Mehmet stood up and, with a deep breath, let his gaze wander above the strait. He looked at his right and saw the dark, vigorous Black Sea, immense in its unending power. All the copious amounts of water it received from the tributaries and the sky created the relentless tides of the Bosporus. The waves, one after another, were almost fighting each other with all their strength on the surface of the canal, in a dance of confidence and arrogance. The evident coldness and saltiness of the water down there were invigorating the agitated, cruel currents. The waves were of a perfect Prussian blue, hazy and incorruptible; the nervous foam was insufferably rebelling against the Mistral winds, and each ancestral, earthly force was trying to prevail on the other. The salty sea breeze was running through the cordage of the ships anchored to Sarıyer harbour. 

Mehmet followed the coastline with his glance: after Fatih Sultan Mehmet’s bridge, broken like a defeated soldier, he was seeing dozens of old ottoman villas and elegant minarets, which graced the landscape with their beauty. He turned his gaze right in front of him. The elements that made him experience a bold sense of self just a couple of days before were standing right there: the terrace, his shadow and the calm gulfs which painted the water with all the shades of blue.

He squinted even more, surpassing the curvature of the Earth, and finally took a glimpse of a new kind of turquoise, smooth and remote: the last kind of blue he didn’t have seen before. Mehmet’s senses were overwhelmed by the effort of comprehending such a mystical view: he was so sure that all the light in the world was coming from the depths of the Marmara Sea. 

It seemed like all the Earth warmth came from that generous hollow in the sea. That pastel, baby blue, so pale and serene, made the Master of ceremonies exhale a sigh of relief. 

He felt like, somehow, a forgiving entity was trying to comfort him regarding what happened, acting like a curative balm on his wounded soul.