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 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 and whom 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 the end of the week. 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, so dismissed him. He'd only spent a winter in that 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. But his wife had the final say .

Remembering this, another earlier memory then surfaced, of 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 now come. Tonight he would dine at the table of the British Ambassador to the Sultan.

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 realise 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. But 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 his chest muscles expanding and contracting with every breath.

"Hurry up boy, it's not far," he said. Feeling invigorated and alive, he resumed his 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, leaning 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 that said this 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. "Wherever we went, we saw skeletons covering the ground, with bits of clothing and putrefied flesh clinging to the bones," he said in his low, spellbinding voice, continuing his story. "A sickening stench hung in the air. Skulls everywhere. Dogs feasting on the remains." He grimaced. "I will never forget it."

"Are the softa behind the massacres," a grey-haired lady asked. "They were in my yard less than a week ago."

"No Mme Giraud, the softa are a plague of this city," MacGahan said. "This was local Muslims massacring their Christian village neighbours."

Reshid watched and listened with growing irritation at the guests' admiration of MacGahan. In his head, he heard Peresto's purring voice: affirm yourself, put this pompous man in his place, speak up in defence of us. But his mouth was too dry. He wished the servant would top up his glass, which he had emptied too quickly – he wasn't used to drinking wine.

While MacGahan expressed his opinions in a self-righteous polemical way, Reshid had moved up in the world by being shapeless like the purest water. He despised himself for it. Always submissive to the demands of others, and look where it had gotten him; an obscure, forgotten dervish is what he was. He felt self-disgust for keeping silent, and he felt envy. MacGahan and he were alike. Both far away from home, both ambitious adventurers, and outsiders in this assembly of fine Pera bourgeoisie. But MacGahan was an American celebrity journalist married to a beautiful Russian noblewoman, and now an important eyewitness to the recent massacres in Bulgaria.

Reshid had thought that discarding his Muslim garb tonight would be liberating. Instead, he felt stiff and uncomfortable in his borrowed evening suit and necktie, and without the turban his shaved head felt exposed. No matter what he did, or who he became, his origins would always be obscure, dirt poor and Jewish. How foolish of him to believe he would be the evening's attraction. He handled the knife and fork with difficulty, and found the table etiquette ridiculously complicated.

In addition, the second irresistible helping of 'bombe glacée aux fraises' and 'blancmange au Safran' had been more than his ascetic stomach could handle. His belly ached. It was either the food which, to be truthful, he did not like, or MacGahan's gruesome tales of slaughtered Christians that made him feel queasy. As such, he was not in a state to stand up against MacGahan, or speak out in defence of the massacres. Surely Peresto would not have expected it of him? He felt sick; he wished he could shut out her critical voice, he wished he could just pick up and leave.

"MacGahan, I understand your outrage at the atrocities committed, but we must consider that people, Muslim or Christian, in the Balkans have experienced massacres before." Sir Elliot leaned forward, furrowing his brow.

MacGahan met Sir Elliot's gaze, his voice rising with passion. "With all due respect, Ambassador, you were not there. It is my opinion that we must consider the suffering of innocent Christians. The Ottoman authorities have a responsibility to protect all their subjects, regardless of faith or ethnicity."

The table fell silent as guests considered the weight of his words. Reshid studied the faces of those around him, trying to gauge their reactions. Most nodded in agreement with MacGahan.

A man, hidden from Reshid's view behind the flower arrangement, interjected, "Ambassador, are you saying we should dismiss the violence against Christians as an integral and unavoidable part of the local culture?"

"Not at all. There is no doubt the Bulgarian massacres were bloody," Sir Elliot said. He turned to MacGahan. "But, in all fairness, there's a broader context which deserves mention, don't you think MacGahan? Recently, in the same area, Muslims died at the hand of Christians. Have you been reporting on that?"

MacGahan frowned, ignoring the question. "Christians who are fighting to throw off the yoke of oppression, yes! Would you deny them the right to fight for their freedom? A freedom you yourself enjoy and take for granted?"

Sir Elliot smiled and shook his head. "You forget that these Christians are Ottomans who have been the Sultan's subjects for hundreds of years. These romantic dreams of independence, which have prompted them to rebel against the Porte, have appeared out of nowhere. A seasoned journalist such as yourself cannot be blind to the cynicism of Ambassador Ignatieff's strategies."

"What has Count Ignatieff got to do with this," a thick-bearded man asked.

"For years now, Russian secret agents have actively stoked unrest in the Balkans, to destabilise the Empire by encouraging various demands for independence," Sir Elliot said. "Ambassador Ignatieff is the mastermind behind the strategy."

"What do they stand to gain?"

"A lot," Sir Elliot said. "Control of the Balkan territories would enhance Russian naval power and trade capabilities through the Mediterranean, and significantly counter British power."

Reshid fingered his necktie, relieved, and frankly a little surprised to hear Sir Elliot express what, to him, seemed to be Peresto's opinion precisely. The very arguments she would have expected him to present on her behalf, with one important difference. She would have added that Ambassador Ignatieff and his wife had corrupted the Sultan and the Valide with gifts and flattery to such an extent that they wouldn't take counsel from anyone else, friends or allies. To such an extent the Sultan himself was betraying the empire. He sank deeper into his chair.

"What exactly is this Russian strategy," asked a pretty young woman who had been introduced to him as Jane Seagrave.

"Sowing chaos," Sir Elliot said.

"How?"

Mrs Elliot gave her husband a dark look. He offered her a smile which begged forgiveness. "Through fear and hate," he continued. "When the Balkan rebellions started, Ambassador Ignatieff advised the Sultan to ignore them, even though Muslims had died in the insurrections. As a result, the Russian agents on the ground were given time to build the revolt without having to fear Ottoman reprisals. But this laxity seemed unfair to Muslims, who felt betrayed by their Sultan. So they took revenge into their own hands. Christians retaliated, and so on and so forth, until we are stuck in a spiral of fear and hate, and..." Sir Elliot snapped his fingers. "The Bulgarian massacres."

"Sounds more like a bloody mess than a strategy," Jane said. The guests laughed.

"Perhaps. But this bloody mess, as you call it, feeds a centrifugal process which tears the empire apart," Sir Elliot said, ignoring another glare from his wife. "In fact, if the Sultan does not defend his Christian subjects from being massacred by Muslims, the Tsar has threatened to intervene."

"And the Tsar would be right to do so," MacGahan exclaimed. "Those Christian rebels are our brothers and sisters and it is our moral duty – the duty of all Europeans – to stand by them."

"Oh dear, let's not speak of war tonight," Mrs Elliot said nervously, finally interjecting.

"Don't be an idiot." The words, directed at MacGahan, were spoken by an unsmiling, bold man who had not uttered a word all evening. Jane's brother, William Seagrave, seated next to the hostess. All eyes turned to him. Reshid had been told William was a successful industrialist who had loaned the Porte important sums of money. "These are the facts, MacGahan," William said. "If the Tsar were to declare war on the Porte, the empire would lose within a week. The Tsar would gain control over the Balkans, and over the twelve million Christians of the empire – one third of the Sultan's subjects and the valuable territory they come with. Is that the gift you suggest we should hand the Russians?"

The guests laughed. MacGahan looked offended.

"Giving up on the empire would be terrible for business, the Queen would not allow it," the man to the right of Jane said.

"Of course she would not," William muttered.

The grey-haired lady said, "I'm old enough to remember the last time we chased the Russians back to Moscow, and we would do it again in a heartbeat. The French and British defending the empire, together."

After a murmur of agreement around the table, a silence eddied. Mrs Elliot turned to Reshid. "Mr Vambery, we are so fortunate you could come tonight. You know the Turk intimately, better than any one of us." She smiled gently as she let her eyes wander from one guest to the other, inviting them all to turn the page on the wretched Bulgarian massacres and the prospect of war. She would not let talk of this do further damage to her dinner party.

Reshid answered with false modesty. "Indeed, I have travelled throughout the whole of the empire and studied many of the different peoples here, not only the Turk."

"Mr Vambery is a scholar and has written books about his remarkable adventures," Mrs Elliot said. "He is quite a celebrity, and he speaks sixteen languages."

All eyes turned to him. He stood awkwardly, pushing away his chair, and said, "In fact, to thank our generous hosts for this exquisite dinner, I have brought with me a gift tonight."

There was a murmur of excitement. For a moment, Reshid left the room, and returned with a pile of handwritten pages bound with thin leather straps. He handed it to Sir Elliot with a ceremonious bow. "This is my latest manuscript translated into English. It describes in great detail Russian activities in Central Asia."

Sir Elliot smiled. "A subject of great interest to Britain. Your journey there, such a remarkable achievement."

Reshid's heart leapt. Because of the total isolation of Turkestan, Sir Elliot – and the rest of the world – would find his testimony invaluable. Initially, on his return from his travels, he'd brought his manuscript back to Hungary, hoping for the rousing welcome accorded to other heroic explorers. But to his disappointment, he'd aroused no interest at all. In some circles, his adventures were even thought of as fantastic and exaggerated. Convinced the scornful reception originated in snobbery and anti-Semitism, he'd quickly returned to Constantinople and, fuming inside, immediately started work on an English translation of his book.

"I hope to find a British publisher," he said.

Sir Elliot put aside the manuscript. "As you are well aware, we have no first-hand information about the situation on the ground in Turkestan. In your opinion, will Russia make any claims on India?"

"In the manuscript, I have documented what I witnessed with my own eyes. Russian troops are indeed secretly moving towards southern Asia."

With boosted confidence, he glanced at MacGahan and added, "And contrary to some of the guests here tonight, I believe there is cause for British concern."

"So you disagree with the position that we should abandon the Turks?"

"Absolutely. The Ottoman empire acts as an indispensable bulwark between Russia and British interests in India," Reshid said.

MacGahan shot Reshid a tense, reproachful look which did not escape Mrs Elliot. She chirped, "Did you travel alone, Mr Vambery."

"I travelled with bedouins and caravans, disguised as a Muslim pilgrim."

"On the back of a camel?" Mme Giraud asked uneasily.

"Sometimes. Or on a donkey, which is more comfortable. But mostly, I walked."

"Is it true these people would have killed you if they'd discovered your true identity?" a young brunette asked.

"Killed or enslaved me, without a doubt."

"And you prayed with these Muslims?" Mr MacGahan asked.

Reshid met his gaze. "During my travels, yes."

"With all your heart?" asked the thick-bearded man.

"Of course not. Mr Vambery is a Christian, aren't you Mr Vambery?" Jane smiled.

"I am," he lied.

She lowered her voice. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to settle this question for us: are the Turks animals?"

"Oh, come now Jane," Mrs Elliot said.

"It's a legitimate and widely debated question," Jane insisted. "What is your learned opinion, Mr Vambery?"

"Animals," Reshid said wonderingly. The question took him aback, despite his own exasperation with his employers, and despite his distracted state of mind. The Turks were not abstract beings for him, they were real persons with names and faces, friends even – some of the men, at least, although he would never admit it here, not in this company. Well, the women were definitely not friends. They were faceless ghosts, reduced to muffled words spoken into a harem curtain. Peresto's nestling voice, he could hear it even now. A rush of painful, hopeless longing provoked a flash of anger.

"In my experience," he said, raising his voice too loudly as if to shut out Peresto's voice, or so his words might carry on the evening breeze and strike, like a sharp blade, at her heart. "The Turks are wild and passionate beings. According to recent scientific findings, this would indicate they are of a different race."

Again, there was a murmur of agreement around the table, and warm, admiring gazes on him.

"But to call them animals..."

He left the magnanimous words hanging; he had offered this timid defence of her people to her, Peresto, as an act of leniency, like an amazing, unmerited favour.

__________________________

Author's note

The embedded image is of a dervish, like Reshid. Mostly dervishes are associated with Sufism, but the term can also be used more broadly to refer to ascetics or mendicants in various Islamic contexts, not all of which were necessarily Sufi.

Reshid really existed and to read his biography, "The Dervish of Windsor Castle" is fascinating. He is such a complex character, composed of multiple identities. As with everything in The Blue Hour, I have tried to stay as close as I can to the known facts, but everything in between, stems from my imagination. With a character like Reshid, I have tried to imagine what it must be like to be forced to change your identity to survive and to thrive, to live a whole life in disguise, to abandon those you love, to never belong, to never feel safe.

Reshid (or Vambery, as he was known in Europe), received many honours and medals during his lifetime, including the Commander of the Victorian Order from King Edward, and was made an Honorary Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in London.