The Blue Hour

Chapter 10: Flora

"You be careful, my dear," Mme Giraud said when Flora brought her a fresh pot of tea. Some customers liked to linger in the shop, waiting to be served or to gossip with a friend. For them, Flora had placed two round tables and four chairs in the alcove of the display window, where she served tea or sherry.

Despite her lack of sleep, she made her usual pretty picture in a green dress which discreetly showed off her figure and matched her flat-heeled velvet slippers. A chignon netted her deep auburn hair. But her beauty did not make the success of her shop. People admired her charm and sharp wit. The way she fluttered from customer to customer, with a kind word and a smile that showed off her dimples. The way she tirelessly brought out plates of gloves for display, returned them to drawers, listened, assisted, advised. The way she directed Anoush and Siran with a discreet nod, a whispered instruction, an encouraging smile, as they restored order in the drawers, wrapped purchases for the customers or served beverages. Skills she had perfected as a salesgirl in the finest glove store of Paris. People were charmed by her person, but it was her eyes that got their attention, dark blue and turbulent like the sea of Marmara on a stormy day, and they danced across the room, missing nothing.

Mme Giraud spoke about bloodthirsty Muslims in her courtyard and the mounted Turkish soldier who woke the family in the night, combed the yard with a drawn sabre, and headed back into the streets of Pera to search for murderous softa to hang from lampposts.

"You know those brutes call us infidel," Mme Giraud scoffed.

"Well...," Flora floundered helplessly, avoiding her look.

"These animals will return. They won't stop until they've killed us all."

Fear was so far away from what Flora was feeling. Last night never happened, but the memory of it resided in her body, not in her head. It made her feel faint. From excitement, not from fear. She did not know what was meant by infidel. It did not sound pleasant, but Hamid had been civil. Even his brute of a friend, Reza, did not scare her. No, she thought, she was not afraid. Instead, a sense of fullness possessed her, which she could not explain. It made her feel indecent, freakish almost, it made her cheeks blush and her good mood turn dark. One moment she had to stop herself from erupting into the inexplicable giggles of a fifteen-year-old. Another moment she found herself staring through a customer and beyond, into a dark void. It was unbearable.

"It's the end, mark my words," Mme Giraud said. "A woman shouldn't live alone, not at a time like this."

By 'the end' Mme Giraud meant the collapse of the empire. Her lips trembled slightly when she said this, and her eyes were moist, she looked genuinely frightened.

Flora focused her mind on something outside the shop. The afternoon sun slanted down on the opposite side of the street, throwing the solid, grey stone of the newly opened Cité de Pera into a glimmering light. It housed wine bars and restaurants, but in an earlier incarnation, the building had been a popular theatre. The theatre was destroyed in a fire and recently restored by a Greek banker. Her heart swelled with pride. The banker wore her gloves. All the great families of Pera with names and galleries named after them, the Camondo family, the Corpis, the Dandrias, the Tubinis, they all wore her gloves.

The Grand Avenue bustled with elegant pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages. This was her preferred time of day. The sounds of hooves, jingling harnesses and voices from passersby drifted through the open door. And, like a gentle melody, the humming sound of the sewing machine which Siran worked in the backroom, accompanied the clicks of china from the alcove where Mme Giraud took her tea.

"I won't have this any longer," Mme Giraud declared. "I've reserved a cabin on the steamer back to France. Last night was horrific."

The night that never happened.