Powerfully-evoked locations are often said to function as characters in their own right within works of fiction. This being the case, Patagonia in Jonathan Falla's remarkable novel The Physician of Sanlucar is not one you would wish to invite round for dinner. The Patagonian landscape and environment, and the lives of those dwelling therein during the second decade of the twentieth century, as described with unflinching accuracy by Falla, are grim and precarious. The novel opens, in fact, with a forensic description of both the 'astonishing' venereal diseases to which the farming colonists are prey, and the ingenious device which the titular character has developed to treat them. It is a highly arresting first chapter, and typical of the author's lack of inhibition to be bold with content and imagery.
The initially disclosed reason for Matthieu Macanan's having secreted himself in this obscure part of the world is to minister medicinally to the immigrant farmers and the indigenous population, and he comes to espouse the cause of the latter more forcefully and dramatically as the novel progresses. But there is clearly something deeper and darker in his personal history, the revelation of which is cleverly interwoven into his contretemps with a particularly amoral and loathsome representative of insensitive colonialism, Lovell. Into Macanan's world come a married Austrian couple (Silke and Theo) who hope to bring the new miracle of aeronautic transport to the region by establishing a flying postal service. There is an immediate and obvious attraction between the physician and the wife, which becomes one of the main engines of the plot.
The subsequent love affair functions, (as does the aircraft which sits awaiting repair in a stockade as the husband sails off to find spare parts) as a beacon of redemption and hope in the physical and moral gloom of the setting. Without wishing to divulge too much of the plot, however, it is safe to say that there is no unalloyed escape from the toxic effects of the Patagonian environment, and the situations of those caught up in this period and place. Falla particularly excels in describing how Patagonia invades the souls and bodies of its inhabitants. At one point, during a dramatic and life-threatening journey to a new location, a character's head wobbles 'with what might have been agreement, or hypothermia', demonstrating that his identity and volition have become indistinguishable from the effects of the extreme climate. The aeroplane (which is called a dove by its creator and also described in angelic terms) is observed late in the novel to have accumulated 'a lot of dust; it was filling with Patagonia'.
This is not to say that the book's overall effect is gloomy or depressing - there is a pervasive and effective wry humour at play and, decorating the elegant and efficient prose which propels the plot, passages of very fine, lyrical descriptive writing: Macanan, for example, hauling a mess of wet canvas, is said to be
'dragging it behind him like a bride with an impossibly heavy train'
and Silke's hair being
'like cobwebs tied back by an orderly spider'.
Additionally, the book's handling of the colonial issues is deft and never sentimental; Falla makes good play of symbols and motifs (the plane being angelic and dove-like, it's creator being called after the prefix for divinity), and there are absorbing insights into and descriptions of human character and behaviour.
All the elements of the plot and setting, including a crucial guest appearance by a German naval crew smuggling gold for the war effort, swirl into a dramatic kaleidoscope of a denouement that brings a satisfying and surprising ending to a riveting book which excavates one of the murkier periods of modern colonialism and in which, most often, the characters' best intentions are warped into tragedy by circumstance and fate.
One of the many positive consequences of my recently-acquired freelance role with Aurora Metro is that, in order to familiarise myself with their titles, I have been nudged out of my reading comfort zone. I have tended to shy away from books which revolve around significant contemporary issues. Although it pleases me to believe that this is because I am mining some more subtle and esoteric seam of literature, which yields ideas and resonances that rise above temporary, topical reference points, I suspect it's more to do with my reality allergy.
It was with surprised pleasure, then, that I read the young adult novel Themba, which deals with the rise to football stardom of a young black boy - the titular character - from an impoverished, rural background in post-apartheid South Africa. The author skilfully uses this setting to discuss the plight of these communities and the more general and pressing issue of AIDS in South Africa. The characters and environments are well-drawn and engaging, and the author - Lutz van Dijk - succeeds admirably in offering what seems like a faithful rendition of some very challenging circumstances without his book ever becoming gratuitously grim. Neither, equally, does the story, including the characters' struggles against some formidable physical and emotional obstacles, ever stray into the region of sentimentality. The book handles its light and shade with a deft sense of balance, meaning that a healthy compound of pathos and humour makes reading Themba a very rich and fulfilling experience. My favourite lighter moment occurs during an inter-club tournament, the participants in which are all from similar backgrounds to Themba's team. When one team is found to contain three players who have somehow managed to acquire football boots, the referee instructs that this footwear be removed, so as to prevent an unfair advantage accruing to that team. It's a far cry from Premiership football, 'Arry.
Themba is also fittingly educative and informative, and in fact, towards the book's climax, veers somewhat off the narrative rails into didacticism, but without seriously impairing the book's overall positive impact. Coupling together the glamour and excitement of a rags to riches football story with a description of a family's struggle against poverty, prejudice and domestic abuse is a clever and successful strategy to produce an important, worthy but highly readable novel.
Having also recently read an (old adult) novel which examined the issues surrounding Islam and feminism in Afghanistan (the excellent Freshta), I'm beginning to think that, in order to reward and entice reluctant readers of Books About Important Stuff, such as myself, said books ought to include a sticker (perhaps in the shape of the country or region in which the Important Stuff is active) which could then be applied to a specially-produced world map. When complete, the map could be sent away and returned with an achievement badge which could be sewn onto the reader's sleeve, bearing the legend 'Issue-gatherer' or similar.
I offer this innovation to publishers free of charge.
There is, of course, nothing worse than an undeclared vested interest (except, perhaps, for oxtail soup). It is in recognition of this truism that I am popping a jaunty fluorescent vest onto this blog post to declare that it reviews a book published by Aurora Metro, for whom I am about to start some freelance work. The reverse side of this lurid garment declares, with equal stridency, that the positive reaction to said book - brought to you right after this paragraph - is as veined with honesty as is a fine blue cheese with vein-like blue bits. As a clinching argument, allow me to assert that blue cheese is much nicer than oxtail soup, which I don't eat anyway because I'm a vegetarian (probably because of the taste of oxtail soup).
The Scream by Laurent Graff, translated from the French by Cheryl Robson and Claire Alejo, is an enigmatic novella which ostensibly depicts the fable-like journey of its narrator through a world ravaged by the effects of a mysterious noise, which most of the population can hear and which torments them into fatal agony. As the story progresses, the original of Edvard Munch's eponymous painting makes a surreal appearance, as our hero takes it on a road trip along a deserted motorway.
This kind of dream-like scenario, with elements of allegory, myth and symbolism, is not easy to do well, and the remainder bins of the world are groaning with miscarried attempts. Graff, however, pulls the task off beautifully, and uses an intriguing setting which allows him to marry his play with symbol, mood and plot to a credible (if eccentric) narrative that is compelling in its own right. The narrator is an attendant in a motorway toll booth, and Graff deftly describes the strange beauty, poetry and contentment that the nameless protagonist finds in this occupation. Some of the best passages in the book, in fact, are given to the central character's descriptions of his emotional and philosophical approaches to the world:
'I like being bored. I see it as a natural part of everyday life, a mild climate for the soul, like being in a hammock suspended in time between two palm trees.'
Graff also excels in writing about the apparently unpromising environment of a major urban road system, investing it with a beauty and strangeness in a light style that steers well clear of pretentiousness (I am ignoring the temptation to extend the driving metaphor; I hope you appreciate this restraint). There are also several arresting and amusing diversions (sorry - there I go) in the book based on incidental characters, including the gradual transformation of a policeman into a lounge singer and the hilarious but poignant story of a man obsessed with road signs.
The wider themes which emanate from the novel - about (to name a few) travel, place, reality and simulacra, suffering, art and our relationships with friends and strangers - do so with grace and subtlety, and are given a new perspective by the ending.
I found this book to be a very worthy addition to the canon of very short but significant novels; it's already made friends with The Great Gatsby and is inviting The Stranger round for scones (although it's somewhat in awe of both). The Scream also stands interesting comparison to those JG Ballard tales which create a disturbing, poetic world of prose around the subjects of cars and roads, The Crash and Concrete Island.
