I was a young, aspiring writer when I decided to leave everything behind and move to Istanbul more than two decades ago. I rented a tiny, dingy flat at the bottom of the Street of Cauldron Makers not far from Taksim Square, the heart of the modern city. That first night, I sat by the window under the anaemic light from a streetlamp, and wondered what this urban sprawl held for me. At midnight, I heard a loud voice from outside, full of anger and emotion. A transvestite was walking down the street, her miniskirt glittering in stark contrast to her raven hair.
She was limping furiously, holding in one hand a shoe with a broken heel. The other shoe she insisted on wearing. She was swearing at someone called Kareem, swearing and weeping, but soon her fury was directed at all men and then, suddenly, at the city of Istanbul itself. I opened the window and said a few friendly words, trying to communicate with her. She waved her hand dismissively. As I watched her disappear down the street, I remember thinking to myself what a terrific city this must be where not only exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke but also profanities reached the skies; and what a painful place, too, this must be where transvestites cried alone at night.
There is no Istanbul. There are Istanbuls — plural, competing, coexisting, clashing. The complexity of the city’s story is revealed in mesmerising detail in Bettany Hughes’s new book. At times her writing feels like a love letter, or a eulogy to what has been lost. Her compassion for the city and its millions of inhabitants, past and present, comes across from the very first pages. It is quite rare to read a historical book that weaves research and insight with understanding and love: here is a book written as much with the heart as the mind.
Hughes embarks on a Heraklean task, ‘using clues in the landscape to tell a story of this city from prehistory to present’.