The Sea of Marmara laps gently at the shores of Büyükada, a verdant speck of paradise just beyond Istanbul’s clamor. Here, in Yigit Karaahmet’s debut novel, Summerhouse, the island blooms under a summer sun, its beauty both sanctuary and stage for a story that unfurls like a rose—petals of tenderness laced with thorns of suspense. As a writer who lingers over the cadence of prose and the weight of human truths, I found myself ensnared by this tale, its setting as vivid as any character, its emotional currents as deep as the sea itself.
At the heart of the novel stands a magnificent house on a hill, owned by Şener and Fehmi Bey, two men who have crafted a haven of luxury amid lush gardens. For forty years, they have loved in secret, their bond cloaked in the guise of bachelor friendship. On an island as intimate as Büyükada, where every neighbor knows your name, their affection is both a treasure and a risk. I marveled at how Karaahmet captures their life together—an archetypal love story etched in quiet moments: the clink of coffee cups, the rustle of garden leaves, the unspoken glances that carry decades of devotion. Yet, familiarity breeds its own shadows. Fehmi, absorbed in translating a manuscript, bristles at Şener’s fussing over a new gazebo, a project meant to shield workers from his partner’s sharp tongue. The tension is palpable, a reminder that even the deepest love can fray under the weight of proximity.
The novel’s pulse quickens with the arrival of new neighbors, a wealthy Istanbul family renting the long-vacant house next door. Berna and Cem, the parents, shuttle to the city for work, leaving their teenage son, Deniz, to languish in the island’s beauty like a caged bird. Deniz’s youthful allure—reckless, radiant—catches Fehmi’s eye, stirring an obsession that threatens the delicate equilibrium of his life with Şener. As a reader, I felt the ache of this disruption, the way Deniz’s presence casts a mirror on Şener and Fehmi’s aging bodies and softened edges. Şener, sensing Fehmi’s distraction, spirals into jealousy, and what unfolds is a profound meditation on time’s passage, the fragility of commitment, and the corrosive power of secrets. Karaahmet weaves these threads with a deft hand, each emotion laid bare yet never overstated.
The prose, rendered in English by Nicholas Glastonbury, is a revelation. Every sentence hums with the weight of summer’s humidity, suspicion seeping through the pages like salt air. Büyükada itself becomes a living entity, its sun-drenched hills and whispering waves shaping the humans who tread its paths. I lingered over descriptions so evocative they seemed to shimmer: the glint of light on the sea, the heavy scent of jasmine, the creak of a wooden floor underfoot. Each line is a brushstroke, painting a world both lush and fraught. As a writer, I envied this precision, this ability to make the ordinary profound, to render the island as both refuge and provocateur.
Summerhouse thrives on its dichotomies. It is a love story and a thriller, a celebration of queer humanity and a nod to the genre’s darker roots. Right and wrong blur, as do youth and age, freedom and confinement. The novel’s wry humor—unexpected, sharp—slices through its heavier moments, offering breaths of levity amid the tension. I chuckled at the understated barbs Şener and Fehmi trade, their bickering a testament to love’s endurance. Yet the specter of queer existence in Turkey looms, not as a polemic but as a quiet undercurrent. Karaahmet sidesteps didacticism, choosing instead to revel in the messy, human “wrongs” of his characters. This is not a story of villains or victims but of flawed, vibrant souls navigating desire and duty.
The novel’s roots in queer horror and suspense are unmistakable, its hyperrealism a tool to amplify emotion. I thought of Patricia Highsmith’s taut psychological games, the way she wielded obsession to unravel her characters. Karaahmet builds on this legacy, using the island’s isolation to heighten every glance, every whispered doubt. As a book blogger, I imagine readers of translated fiction savoring this blend of cultural specificity and universal longing. Queer readers, too, will find resonance in Şener and Fehmi’s hidden love, a life built in the margins yet radiant in its truth. Thriller enthusiasts will race through the twists—though I won’t spoil them here—hooked by the promise of secrets unveiled.
What struck me most, as I turned the final page, was the tenderness at the novel’s core. Beneath the suspense, Summerhouse is a love letter to enduring connection, to the beauty and burden of knowing another soul completely. Şener and Fehmi, with their flaws and fears, embody a love that persists despite time’s erosion and society’s gaze. I closed the book with a pang, grateful for its honesty, its refusal to shy away from the complexities of devotion. As a writer, I admired Karaahmet’s restraint, his ability to let small gestures—a hand on a shoulder, a shared silence—carry the weight of entire lives.
This is a book to savor slowly, though its momentum makes that difficult. I pictured myself reading it on a sunlit beach, the pages turning as relentlessly as the tides, sunscreen forgotten in the grip of its story. For readers of literary fiction, thrillers, or queer narratives, Summerhouse offers a rare gift: a story that is both page-turning and profound, its island setting a mirror to the heart’s own contradictions. Karaahmet has crafted a debut that lingers, its images and emotions etched long after the final sentence fades.