Ackerman’s title of his masterful new novel refers to one of a number of photographs shot by a main character, Peter, a New York photojournalist living in Istanbul. He’s attempting to segue into a new career--of photographer-artist--and trying to launch a sustaining livelihood in his host country. A woman in a red dress, the digital photo in black and white, emphasizes his concept of contrasts in visual form. She is standing amidst an historical protest in Istanbul, unprotected by any gear, in a lovely red dress. The thrust of Peter’s art concerns an old political theory from the Cold War, of contrasts producing tension. “A society in crisis, one that is gripped by tension, can be more easily manipulated and controlled than one that’s stable…” He intends to fold this theory into his work, his artistic innovations.
I brought up Peter first, as his theme of tension is writ large on the novel itself—not the Cold War theory, but the brittle tensions that this cast of characters endure and create on a daily basis. Often, it’s unconsciously triggered, but there’s collateral damage. And selfish aims, or mere survival, and there is plenty of that to go around, all the way till the final tell: a bit of a jolt and the key to Ackerman’s storyline. Getting there is a feline thrill from the deftly structured narrative, the exquisite architecture of his character-driven plot, and clarified down to its essence. The covetous traits are disclosed during the denouement. But Ackerman doesn’t give the reader everything on a platter. There’s room to judge and speculate.
Peter’s lover, Catherine, is married to Murat, a well-known real estate developer. They have a young son, William, who steals a few choice scenes, especially when he picks up Peter’s camera and aims at birds in flight. Yasar, the family name, is more like a destination than a person. His name is on countless buildings scattered throughout the city, and the citizens don’t know he’s a paupered prince—in debt up to his neck following civil unrest in 2013, when the Gezi Park protests dominated the news. Protesters fought against the urban development of Gezi Park, which Murat represents and resents. Now it is stalled and his finances are fraught.
Then there is another Turk, Deniz, a major museum curator at the Istanbul Modern (and Catherine serves on the board). He’s picky and aloof. Lastly, there’s Kristin, another American and a State Department employee in Cultural Affairs. She’s working to advance cross-cultural dialogue in Turkey, and trying to help Peter get a gig at the gallery. What helps him helps her. First they have to convince Deniz that Peter’s photographs are worthy. Ackerman’s talent in knitting all the characters together is nothing short of superb.
In the meantime, Catherine abruptly enlists Peter’s help in a precarious plan. After a decade living here, she wants to leave Murat and take William to America. The novel opens up on that crisis, but reveals just enough to keep the reader tense, like the cast. Thematically, there’s a meta- quality of conflict and tension that mirrors Peter’s theme, and the readers and characters walk a tightrope together throughout the book. The nonlinear events advance and unpack the plot, and demands close attention from the reader.
The characters are well-developed, flawed, periodically cruel. If you want likable characters, search elsewhere, but they do have their virtues. Their humanity is evident, as well as their failings, and the cracks in their nature are sometimes tough to take. Istanbul emerges as a character, too, perhaps the most vivid of them all. The author’s depiction of the city was almost corporeal. Within the city and beyond, the story spoke to me in hushed tones. The knife clinks on the wineglass, the guests circulate among the portraits, the voices echo throughout the maze of alleys. Ackerman’s details fuel the tale. Finally, redemption is a bitter pill; I’ll leave it to the reader to find.