eunuch investigator in nineteenth

A Eunuch Investigator In Nineteenth-Century Istanbul

Our current crop of writers is a brave lot. There is Sarah Waters, who

trots out "lesbo-Victorian romps" with Dickensian skillfulness. There

is Stef Penney who won the Costa award for her atmospheric first

novel, The Tenderness of Wolves, which was set in the wilderness of

nineteenth-century Canada. That when she never set foot on the

Canadian landmass.

And there is Jason Goodwin. Goodwin situates his tales of the eunuch

investigator, Yashim Togalu, in nineteenth-century Istanbul. Yes, you

heard that right. And they are no ordinary tales: they are mystery

novels, oozing with murderous intrigue.

Goodwin sets them up firmly in the city already popularized by the

sexually charged metropolis of Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red. And his

stories are deeply imagined, evoking the city, its sultan and the

courtesans, its "muezzins in their minarets", the Bosphorus flowing

though their midst like a dark stain.

In 2006 came out The Janissary Tree, the first in a series of books

which track Yashim as he goes around solving murder cases and throwing

a light to the darkness. Yashim is a unique investigator, as removed

from the classical western tradition of the Holmesian detective as one

can get.

For one, he is a eunuch which is an added advantage for his

profession, for it affords him unfettered access to the sultan's

harems, given that the women have nothing to be afraid of in his

presence. The Janissary Tree was a murder mystery in which the

janissaries, "new soldiers" whose force was disbanded by the sultan,

were involved in a plot as thick as the aromas that waft in the alleys

that Yashim traverses.

Goodwin now returns with another mystery, a tale as exotic as the

first one, delicious in its evocation of the last days of the Ottoman

dynasty. Here, however, the territory is dangerously personal. Max

Lefevre, a French archaeologist with a rather shady reputation, is in

Istanbul with a text that ostensibly holds the key to an ancient

Byzantine treasure. Lefevre knows that his possession is a source of

danger to his life, and he seeks Yashim's help to plot an escape.

However, within hours of his supposed departure, Lefevre's mutilated

body is discovered and the needle of suspicion now points starkly at

Yashim himself, who was the sole person in Lefevre's company prior to

his death. Yashim realizes that it is imperative for him to clear his

name of any wrongdoing if he is to maintain his vaunted status inside

the palace and also continue his profession.

Goodwin's breath of knowledge frequently shines through in this work.

He doffs his hat to Petrus Gyllius, the sixteenth century traveler who

wrote extensively on Constantinople. Yashim is shown reading his work

for similarities between the Constantinople of the past and the

Istanbul of the present:

"He turned the page. Gyllius described the layout of the city and

its walls, discussing Aya Sofya in detail, with reference to

ancient sources. There were a few remarks about the Hippodrome, and

the Serpent Column: Yashim made a penciled note beside them,

intending to check against Lefevre's copy."

For readers looking for sexual bewilderment given the ambiguous status

of the protagonist, there is disappointment in store: Yashim is

unabashedly straight. There are mouth-watering bits of conversation

between him and Am�lie, Lefevre's widow, who plays a decisive role in

cracking the mystery. Yashim thinks she is "fresh, with a face that

told him everything he wanted to know."

The Snake Stone boasts a sprawling cast of characters, many of who

make occasional appearances in the list of suspects. There is Dr.

Millingen, inept medical officer, who is famed for his fatal

association with Lord Byron. He seems to be making little headway in

the cure of the sultan.

Even as a standalone piece of art, The Snake Stone retains the

reader's interest for the sureness of touch with which Goodwin wields

the pen. Look at how he conjures the sultan contemplating his imminent

death:

"The curtains of muslin and silk brushed together, stirred like a

breath by the night air. Sometimes he could see a tiny diadem of

stars through a chink close up by the rail and it came and went,

came and went, the way people did when you were dying, looking in

to observe the progress of death, to render a report on the

invisible struggle; all that was left."

As the mystery gains strength, so also the enigma of Istanbul.

Familiar places acquire a menacing sheen and the conclusion races

forth in an explosion of pellucid satisfaction. Indeed, the mystery

morphs into an historical inquiry: of the presence of secret societies

that have defied the inexorable march of time. The nostalgia for a

bygone age seeps through the pages as the book combines literary

acuity and mystical exoticism with formidable skill.

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From the California Literary Review