Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 615 The Eunuch Invites You!

The whistle of the Espero sounded at seven in the morning, low and long, like a weary sigh.

The sky above gradually changed from gray-blue to pale gold, and the surface of Golden Horn Bay was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the houses layered on the hills on the opposite bank.

In the distance, the grey-white dome of Hagia Sophia appears in the morning light, and the minarets rise straight up from the morning mist.

All the passengers of the Orient Express came up to the deck to look at the city, which most of them had only seen in books and paintings.

There were no cheers, no exclamations, only a sense of relief—the four-day journey had finally come to an end.

The vibrations from the steam engine gradually subsided, the sailors threw down the mooring lines, and the passengers could see a crowd gathering on the dock.

Ottoman port officials in dark blue uniforms stood at the front, holding clamps in their hands; behind them were coolies pulling two-wheeled carts, their skin tanned dark.

There were also some men wearing Western-style coats and Faith hats, holding up small signs that read "Translator," "Guide," and "Hotel."

The sounds of several languages ​​were mixed together—Turkish, Greek, French, Italian, English, German…

It's as if it's a reminder: you're no longer in Europe!
The sailors laid planks between the gangplank and the dock. Passengers disembarked one by one, finally setting foot on the soil of Istanbul.

An Ottoman official with a small mustache read out the names in French: "Mr. Fressinet... Mr. Rothschild... Mr. Nagelmarx..."

The procedures were noticeably more rigorous and slower than those at border crossings along the Danube, which were eager to curry favor with European investors.

When it was Lionel's turn, the man with the mustache looked up at his face: "Lionel Sorel?"

"Yes."

"Little Mustache" ticked a box on the splint, didn't ask any more questions, and didn't react in any particular way.

Here, he was just a Frenchman, a tourist who needed to register.

Baggage retrieval was even slower. Sailors carried boxes out of the hold one by one and piled them on the dock.

The servants had to search through the mountains of luggage for the few items that belonged to their masters, and then hand them over to the laborers who came by with carts to solicit business.

Of everyone, only Lionel, Sophie, and the two reporters did not bring their personal male or female servants; they were actually faster carrying their own suitcases.

As arranged beforehand, they were guided to the Pera district, a predominantly European area of ​​Istanbul.

The carriage caravan moved slowly along the narrow street, flanked by three- or four-story stone buildings with various shops on the ground floor: tailor shops, shoe shops, cafes...

Besides Arabic, signs can be found in various other languages, highlighting the unique character of this city.

Some of the men wore Western-style coats, while others wore robes; most of the women wore headscarves, or at least covered their faces with shawls.

Everything was so new, except for Fressine, a former diplomat, and Nagelmarques, who had visited the area many times, who did not look around.

The hotel was called "Pera Palace," a grand name, but the building was quite old. The waiters, however, spoke fluent French, which saved us a lot of trouble.

Breakfast is served in the hotel's small restaurant.

A simple meal was laid out on the long table: small round rolls, several kinds of cheese, olives, honey, and a pot of strong, dark coffee.

The coffee had cardamom, cinnamon, and an unidentified spice added, giving it a very unique flavor.

Lionel took a sip of coffee; the cardamom aroma was indeed strong, and after drinking it, there was a warm aftertaste in his throat.

He looked at Sophie, who was carefully peeling olives.

"How about it?"

"It's different from the French version. But it's not bad."

After breakfast, passengers were invited to participate in a symbolic city tour.

The organizer was a young official sent by the Ottoman Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had a long name and spoke fluent French, but Lionel could only remember "Mohammed".

Soon, they boarded a carriage and began their journey for the day. Their first stop was Galata Bridge.

This is a large wooden bridge, very wide, and crowded with people. When horse-drawn carriages cross the bridge, they have to slow down, moving slowly with the flow of people.

The vendors carried trays on their shoulders, on which were displayed sesame cakes, boiled corn, and roasted chestnuts; the porters carried two large baskets, the contents of which were unknown.
Soldiers in dark blue uniforms wander aimlessly; women wearing headscarves lead children by the hand; elderly people in long robes sit by the bridge railing, gazing at the water…

Everyone was moving around, but there was no clear direction. Some were heading north, some south, some stopped in the middle of the bridge to chat, and some leaned against the railing to admire the scenery.

The carriage weaved through the crowd, the driver occasionally calling out, but most people were not in a hurry to make way.

Boats slowly glided across the waters of Golden Horn Bay beneath the bridge. There were steamships, sailboats, and small rowboats.

The boats were in no hurry; they drifted along the current, occasionally sounding their horns in a low, guttural voice.

It took the carriage nearly twenty minutes to cross the Galata Bridge. On the other side was Istanbul's old city, with narrower streets and denser buildings.

Muhammad pointed to a cluster of buildings on a distant hill.

“That’s Topkapi Palace, the Sultan’s palace. We can only look at it from the outside, we can’t go in.”

The carriage stopped in a small square. The passengers disembarked and stood at the edge of the square, looking at the palace in the distance.

The palace buildings are scattered across the hills, surrounded by long walls, with red-tiled roofs and minarets dotting the landscape.

Lionel looked at the buildings, but his mind was elsewhere.

He recalled reading in Paris about the Ottoman Empire—an empire in decline, burdened by debt, losing territory, and struggling to make reforms.

But standing here, looking at those tranquil palace roofs, you don't feel any signs of decay; instead, you feel that they are indestructible.

"Mr. Sorel."

Lionel turned his head and saw Mohammed standing beside him.

"What do you think of the palace?" "It's magnificent. Just like the descriptions in the books."

"Would you write an article about Istanbul?"

"Perhaps. I've only just arrived and need to observe more."

Muhammad nodded and did not ask any further questions. He turned to the others and began to explain the history of the palace.

The official luncheon was held at the French Embassy.

The French ambassador to Haussmann was named Alphonse de Boissiere, in his fifties, with gray hair and an elegant demeanor.

He greeted the guests at the door, shook hands with each one, and said a few polite words.

"Your Excellency Fresine, it is a pleasure to see you again."

"Mr. Rothschild, Madam, welcome."

“Mr. Nagelmarx, your train has made history.”

When it was Lionel's turn, Ambassador Boissiere gave him an extra look.

“Mr. Sorel, I have read your book, The Sun Also Rises. It is an honor to meet you in Istanbul.”

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."

The lunch menu was, of course, French—clear soup, grilled fish, stewed veal, vegetables, cheese, dessert…and the wines were Bordeaux and Burgundy.

The Ottoman officials present today all speak French, though some speak slowly and use more careful wording.

Ambassador Boissiere spoke of the friendly relations between France and the Ottoman Empire, the growth of trade, and the importance of cultural exchange.

Ottoman Deputy Foreign Minister Reichsed Pasha thanked France for its support of Ottoman modernization and praised the Orient Express as a great project connecting East and West.

No one mentioned Egypt; no one mentioned the Balkans; and no one mentioned the empire's enormous debt...

The conversation was like a carefully choreographed dance, with each step taken at a safe rhythm.

The luncheon didn't end until 2 p.m., and after returning to the Pera Palace Hotel, the passengers began to disperse.

Some people went straight back to their rooms to rest; some went with the translator to visit the Grand Bazaar; and some just wanted to walk around the hotel area and familiarize themselves with the surroundings.

Lionel asked Sophie, "Do you want to rest or go out?"

Sophie thought for a moment: "I'd like to go for a walk. But I don't need a translator. I'll just look around nearby."

They left the hotel and strolled slowly along the street. The streets of the Pera district were quite wide, lined with stone buildings, most of which were shops on the ground floor.

The air smelled strange, a mixture of coffee, spices, soot, horse manure, and seawater, but it wasn't a challenge for the two who were used to living in Paris.

They walked to a small square with a fountain. There were several benches around the square, and Sophie sat down on an empty bench.

Lionel sat down next to her and asked, "How are you feeling?"

Sophie thought for a long time before saying, "This place is different from what I imagined. It's not worse, nor is it better, it's just... different."

She paused, then asked, "Are you planning to write a novel about this place?"

Lionel smiled and shook his head: "How can you write a decent work after just a few days of superficial fun? But this city will wait for a writer who truly understands it."

"Oh? Not now?"

"It will happen eventually."

They sat in the square for an hour, watching people come and go. Then they slowly walked back to the hotel.

As evening approached, the hotel lobby gradually came alive. Passengers who had gone out for a stroll returned one after another, bringing with them various stories and observations.

Georges Boiser excitedly described the Grand Bazaar: "It's a labyrinth! Thousands upon thousands of shops, selling carpets, copperware, spices, silk..."

You have to be good at bargaining; when they see us Europeans, they always ask for at least three times the price!

Louis Bertin displayed his sketchbook, filled with figures from the market—carpet sellers, old men selling spices, tea drinkers.

“I want to stay here for a month. The colors are so rich, and the light is so different. The light in Paris is gray, but the light here is golden.”

When the Rothschilds came downstairs, they had changed into their dinner clothes. James Rothschild looked well-rested and refreshed.

He extended an invitation to Lionel: "We're going to a local restaurant tonight, recommended by the ambassador. He said there's traditional music and dance. Would you like to come?"

Just as Lionel was about to answer, a hotel waiter hurried over.

"Mr. Sorel?"

"it's me."

"Two adults are waiting for you in the reception room. They say they have important business to discuss and insist that I take you there."

Lionel frowned. "My lord? Who is it?"

"Yes...yes, it's two 'Aga gentlemen'."

"Lord Aga?"

The waiter leaned closer and whispered to Lionel, “He is the eunuch who serves His Majesty and the prince.”

Lionel looked bewildered. Eunuchs? What did he, a French writer, have to do with eunuchs?
(Two chapters finished, thank you everyone)

(End of this chapter)