According to the biographical note at the start of the book, Ahmet Umit is one of the most widely read authors in Turkey.

Actually, there's an argument for that now to read "one of the most widely read authors in Turkiye", although many of us are going to struggle to write the umlaut over the "u" (also present in this author's surname, by the way), and I have in any case decided to stick with Turkey until I've seen what everyone else is doing...

But I digress. Umit wrote The Gardens of Istanbul in 2010. The Turkish title is actually better reflected by that of the English translation, which is A Memento for Istanbul. But I read the German version, which was translated by Sabine Adatepe, and titled thus.

Of all the fine Istanbul-related crime novels I've read lately, this one has to star as the one I've enjoyed the most.

And I'm not just saying that because I actually guessed the identity of the perpetrators fairly early on (although that's quite unusual for me)...

It is very much a crime story, and a tense and suspenseful one at that. But the author trusts us enough to spend time developing his themes. So it's not a breathless, action-packed read. There's plenty of history, politics, and psychology -- and plenty of what I now realize is an Istanbul trait: melancholy.

This nostalgic longing for the past takes shape on two levels.

The first is personal tragedy. The lead detective, Chief Inspector Nevzat, who is also the narrator, lost his wife and daughter in a bomb explosion, and is still struggling to put his life back together. Yekta, one of the two childhood friends Nevzat socializes with, has also lost his wife and child (in an "accident"). And that wife was part of the childhood quartet completed by Yekta, Nevzat, and Demir. Layer upon layer, we slowly learn about the rivalries and jealousies that have over the years shaped the relationship among these three boys/men and the girl/woman they were all once in love with. It's a poignant reminder that in some ways we never really overcome our childhood...


All the photos were taken during our recent stay in Istanbul

The second vehicle for nostalgia is the tragedy of what has been happening to the city. The seven murder victims are placed at prominent historic spots, and all have something to do with urban planning that has been less than respectful of Istanbul's heritage -- lawyers who have turned a blind eye, experts who have lent their weight to the side of the developers, journalists who have been bribed to write development-friendly articles, and so on.

We're right in the middle of the heritage argument here. What do you preserve, and why, and for whom? Who funds what you preserve? How exactly should it be done? And how do you respectfully modernize? (It's a theme that's even touched on in The Bellini Card, where we find Yashim appalled by the destruction of a beautiful fountain and its sheltering tree, all in the name of making room for a bridge...)

Adem Yezdan, the arch-developer, sees the provision of commercial and entertainment centres in the old quarter as a way of bringing people closer to the past: "The best way to protect historical places is to integrate them into everyday life...". Namik Karaman, the leading light in a heritage-defending NGO, sees such an approach as a travesty and a betrayal: "People don't give a damn about Istanbul. With their eyes wide open, they are being robbed of their future, but they don't realize it."

Well, Umit sets out to integrate the complex, multi-layered history of the city into the everyday life of his story, with a view to making sure people do give a damn...

The book actually felt very personal. Having spent a month in Fatih, the old part of Istanbul, I could literally see the places it refers to. The Ataturk Monument, the Column of Constantine, the Obelisk, the Column of Marcian, the walls... Nevzat even lives in Balat...



And when he asks innocently: "Did Constantine build the walls that stand today?", you want to answer, "No, no, Chief Inspector, of course not. Everyone knows that was Theodosius II..."



Yet Nevzat, thanks to his teacher mother, is comparatively well versed in Istanbul's history. Most Istanbullus, we are given to believe, know next to nothing, and what they do know hews very closely to "the national narrative taught in textbooks that generally underlines the Ottoman-Turkish cultural heritage of the city".



The novel's protagonists frequently complain about the alleged ugliness of modern Istanbul. Yet even they have to concede its continuing charm. Evgenia, Nevzat's love interest, confesses: "The dilapidated walls, roofs and chimneys seem almost beautiful to me at this evening hour... It's not important what you look at, but what what is awakened in you by what you look at."



As so often with crime stories, part of the value lies in the insight they offer into other environments. Aside from the big chunk of ancient history, we also learn about elements that have shaped Turkey's more recent past.

Ethnicity, for example. Evgenia is of Greek heritage, but we also hear plenty about the communities (Greek, Jewish, Armenian...) who have moved away.



Then there's the recurring theme of law-enforcement. Namik, the surgeon whose spare time is spent campaigning for the preservation of Istanbul's heritage, was jailed for wounding a policemen during the state of emergency that began when the military seized power in 1980. Ali, the chief inspector's hot-headed assistant, still sees Namik as a potential "terrorist", even though he has been involved in no further armed offences.

Nevzat, on the other hand, shudders to remember how during the time of martial law, all the forces of law and order were pulled together, and everyone was deployed as "political police": "The martial-law generals made the whole of Istanbul into their hunting ground, and us into their hunting dogs... We no longer did anything except hunt young people who had been declared terrorists... The generals called anyone who was against them a terrorist or a traitor to the fatherland, and our organization had the mandate to pull these people in."



(Namik's career, incidentally, to some extent reflects Umit's own, as sketched at the beginning of the book. From 1974 to 1989 he was an active member of the Communist Party of Turkey, and very much needed to keep his head down during the 1980s. He gradually came to distrust the communists' authoritarian bent, however, withdrew from politics, and started to write.)

There are many interesting asides about the police. People are portrayed as universally nervous in their presence... Even Nevzat's father was not happy when he chose the police as a career: "The police are a tool of the state, he always said." And Nevzat admits, and deplores, that the pressure exerted on police officers by the rich and powerful also succeeds in corrupting some of them.

In fact, the whole justice system raises questions: "Witnesses change their statements, people talk to prosecutors and judges, and hey presto the court pleads for acquittal." It is this situation that has encouraged the perpetrators to take the law into their own hands.

Religion is also subjected to scrutiny. Ali is clearly uncomfortable in the more conservative areas of Istanbul: "Round here it looks more like Iran than Turkey... I'm a Muslim too... [but] the people here cast a bad light on Islam." Nevzat reflects: "He seemed genuinely startled. I knew this reaction from others who had come to this area for the first time."

The chief inspector recognizes that the acts of religious violence that have taken place in Turkey have given rise to prejudice, but he is adamant that this must be resisted. Ali, for example, is for a long time convinced that the murders are religiously motivated, even though there's really nothing pointing in that direction. The character who exemplifies radicalization constitutes a side-story, one of the many, but while his pathway is not condoned, an attempt is at least made to comprehend it.



So, a very satisfactory read, which managed to be simultaneously entertaining, informative, and thought-provoking.

And I couldn't help but be struck by the crossovers with other bits of my experience. Yahya Kemal -- who, according to Orhan Pamuk, is Turkey's greatest 20th-century poet -- is quoted frequently. Namik is reading Murder on the Orient Express. There is regular reference to Turkish singers, including Zeki Muren, whom we first came across in Bursa, on our very first trip to Turkey. And Constantine P. Cavafy -- who inspired the Purple Tern byline -- also gets a mention.

Only connect...

This is a haunting book, in many ways. The police team, despite enormous efforts and personal investment, is unable to prevent seven murders. The perpetrators end up dead. The weight of the past hangs heavy on us, but we gain no reassurance as to Istanbul's future trajectory. And Nevzat's world has been upended. You kind of hope he'll retire with his sweet Evgenia, and put his feet up for a while...