The Blue Hour

Chapter 27: Reshid

"He's at the mosque," Surur said. "We've barely returned to Constantinople, and he's already busy getting himself exiled again. Or killed. Reshid, please talk some sense into him."

He knew Surur from the years before the family's exile, when he taught her husband French in their library. As so often before, he thought of how lucky Midhat was to have her for a wife. She was more humble than her husband, kinder, but every bit as intelligent. Whenever Reshid left her home, he felt warm inside; Surur mastered the art of making anyone who entered her realm feel like they belonged. With a smile on his face and a lighter heart he walked briskly towards the Süleymaniye Mosque.

The smell of cooked meat lingered in the narrow streets, it was early enough for some people to still enjoy a late meal, but late enough for the streets to start emptying for the night. Hamid must have gone to bed by now in his study. No matter how flattering, it felt very unsettling that the prince should seek refuge in his home. Another sign that the world was coming apart at the seams?

It triggered in him a familiar, feverish energy. I envy you; he scoffed at Hamid's tearful confession. His life had never been a quest for happiness or freedom, but for survival. If he was alive today, it was because he had not allowed himself to indulge in self-pity or yearning. Whatever life he had, whatever freedom, he had worked for it. And sacrificed.

At first, when he was a child, it had not been his choice, he was too young and too weak to do the necessary. His ambitious mother had chosen for him. She understood that the only way to rid himself of the rags and shackles of his birth was to leave everything behind: his impoverished family and miserable friends, his cursed Jewish name, the pitiful village, religion, language, and culture. "Armin, you cannot and must not be an ordinary man," she said and sent him off into the world to fend for himself, alone and penniless. Dragging his crooked leg, with the crutch under his arm and a knapsack filled with books.

 Never had he wavered or doubted, never had he looked back. She would be proud of him. His spirits lifted. He felt more confident, courageous even and a little self-important; he would find Midhat Pasha, deliver Peresto's message and be done with it. A warm feeling spread in the body, and he started to whistle a merry tune.

Outside a religious school, his path was blocked by a group of sleeping street-dogs. He slowed down, and with his back grazing the school wall, he squeezed past the pack, taking great care to not disturb them.

A rasping voice from inside the school caught his attention. But it wasn't the voice which made him trip over his own slipper and almost fall, it was the words spoken by it: "We should have killed Prince Yusufeddin while we had the chance."

There were rowdy, supportive yells.

With a fearful look left and right, he quickly slipped down a couple of steps to the entrance. The green wooden doors were shut, but through a side window he saw a vast inner courtyard with a fountain at its centre, and all around it, squatting softa. A couple of hundred? More? Many of them were armed. He didn't like softa; they were dirty and uneducated, and roamed the city in packs, like flee-infected stray-dogs.

By stretching through the toes and pulling on the window bars, Reshid hoisted himself up to get a closer look. Their leader, the man with the rasping voice, zig-zagged through the group, his brown hair flowing.

"Our brothers died because we were unarmed. Next time, we will come prepared. The Sultan betrayed us. He has been corrupted by the infidel, but we will strike back at all traitors who attack their own. We are the protectors of Islam, we will chase the infidel out of this city. We will chase them out of the empire!"

Men brandished their arms, rifles, knives, swords, and chanted: "Kill the infidel."

A second voice, vaguely familiar, called out from the far-end corner: "Selim, my dear friend, I beg to differ."