Words At Large

We go out onto the deck from which she waved and the views are stunning --not only of the near-by Tower but also of the old Jewish neighbourhood below and across the Galata Bridge to the even older Sultanahmet, the silhouettes of mosques in virtually every direction (that isn’t water and freighters). She serves tea, which I’ve also taken to, drinking it in a glass with a cube of sugar. Turkish tea, or chai, is brought out everywhere –a travel agent, a rug merchant—an apparent snap of the fingers and someone appears with a small round tray bearing shapely glasses with the amber liquid on identical pretty white, gold and apricot saucers. Even the International Istanbul Film Festival poster and catalogue features a cup of tea on that saucer. Which is not to say that coffee isn’t prevalent. Apart from demitasses of that bold dark liquid are, yes, Starbucks, 48 outlets in Istanbul alone.

Two Girls is about an intense friendship between a pair of sixteen year olds. Behiye, one of the girls, is very bright, very angry and totally disaffected. She’s amazingly well-read –she shoplifts Moby Dick—and astute about pop culture, materialism and hypocrisy. In fact, the novel gets compared to Catcher in the Rye. Her friend is much more conventional and much more beautiful, but also alienated and desperate to escape her environment. Both have strange and disturbed mothers who couldn’t be more different from each other. Both novel and movie are powerful and compelling; the movie lightens up on the violence. Teenagers are a big audience –something like 60% of the population in Turkey is under 18.

Perihan Magden (author of the novel) lives in an attractive suburb up the Bosphorus in a former Greek neighbourhood. Finding her house presents a different challenge. Istanbul is equipped with a very big fleet of yellow taxis (or taksi); they’re easy to find near hotels or on most busy streets. The drivers are fast and enthusiastic but often have little idea of where they’re going. (Magden, who is also a newspaper columnist, has written wittily about this.) They don’t carry maps and although they nod when you show them a piece of paper with an address carefully written in Turkish, they take off at great speed and then after a while, stop to ask directions of anyone on the street. At this point, I use my trusty mobile to call the guest, hand the phone to the driver, they exchange words for a while, the driver nods, hands back the phone, drives for a while, then stops again to ask directions. To be fair, Istanbul is huge. The population is officially around 10 million but is closer to twice that. But this routine with taxis occurs even when you’re just going across the bridge to Hagia Sofia or Topkapi, or to the city’s central square, Taksim.

Eventually, Perihan appears at the door with the right address, having just walked her dog. Her place too has great views --of a massive orthodox church below and the Bosphorus. As she’s preparing tea, she says, “Margaret Atwood is Canadian….” Yes, I agree. “Mmmm.” Then I mention Alice Munro and she excitedly rushes upstairs, brings down the handwritten manuscript of her latest novel and shows me that the epigraph is from Munro.

As we talk, my admiration for her only grows. Magden was charged last year with “alienating the people from military service” when she wrote a column defending the rights of a conscientious objector. Conscription is mandatory in Turkey for men over 20 and it is the only country of the 46 members of the Council of Europe not to recognize the status of conscientious objectors or offer alternative service. The man she was defending had just been sentenced to four years in prison. Magden herself did not have to serve time, but she is committed to continuing to write what she believes.

I meet with Eugene Schoulgin, a Norwegian writer and PEN activist who seems to spend most of his time attending trials. Whenever I call to arrange to see him, he’s at a trial –of journalists, of a mayor—representing PEN to ensure a fair trial and international presence. Over dinner, he told me about these cases and also why he loves Istanbul. Apart from a romantic involvement, he’s gratified that his novels, translated into Turkish, are amazingly popular. The November book fair, he says, attracts a million visitors! “I was signing books non-stop and sold 15,000 copies in a week.” Certainly the literary culture seems very alive, with many attractive bookstores, magazines, literary journals and so on. Apparently, it’s fairly concentrated but those interested in reading, are enthusiasts.

Another day, the wind is bitter on the plaza leading to the ferry docks of Eminonu. Under the Galata bridge is a lower storey of cafés and restaurants that is miraculously sheltered. Sitting here I can watch the sun set over the Golden Horn, and take in a remarkable scene from a different angle. On one side the ancient hill of Galata, with its elegant and distinctive tower, on the other, a line of monumental mosques crowning each of the gentle hills. (Istanbul is supposed to have the fabled seven hills, but in fact, there are many more.) These stone forms are the immobile backdrop against which everything else is in motion– Istanbullus rushing for the boats –large and small–that will take them home, stopping along the Bosphorus, the food sellers hawking grilled fish wrapped in a bun, the agitated sea, the clusters of birds wheeling in the sky. In front of me, a huge red sun, slowly dropping behind the hills.

Around me, a combination of tourists and locals has stopped for tea or a beer– and the spectacular sunset. It’s neither peaceful nor romantic. Touts invite every person who walks by into their restaurant, greeting and gesturing each time, smiling, seemingly impervious to rejection. Music blares from many of the cafés, some of it live, and waiters rush about. It feels right to be watching the end of an Istanbul day from this bridge. Of all the city’s bridges, the Galata is the oldest and most beloved –and most evoked by its writers. Fittingly, for Orhan Pamuk it’s part of the city’s huzun or melancholy; for Elif Shafak its liveliness, vibrancy and good humour. All day long it is lined with fisherman leaning with their long rods against the railing. (On a different occasion, while walking past a cafe under the bridge, I was almost snared myself. A sinker flew past my shoulder not quite landing in the water.) The simit (large-ringed sesame seed "bagels") vendors are out too. Though Istanbul is made up of dozens of sites served by road and ferry, it is this connection between old Istanbul and what was once called Pera (now known as Beyoglu) that is the symbolic centre of the city. Though not technically crossing between East and West, Europe and Asia (two other bridges further up the Bosphorus do that), the Galata bridge creates the amalgam that defines Istanbul.