The Blue Hour

Chapter 4: Flora

It was after midnight when a stranger knocked on Flora's door, begging her to save his life and that of his wounded companion. The faint light which seeped through the drawn curtains of her display window must have encouraged him. His injured friend was losing a lot of blood. Please, whoever is in there, help us, he pleaded.

She snuffed out the candle and listened with her ear pressed to the door, too frightened to breathe. On nights like this, when her thoughts gave her no rest, she would tip-toe her way down the narrow stairs from her apartment so as not to wake the girls who slept in the backroom. She liked to visit the shop - her shop, she kept reminding herself - to re-arrange the gloves in the drawers or the bolts of fabric on the shelves. It reassured her to take the measure of her achievements. If she accepted William's proposal, her future would be secured. There was no doubt, and yet she couldn't shed the unease. Her life was precarious, nothing came easy and nothing lasted.

"Please open." The man's voice trailed off and in the long, ensuing silence, she heard her own shallow breathing. Her mind on edge. Who were these men? If only they would go away. It's what she wanted them to do.

The man who called himself Hamid would not stop. "My friend is dying. I beg you to help. You have nothing to fear from us."

She flinched. Could he sense her presence? Had he heard her tip-toe through the shop? Perhaps he stood like her on the other side of the door, listening to her pounding heart.

A low, drawn-out moan. The wounded man? There was another long silence. She pressed her ear to the door. Had they gone?

She moved away from the door to the display window and peeked through the gap between the curtains. Right on her doorstep, two men bathed in the soft glow from a gas street light, one stretched out on the ground, the other - Hamid, she supposed - on his knees next to him, pressing a piece of cloth against the wide open chest-wound of his friend. Turks. She could tell by their kaftans. She felt faint.

Long minutes passed. She was paralysed, unable to turn her back on the two men, unable to open the door to help them.

She returned to the door and whispered: "Who are you? Why are you here?"

In a hushed voice, the man who called himself Hamid explained. They were part of a group of religious students who had gathered peacefully on a square in Stamboul. Soldiers attacked. Many brothers died. He and his friend fled through alleyways to the quays, and rowed a fishing boat across the narrow Bosphorus strait to Galata. They climbed the stairs to Pera but now, his friend won't move. The soldiers have crossed Galata bridge and are searching for them. Please, help.

There was a new long silence. She could not think or make herself move away from the door. The softa protested against the Sultan's government. Even in this luxurious, European neighbourhood, the atmosphere was tense and the threat of violence real. The past few weeks of unrest had been rife with anxious speculations and rumours. According to her European customers, the Sultan was a deranged monster, but so were the softa. They were rioting, Muslim fanatics who wanted all Christians dead. Even though her Ottoman customers said this was a truth with some modification, her mind filled with disturbing visions of slit throats, rotting corpses, and blood pouring into the earth. She imagined hoards of bloodthirsty, demon-like, two-legged animals. How could two of them end up here, outside the door of her shop? It was dizzying.

Behind her, a door creaked. Two shadows emerged from the backroom, Anoush and Siran, each with a knife in hand. Flora inhaled, relieved. At least she was not alone. Then she felt guilty for feeling relieved.

"Give me your knife," she said to Siran, the younger and more sensitive of the sisters. "And go hide in the backroom."

With a sad whine the girl obeyed.