The Blue Hour

Chapter 16: Reshid

It was still early, but getting dark. Cradling a top hat and a large paper parcel, Reshid crossed a street and passed under a portcullis into a narrow pathway. In Galata, dim gas lights came on in the shallow storefronts and the evening commerce was in full swing, but Reshid's home was located in an area of quiet alleyways, off the beaten track. Behind him trotted a small boy, his face almost indiscernible under the carefully folded pile of dark clothing which he carried in his arms. Reshid had borrowed the dinner dress - and the boy - from a Greek tailor, an acquaintance from the café who he played chess with in the evenings.

"Don't soil the jacket my friend," the tailor had said, "and be sure to have it back by tomorrow; the owner wants it delivered before nightfall. And let the boy do the necktie for you, to make sure it's done right."

The last time he had done a necktie was years ago in a lonely house on the edge of Budapest. He had been a French tutor and the lady of the house made him wear one every day. Until she found out that hidden under his Catholic name was a Jewish identity, and dismissed him. He had only spent a winter in her house, in a large room overlooking the garden, tutoring the children a couple of hours a day. The rest had been his own time to devote to studies in Turkish, Arabic and Persian. Idyllic, is how he remembered it. While it lasted. The husband had liked him well enough and had been sad to let him go.

Remembering that, an earlier memory surfaced, the tobacco reeking 'slave market' in Cafe Orczy in Vienna. Hour after hour, seated on the 'bench of shame' with other despondent jews. Future employers looked him up and down, until an agent declared him sold. How very young he had been. How far he had come. Tonight, he would dine at the table of the British Ambassador.

Recently, he had dreamt of his own funeral, his body alone in the cold ground and forgotten, all ties to his family severed. When he woke, the silence of his home had not felt soothing as on other mornings, but painful. The pain was increased by the awareness that he did not have a single person in Constantinople to whom he could tell all he felt, not as a dervish or a Catholic or a Jew, but as a suffering human being. It made him think that for some time, months, or perhaps even years, he had secretly longed for this moment. The vague recollection of Sir Elliot's flattering interest in him, and the anticipation of the dinner, inspired him to whistle a cheerful tune.

Tonight, he would return home. Not home to Hungary, there was nothing there for him but misery. He would remove his disguise, and reunite with his flock. The feeling of relief was so strong, he stopped whistling to smile. He inhaled and exhaled. The brisk walk had made his heart beat, and he enjoyed the feeling. He enjoyed feeling his chest muscles expand and contract with every breath.

"Hurry up boy, it's not far," he said. Feeling invigorated and alive, he resumed whistling.

                                                                                      ****

"A huge number of children were spitted on bayonets and carried about the streets," Mr MacGahan said. "In Batak alone, five thousand villagers were beheaded or burnt alive. Their bodies left in piles before the church on the town square."

The correspondent for the London Daily News sat comfortably leaned back in the dining room chair, playing thoughtfully with his thick black whiskers as he spoke. In the attentive silence, Reshid heard Sir Elliot clear his throat and shift in his chair. Under the portrait of the Queen, Sir Elliot, the host, presided over the large dinner table of about twenty guests. At the opposite end of the table sat his wife with an expression which said that the conversation was too heavy for a dinner party.

"Animals," the lady next to MacGahan mumbled, and the guests nodded in agreement. MacGahan glanced at her, but his eyes still seemed to see the slaughtered Christians in Bulgaria. In his low, spellbinding voice, he continued his story. "Wherever we went, the ground was covered with skeletons, with bits of clothing and putrefied flesh clinging to the bones. A sickening stench hung in the air. Skulls everywhere. Dogs feasting on the remains."