Secret Dreams in Istanbul is a fascinating Turkish novel by Nermin Yɪldɪrɪm, published at the end of last year by Anthem Press. Before I go any further, I must confess that I am the book’s translator, but I would want to share it even if that weren’t the case. Only very occasionally does one come across a book that leaps out from all others and lodges itself in one’s mind. When that happens, it mustn’t be taken lightly.
March 8 was International Women’s Day, and it strikes me as a very apt time to talk about this novel, given that it draws attention to so many issues that are relevant to the battles women have been fighting for over a century to combat injustice. These themes include domestic violence, forced marriage, feigned virginity, self-induced abortion, physical and social inequality, and, more broadly, the condition of being a victim. In varying degrees, all of the characters in this novel are victims: of their gender, their social class, their biological clock, their complexes, social taboos, social expectations, their physical, intellectual and financial limitations, and of their own family. This is a book in which the weak are oppressed by the strong: it’s about facing up to one’s insecurities and confronting one’s demons; it’s about the age-old problem of sibling rivalry. And running parallel to all of these conflicts is the other key theme in the novel—the role of memory in the human psyche.
To use a somewhat frivolous simile, if you have a diamond necklace, you wouldn’t leave it locked away in a drawer where nobody can appreciate it when it could be displayed for all the world to see. I am a translator in the very privileged position of making it possible for Anglophones to enjoy the literature of other languages, and I felt the need to share this particular gem. For that reason, I decided to translate the book and to now write of why I regard the book so highly, as well as the process of translating it.
I first encountered Ruyalar Anlatɪlmaz (as it is called in Turkish) in 2012 when I was commissioned to translate a section (the first seventy pages). It moved me very deeply; I knew there would be elements of this book that would stay with me forever. But it wasn’t until 2016 that I received the go ahead (at my instigation) to translate it in its entirety.
This is Nermin Yɪldɪrɪm’s second novel. She has since written another five, all of them very fine and more successful than this one. Yet it was Secret Dreams in Istanbul that I felt compelled to translate. Whilst re-reading it, four years after my initial reading, I was taken aback to discover it was almost unnecessary to keep reading because I remembered practically every word. I don’t recall that ever happening to me, either before or since.
To briefly summarise the plot, Pilar, the novel’s Spanish protagonist, returns from work one evening to discover that her husband, Eyüp, has suddenly and inexplicably disappeared from the home they share in Barcelona. She learns from the police the following morning that he has boarded a plane for Istanbul, the city of his birth that he has not visited since he left it almost two decades previously. Mystified as to what could have provoked such uncharacteristic behaviour, and assailed by her own insecurities, she decides to follow him there and bring him back. Packing a tiny bag with just a few clothes and the dream diary that Eyüp’s psychologist has asked him to keep (in an attempt to get to the bottom of what has been disturbing his sleep), she sets off for Istanbul, where she will embark on a journey of painful discovery. Meeting Eyüp’s dysfunctional family, from which he has been as good as estranged since before she has known him, and his friends, and seeing for the first time the city where he grew up, she pieces together the clues to uncover the horrifying truth about what drove Eyüp away.
Each chapter is narrated from the perspective of a different character: Pilar; Müesser, Eyüp’s long suffering and resigned unmarried elder sister; Veysel, Eyüp’s belligerent and embittered elder brother; Perihan, Veysel’s spiteful, mean-spirited wife; and two minor characters, Bülent and Bünyamin. Each chapter is followed by a dream from Eyüp’s dream diary. These dreams, which begin very frivolously, grow progressively more serious as Eyüp remembers more and more of his dreams, until the disturbing climax that ends the novel.
Superficially, this is a very readable novel of intrigue that piques the reader’s curiosity from page one. However, a word of warning—it does touch a raw nerve. Readable is not the same as a light read, and this book provokes pain and indignation alongside deep compassion.
When a novel is so memorable and affects one so profoundly, it becomes morally imperative to make it known to other readers. I had the urge to make others feel what I had felt. Literature can be life changing and sometimes, after reading a certain book, one can clearly distinguish between who one was before reading it and who they became afterwards. It has been a source of real pleasure to me to pave the way for this troubling, yet refreshing novel to change the lives of Anglophone readers. Not only that, but Nermin Yıldırım is well-loved and respected in Turkey, but is as yet relatively unknown in the English-speaking world. I also wanted to be instrumental in introducing this talented author and her work to a wider audience.
So, it’s a good starting point if the translator is enthusiastic about a work; being passionate about a project increases the likelihood of success or, at the very least, enhances the pleasure of the translation process. I cannot, however, attribute my desire to translate this book solely to my own affinity for it; my urge to make it known to others transcends that. I have a firm belief that this is a book with important messages to convey and that everyone should read it, rather like Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, or Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. By making these comparisons, I’m not presuming to equate Secret Dreams in Istanbul with those works, but am referring to the relevance of what it has to say, particularly (but by no means exclusively) with regards to women. It is a book that highlights and speaks out against wrongdoing—not only against women, but also against the vulnerable and oppressed in general. It raises awareness, whilst remaining strongly rooted in the literary genre; it is not a feminist or political treatise, but an impeccably plotted novel, written in Yɪldɪrɪm’s uniquely poetic prose.
Secret Dreams in Istanbul contains all the elements of a good read: it has a gripping story peopled with interesting, well-rounded characters, it is written in an accomplished literary style, and it is simultaneously heartbreaking and humorous. Perhaps its most outstanding merit, however, is an understanding of humanity that goes so deep it makes it possible to comprehend—and even sympathise with—the most unsavoury individuals. There are no real heroes or heroines in this book but, once you delve deeper, there are no real villains in the true sense of the word either. When you understand the reasons why someone behaves in a certain way, it becomes impossible to despise or judge them. Nermin Yɪldɪrɪm has an acute awareness of the human condition and writes like a psychologist. She possesses a great deal of emotional intelligence and the maturity of a much older writer than she was when she penned this novel. For example, with the character of of Veysel, Yɪldɪrɪm is able to portray him committing monstrous acts and yet, a few chapters later, lend him great sensitivity by showing him as a small child waging war on the household mosquitoes in an attempt to win his sister’s love. As with life itself, there is no black or white in this novel. It is a complex, unsettling, thought-provoking work, where the darkest, most repellent characters somehow manage to find redemption.
Secret Dreams in Istanbul is a work of literary fiction, but deals with issues that are very much on the agenda of today’s society—particularly, but not exclusively, in Turkey. It speaks to people from all spheres of life, transcending age, gender, social class, and cultural background. Although it is largely set in Istanbul, and is about a family with traditional values, many of the themes addressed in the book—such as the ticking of the biological clock, favouritism within the family, feelings of exclusion, and inferiority complexes—are universal. At no point does the reader get the impression that this is about people far removed from their own reality; on the contrary, one of the things that makes this book so tragic is, no matter who or where we are, the problems tormenting the characters stab us in the heart personally. We are not distant onlookers, but fellow victims.
Although Pilar is the main protagonist (if indeed there is a protagonist in this novel told from multiple perspectives), the character who made the most lasting impression on me is Perihan. She is spiteful, uncouth, pretentious, self interested, covetous, yet, despite all of that, resonates with me to a far greater extent than anyone else in the book. I have thought long and hard about how it is possible for someone so unlikeable to work her way so deeply under my skin, and after considerable deliberation I reached the conclusion that many women will see themselves reflected in her, or rather, in her situation. Pilar for example, is educated, attractive, affluent, and independent. She is in the privileged minority and therefore not at all representative of the average woman, particularly (beauty aside!) of the average woman in Turkey. Perihan, on the other hand, is quintessentially unexceptional; she has neither intelligence, beauty, charm, nor wealth to recommend her. Her circumstances are those of countless other fatherless girls from deprived backgrounds. She is highly flawed and knows it. There is nothing admirable or sympathetic about her, yet still she casts an enduring sense of melancholy over the reader. Life has not smiled on Perihan; she was born disadvantaged and, although she has guaranteed her financial security through her marriage to Veysel, she has had to pay a disproportionately high price for it. Unlike Müesser, who is passively accepting of her fate, Perihan does try to rebel against what life has seen fit to impose on her, but it backfires dramatically. She is unpleasant, yet we still share the pain of the punishment she has to endure for her sins.
After the premature death of her father, Perihan, her mother, and her younger brother are forced to depend on the grudging charity of relatives. Perihan grows up in cramped houses, with no space to call her own (once again Virginia Woolf comes to mind) and no possessions that are truly hers. It is not surprising that she feels compelled to flaunt everything she acquires in later life:
Because she had always had to partake in what others had owned and been forced to be grateful for what they had tossed to her out of charity, ownership meant a very very great deal to Perihan.
I am reminded of Eva Peron, who was not able to shake off the shadow of her early destitution either. On the Spanish leg of her famous Rainbow Tour, the first lady insisted on wearing her fur coat at the height of summer, even though at one point she actually fainted from the heat.
The extreme sadness that Perihan’s character evokes is not just pity—it is the realisation of, “that could be me.” Her aspirations, frustrations, and feelings of inadequacy will strike a chord with many women, rich and poor alike. What is particularly intelligent about this book is that the author is able to make the reader bleed for someone repellent, just as she is able to make the reader feel genuine empathy for a perpetrator of atrocities. The whole of this book triggers intense emotions, but it is arguably the observations made by Perihan in the chapters told through her eyes that penetrate the deepest. Appalling things happen to her, but in that respect she is not alone in the novel. What distinguishes her plight is the very subtle way in which the author-narrator exposes Perihan’s feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy. There is no sadder predicament than being treated with contempt and feeling it is what you merit:
Every time she looked in the mirror, she tried to find what was lacking in her face. She was lacking in eyes and over-endowed where her nose was concerned, but it was something else that prevented her from looking beautiful no matter what she did, something that went deeper. After spending years searching in mirrors for the feature she lacked, she eventually realised that what had penetrated so deep inside her she could never wipe herself clean of it was her past, her past that she believed, in her heart of hearts, was what she deserved.
Through the voice of the narrator, Perihan examines herself and her situation and, at least in the private recesses of her mind, lays bare the stark truth about herself and her existence. She voices ugly, perturbing facts, and yet, it is not possible to censure her.
As she got into bed with her husband, with whom she would never have lived under the same roof so meekly if she had had anywhere else to go, she felt the only thing that differentiated her from a prostitute was her scrawled signature in the marriage book.
All her life, Perihan has been an object of ridicule. She despises everyone who is similar to herself, precisely because she is aware of how unappealing she is, and feels threatened by everyone who is different. Even more than the atrocities that occur in the book, what haunts me in particular is the way in which one human being’s self esteem can be so completely and utterly eroded. When Pilar glides down the stairs in all her glory, Perihan, who is nothing and nobody, feels completely crushed. In addition, she is awed to see how Pilar imposes her will so effortlessly:
Perihan envied her sister-in-law and wondered what it would feel like to be heeded so absolutely. For that to happen would she have to wear a green dress, or be born in a different country? Or would she have to be an architect, drink only coffee in the morning and walk around intimidating everyone with her withering look? Was there still a chance she might ever become such a person?
Perhaps the reason why this scene is so poignant for me is that, no matter how ostensibly confident or successful we may be, there is always someone beside us by whom, for whatever reason, we feel completely overshadowed. Deep down there may well be a touch of the self-doubting Perihan in all of us.
There were many translation challenges I faced while was working on this text. The first was trying to remain true to its original music and structure. In the Turkish version, many of the last words of each sentence rhyme. This is possible, firstly, because in Turkish the verb is placed at the end of a sentence and secondly, because past participles very often have the same endings. Here is an example:
Karɪsɪna alɪşmaya, hatta onu sevmeye bile çalɪştɪ. Kusurlarɪnɪ görmezden gelmeye uğraştɪ. [He tried to get used to his wife, to love her even. He tried to tolerate her faults.]
As I mentioned earlier, I first translated a section of this novel in 2012. The author and I had a lengthy discussion before I started, during which she told me she felt very strongly about maintaining that structure. I promised I would try, but realised very early on that it just wasn’t feasible in English, because of the different way sentences are ordered and because of the irregularity of verb endings. Initially I attempted to compensate by using a different technique; instead of rhyming the sentence endings, I used alliteration all the way through the sentence. It was a challenge looking for words that all had the same sound, and often it involved some tweaking of meaning but, at least at first, I was satisfied with the result. Here is an example of a sentence in which the s sound is repeated throughout:
While Pilar considered how best she could broach the subject, the woman, striving to melt the silence that had been moulded with ice, started talking.
When the time came to translate the whole thing, as opposed to the first seventy pages, which is what I did in 2012, I soon rejected that as an option for an entire novel—at least for this kind of novel, where it is so crucial to maintain the serious tone. The book is humorous, but the messages it conveys are not and I quickly made the decision to prioritise the feel, rather than the sound of the language.
Translators love to write about how they overcame translation challenges, but sometimes it is equally important to acknowledge that the solution is to make sacrifices. Making that decision and acting on it is a form in itself of overcoming an obstacle. It’s necessary to remember that what works in one language does not necessarily work in translation and to establish priorities. In this case, the priority was to remain true to the message.
The other big translation difficulty of this book was the title. In Turkish, Ruyalar Anlatɪlmaz literally means, You Mustn’t Tell Your Dreams. The word “Tell” is a very inadequate substitute for the verb “Anlatmak,” which means “to relate, to narrate,” as with the verb “racconter” in French, or “contar” in Spanish. I love the English language, but I do feel the lack of a satisfactory equivalent for this act of descriptive telling. In Turkish the title is snappy because there’s no pronoun, whereas in English it just sounds clumsy.
I must confess, I struggled very hard with the title. I needed to find something completely different from the original title that synthesised the content of the novel. (In fact, in Turkish, the title remains an enigma for the reader until the end.) I toyed with several different alternatives, none of which convinced me fully. I knew for certain I wanted to include the three evocative words—secret, dream and Istanbul—all of which are key elements of the novel. The challenge was how to combine them. For a large part of its life, the work in progress was called Secrets Dreamed in Istanbul, which very nearly ended up becoming the definitive title, but eventually was discarded it on the grounds that the passive voice jarred; hence the birth of Secret Dreams in Istanbul. If I were the book’s writer, modesty would prevent me from praising it as highly as I have done in this essay but, being the translator, I am not bound by the same constraints. I shall therefore follow its progress with interest, not just as its translator, but as its fervent admirer.
Ümit Hussein was born and raised in North London, in an extended Turkish Cypriot family. She spoke only Turkish until the age of four, but her elder sisters and school quickly made English her second mother tongue. A passion for languages led her to study Italian and French, and then move to Spain, where she still lives. After several years teaching English, she completed an MA in Literary Translation and has since translated prominent Turkish authors, such as Ahmet Altan, Burhan Sönmez, Yavuz Ekinci, Sine Ergün, and Nermin Yıldırım. In 2018 she and Burhan Sönmez won the inaugural EBRD Literature Prize for the novel Istanbul Istanbul. When she is not translating fiction she works as a professional translator and interpreter.
*****
Read more on the Asymptote blog: