The Blue Hour

Chapter 40: Hamid

Sometimes the 'meddah' would say that the Emperor hanged himself before the Janissaries could reach him. Other times he would claim that the Emperor was cut down in the street, like a dog, and they only recognised him the next day as a body with golden shoes decorated with the Byzantine eagle, buried in a heap of corpses.

"Sultan Mehmet thanked Allah and dedicated the Hagia Sophia Church to him; the Christian altars were smashed, the mosaics painted over, and the cross fell crashing down."

Flora's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wow," she breathed. "Is all of that really true?"

"I don't know," he said. "Some of it."

"How awful."

He had kept the story respectable, omitting the most gruesome details - the massacres, the rivers of Christian blood that once flowed through the streets, the looting, the rapes.

"What are the other stories about?"

He smiled at her. "The dynasty goes back six hundred years, an unbroken line of Sultans and - countless conquests, countless stories. About love as well, and betrayal and death."

"I can't imagine..." Flora paused. "My history..., I know so little...." she said, sounding apologetic.

He felt his face grow heavy, turned away from her, and looked toward the horizon. "There is something to be said for that, the not knowing."

The boys had left the cages planted in the sand, pulled up their tunics and were chasing each other along the water's edge, kicking up white spindrift around their legs; their rolling laughter and the cries of seagulls filled the air. Far away in Galata harbour, a ship sounded its horn.

In one swift movement, Hamid scooped Flora into his arms, carrying her out from under the vaulted gate and towards the beach. She let out a surprised shriek, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

As he pressed on towards the waterline, his feet dug deep in the sand, he lost his slippers, tripped, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. They laughed at his clumsiness. He wiggled his toes, a silly gesture which looked irresistibly funny and made them laugh even more.

Their laughter receded, and they sat, listening to the sound of the waves. He buried his fingers in the sun-warm grains and let the silky sand run through his fingers, over and over, noticing every surprising detail, the reflection of the light, the subtle sound of pouring sand, the sensation against his skin. He inhaled, amazed at how it made him feel. Time expanded. Contained in the simple gesture was the entire world previously unknown to him, filled with endless possibilities.

Next to him, Flora unfastened her boots. A strand of her hair fell down and covered her face so he couldn't see her; she pushed it back from her brow. He imagined her lifting her head and meeting his gaze. Day after day. For all eternity. Everything, he said to himself, is possible. He had thought that it wasn't. He had thought that he was already dead. She had blown life into him, she had touched the source of his being and made it surge forth.

She threw the boots in the air, lifted her skirts and took a few strides in the sand; the bare toes disappeared and reappeared. Funny, wiggling little sausages.

It took them a while to select the right spot to set the birds free. They considered silly elements, like the way the light hit the sand, the size or the angle of the waves that rolled onto the shore, the view across the bay, the cloud formations in the sky. But also important things, that might influence the birds.

"They'll want to fly out to sea," Flora said.

"They'll want to fly off together, safely along the shore," Hamid said.