Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 618 I'm just here to discuss business! (Seeking monthly votes)
The carriage carrying Lionel drove out of the gates of the Palace of Belvedere.

The four black horses moved steadily, and the curtains inside the carriage remained drawn, obscuring the night view outside.

Camille and Rashid remained seated opposite each other, neither speaking nor asking any questions.

Lionel leaned back on the cushion, his eyes closed, but he wasn't asleep. He was thinking about his meeting with "Nightingale" earlier.

This was an unexpected episode in the journey on the Orient Express; it seemed peaceful, but in reality, it was quite dangerous.

Saying the wrong thing could offend the current Sultan, who is petty, suspicious, and likes to control the country with a secret police force.

He's unlikely to go to jail, but deportation is a certainty. Luckily, he managed to get away with it by using a story from Zhuangzi.

"It's better to forget each other in the vast world than to cling together in hardship..."

He didn't know if telling this story was right or wrong.

Did that young man need a teacher? No, he needed someone who could understand him, someone who could encourage him to pursue a free life.

A year as a private tutor, with generous pay... he could certainly stay, and the Sultan might not refuse.

Even with his fame in Europe, serving as a tutor to a prince would not diminish his status; in fact, people would regard it as an honor and a legend.

In a year, I can teach him many things: French, literature, writing… Flaubert, Zola, Maupassant, Hugo, Balzac, Stendhal…

He could even teach him how to write novels!

But then what? He left a year later. The young man remained at the Belvedere Palace.

With more books, more knowledge, and a clearer imagination of the "outside world," he would only feel heavier and more suffocated.

Not everyone who is imprisoned needs a key; sometimes, giving him a key is cruel.

Fish on land don't need the saliva of another fish, but rather the saliva of rivers, lakes, and seas.

And that is precisely what he cannot give.

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Before Lionel's carriage had even returned to the Pera Palace Hotel, the complete record of his conversation with "Nightingale" was already on the desk in the Yldz Palace.

The record was written in French on gold-edged paper with neat handwriting, and a Turkish summary was attached to the side, but Abdul Hamid II read the entire text.

The Sultan put down the paper, remained silent for a moment, and then called out, "Hafez."

The chief white eunuch, Hafiz Ahmed Agah, who was standing in the shadows by the door, took a step forward.

"His Majesty."

"What does Sorel mean by that?"

Hafez Ahmed Aga bowed slightly, took the record, and began to read it.

He received twenty-three years of elite training at Enderon School, becoming proficient in both academics and martial arts, and was well-versed in arithmetic, theology, and Hanafi school law. He was in charge of the royal family's external affairs.

Hafez knew that the Sultan was not asking the literal meaning.

“Your Majesty, this French writer has been teaching you how to understand your situation from beginning to end.”

Abdul Hamid II looked at him and said, "Continue."

"He didn't encourage His Highness to rebel, nor did he make any promises he couldn't keep. Those Chinese stories he told—"

“I know, ‘Zhuangzi’.”

"Yes. It's a story from Zhuangzi. The cook's knife runs along the seams of the bone, so it doesn't get dull for nineteen years; the gourd is too big to lift, so he uses it to make a boat; the tree grows crooked and can't be used to make furniture, so he lets it live."

Hafiz paused, carefully choosing his words: "He meant that if one could understand their situation in a different way, they wouldn't have to worry every day."

He wasn't teaching His Highness how to rebel or escape, but rather how not to be trapped by his own fantasies and stubbornness.

Abdul Hamid II did not speak immediately, but waited for a while—

"clever."

He didn't say whether it was praise or something else, and Hafiz certainly didn't dare to express any opinion.

“That French woman,” Abdul Hamid II said, “the one who taught French for twelve years.”

"Madame de Lavallier".

"Fire her."

Hafiz nodded.

“Give her a sum of money. Enough for her to live a decent life in Europe.”

"Yes."

“Tell her not to speak to any newspapers after she returns to Paris. Those frivolous intellectuals love to pry into matters of the Eastern court. If she lets slip even a single word—”

The Sultan did not finish speaking, but Hafez did not need him to finish.

"Don't worry, Your Majesty, she will understand."

King Abdul Hamid II pushed the records on the table aside: "This French writer, is he supposed to be a businessman?"

Hafiz took half a step forward: "Yes, Your Majesty. Lionel Sorel is not only a writer. He co-founded an electrical company in Paris."

His company manufactures generators and lighting equipment, oh, and bicycles and typewriters; he's a successful businessman.

"What else?"

"A few months ago, Parisian newspapers reported that he was planning to build an amusement park, supposedly in preparation for the 1889 Paris Exposition..."

Abdul Hamid II listened quietly to Hafez's introduction without interrupting, his mind seemingly lost in thought...

—————————— The next morning, Lionel and Sophie had breakfast at the restaurant of the Pera Palace Hotel and prepared to take a walk near the Galata Bridge.

Sophie wanted to see if there were any merchant ships from France at the dock, and also inquire about how local businesses were operating.

They had just reached the hotel entrance when they were stopped by two people.

Two white eunuchs again extended the invitation and led them to a black carriage, but this time the carriage did not head towards the palace.

It drove for about twenty minutes through the narrow streets of the Pera district, turned into an inconspicuous alley, and stopped in front of a three-story stone building.

A servant opened the door and, without asking any questions, led them upstairs.

The second floor is a simply furnished reception room with expensive wool carpets made in Isparta.

There was a small round table by the window, with a silver coffee pot and two cups on it.

A man stood by the window, wearing a dark blue brocade robe, and his Fiss hat was a darker color than the two eunuchs' from yesterday, almost wine red.

He turned around and began to introduce himself in French: “Mr. Sorel, Miss Sophie. I am Hafiz Ahmed Aga.”

Lionel and Sophie were both somewhat surprised, wondering if the Sultan really wanted to keep him as a tutor for one of the princes.
However, they remained calm and exchanged pleasantries. Hafiz didn't beat around the bush: "His Majesty ordered me to speak with Sorel about something."

Lionel's heart leaped into his throat—

Hafiz smiled and said, "You two need not be nervous. I am here on behalf of the royal family to discuss business with Mr. Sorel."

He personally picked up the silver pot, poured two cups of coffee, and pushed them in front of Lionel and Sophie.

Lionel could finally breathe a sigh of relief. He gave Sophie a look, and she immediately understood, asking first, "What kind of business?"

Hafez glanced at her. In the Ottoman court, women generally did not participate in such conversations.

But he quickly looked away, his tone unchanged: "The sale of all Sorel Enterprises' products within the Ottoman Empire will be handled by the royal family."

Sophie's grip on the coffee cup tightened suddenly.

"This is not a franchise, not a regional license, and there is no need for an annual renewal of a commercial contract. The meaning of the Royal Agency is that there will be only one distributor within the Ottoman Empire for everything from generators, lights, bicycles, and typewriters to any new products that you two will launch in Europe in the future."

Sophie finally came to her senses, and her expression became serious: "Your Excellency Agah, what were the import tariffs of the Ottoman Empire last year?"

Hafiz hadn't expected that her first question would be this.

"On average, it's 11%. For some manufactured goods, the reduction can be as low as 8%."

Which port of entry will the goods shipped by the royal agent go through?

"Istanbul, Izmir, Beirut, Thessaloniki"

Who bears the port storage fees?

"The Royal Agent shall bear all costs at the port of import."

Sophie nodded. She opened her handbag, took out a thin black notebook, turned to a blank page, and then pulled out a pen from her bag and unscrewed the cap.

"The current factory price of a typewriter is 180 francs. By sea to Istanbul, the total cost including insurance and freight is about 25 francs."

Even with an import tariff of 8%, the cost already exceeds 210 francs. At what price does the royal agent intend to purchase it?

Hafiz didn't answer immediately, but instead re-examined the woman before him. Any seasoned comprador from the chamber of commerce would not find her question unprofessional.

"The purchase price is negotiable."

"Then let's talk about the purchase price first."

Sophie's pen tip landed on the paper: "The typewriter must be developed specifically for Arabic, otherwise its sales within the Ottoman Empire will certainly be limited."

Your Excellency Agah, I wonder if you are aware of what redesigning the typewriter's keypad and linkage means?

Before Hafiz could answer, she continued, “Take our best-selling ‘Sorel-1’ model, for example. It has forty-two keys on the keypad, arranged according to the frequency of the French alphabet.”

How many letters are there in Arabic? And the way Arabic is written is definitely completely different from the Latin alphabet, right? This isn't something that can be solved by simply changing the typeface.

She turned the notebook toward Hafiz, where there was a simple diagram of a typewriter, which she pointed to with her pen—

"The type plate needs to be rearranged, the striking angle of the linkage needs to be adjusted, and the paper feeding accuracy of the rollers needs to be redefined... These all require engineers to conduct research and development from scratch."

Hafiz looked at the simple diagram without saying a word.

Sophie took the notebook back: "The R&D cost is at least 20,000 francs, and the mold fee will be calculated separately. If the first batch of deliveries is less than 300 units, the cost will be 50% higher."

The figures she reported were accurate. In 1883, the cost of modifying any mechanical product for a market using a less common language was astronomical.

Hafiz remained silent for a while, pondering the matter, before finally speaking: "The Royal Agent can accept an initial purchase of 300 units, with a landed price of 290 francs per unit."

Sophie didn't respond immediately. She looked down at her notebook and calculated for a while, writing down a line of numbers, but quickly crossed it out and wrote another line.

Lionel took the notebook from her, glanced at it, and handed it back to her.

Sophie said confidently, "Two hundred and eighty-five francs, but the royal agent needs to pay a 30% deposit in advance. This money will be used for the development of the typeface and the production of the mold."

Hafiz narrowed his eyes slightly, feeling somewhat troubled. The woman in front of him was not only beautiful, but also had a very ruthless business style.

In the markets of Istanbul, bargaining is never this straightforward, and the money is never discussed so explicitly.

We should start with three cups of tea, talk for half an hour about the weather and the health of a mutual acquaintance, and then "casually" mention the price when dessert arrives.

But this woman didn't follow the rules. She laid out the costs, R&D expenses, delivery time, and payment terms one by one, waiting for her competitors to make an offer.

Lionel looked at the scene before him, smiled, then leisurely got up, picked up his coffee cup, and walked to the window to look at the scenery, no longer paying attention to Sophie's business talk.

Sophie's "offensive" didn't stop there: "And the bicycles, given the limitations of traditional Ottoman clothing, seem to need some modifications as well..."

Hafiz felt a chill run down his spine...

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(End of this chapter)