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To see how he captures the broken, scudding quality of light on rough painted walls or used dry brushes, flicks, smudges and twists of the wrist to depict sloping, dappled hillsides is to feel oneself in the presence not just of mastery but of freedom.

To look at Istanbul then was to feel oneself on the edge of a maritime culture of fresh fish and shrub-covered islands, where goats with metal bells pick their way around whitewashed churches.

To be black, Hispanic, Asian American, Muslim or an immigrant today is to feel oneself potentially a target of white grievance and rage.

It is compelling to turn its pages and feel oneself beginning to bristle with indignation—and curiosity—at sex gossip that is now almost a quarter of a millennium old.

Near the start of what turned out to be an absorbing and well-told tale, Bensen refers to Baudelaire’s admiration for the life of the flâneur, citing the “immense joy” of being able “to be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the center of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world.”