, looked.
"What do they want?"
"I don't know." Jurad grunted between clenched teeth. "Your High... Hamid, we should leave."
"Just a quick look, then we'll go."
Hamid pulled the hood of his kaftan over his head and motioned for Jurad to do the same; Jurad, a black eunuch, would not blend in. A student slouched past them and Hamid followed in his trail towards the centre of the square, mimicking the young man's movements. Behind him, Jurad huffed.
A student jumped onto the rim of the fountain, lifted his arms and chanted: "Bring back Midhat Pasha."
The crowd answered, "Bring back Midhat Pasha," and began to beat pans and casseroles.
"Midhat Pasha? The Minister? Didn't my uncle exile him?" Hamid asked.
"Shhh."
A circle formed around the student, he had jumped off the fountain rim and, to the tune of his flute, danced before the crowd, his long brown hair flying as he moved. Around him, the softa danced, chanted, and beat their pots and pans.
Glued to him like a shadow was Jurad, hooded, with one hand on the jewel encrusted dagger hidden in his cloak.
"Let's go." He tugged at Hamid's sleeve.
In the darkness, Hamid could not see the tightness around his mouth, but he could sense his fear. Ignoring it, he sat down by a fire, next to a group of students. He was not himself, he had embraced the unknown, he felt weightless and free, like a feather carried by the wind.
There were discussions held and demands made in the darkness of the night, and he listened. Fiery speeches about how the Sultan's government failed to crush the Christian rebellions in the empire's Balkan provinces, about how his uncle's mad spending ruined the empire, and how the root of all evil was his treacherous, Russia-friendly Grand Vizier who should be removed from office. Carried away by the passion of the students, Hamid got on his feet, and roared with them: "Bring back Midhat Pasha for Grand Vizier."
The noise subsided as the students settled for the night and drifted off to sleep wrapped in their mantles by the dying fires. Students took turn keeping a lookout. Next to Hamid, Jurad hummed a melancholic melody in a deep, soothing voice. For the rest, the square was silent and calm.
Time drifted. Hamid contemplated the tiny stars above, the tremendous sky, the fragrant air, the pure joy of being without a past or a future, all he wanted was to hold on to it a little longer.
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Stamboul was the heart of the city, the old Byzantine part situated on the historic peninsula between the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara. Some of its iconic landmarks are the Hagia Sophia, the Topkapi Palace, and the Grand Bazaar.
In the olden days, itserved as the political, religious, and commercial center of Constantinople, with the old Topkapi Palace, administrative buildings, and numerous mosques, churches, and synagogues.
In 1876, Stamboul was still a densely populated, multi-cultural hub of trade and commerce, with markets, bazaars, and artisan workshops lining its labyrinthine streets, but the political center had moved with the Imperial family to the newly built Dolmabagche Palace, located on the shore of the European side of the city.
