Eka Kurniawan's Beauty is a Wound: A Review

Eka Kurniawan, Beauty is a Wound (Melbourne, Text, 2015. 498 pages). Translated into English by Annie Tucker.

Eka Kurniawan’s novel was first published in 2002, and it was only thanks to the tenacious effort by the translator, Anne Tucker, that this epic Indonesian saga about a cursed female dynasty finally became available to English-language readers.

The novel occasionally feels more like a series of tales joined by a common thread, which in this case is Dewi Ayu, the fiercely independent woman whose resurrection after twenty-one (yes, 21!) years of her death is narrated in the first chapter. This is a book that has almost everything: love, sex, violence, rape, torture both physical and psychological, incestuous relationships, politics, folklore, religion, magic, ghosts, myths. The list could go on and on.

Dewi Ayu is born just a few years before the Japanese Imperial Army invades colonial Batavia and subjugates the local population while their Dutch masters flee the island of Java. Her story of survival during imprisonment in a camp and forceful prostitution for the Japanese officers is an amazing one, and Kurniawan spares us no detail. Thanks to her Weltanschauung, her cheery yet fatalistic view of life around her, Dewi Ayu triumphs over the war, the Japanese and the despotic patriarchal men in authority once independence is declared for Indonesia.

She gives birth to three daughters, Alamanda, Maya Dewi and Adinda. They are all beauties and they will be, just like their mother, lusted after by various men. Alamanda’s beauty, legendary, creates the profound antagonism between Shodancho, a military officer with a penchant for breeding fierce dogs, and Kliwon, an idealistic youth who ends up becoming the local Communist leader. Shodancho takes up the task of massacring Communists with gusto, only to have his by then wife Alamanda begging for Kliwon’s life. She will promise her love to Shodancho (who had raped her before and during their marriage) if Kliwon is allowed to live.

And he does indeed remain alive. However, he is exiled, tortured, humiliated and degraded beyond what is tolerable on an island called Buru (the very island where Suharto kept thousands of political prisoners during his regime).

Most of the novel is set in a fictional town called Halimunda, surrounded by jungle and mountains to the north and the ocean to the sea. Dewi Ayu, the grandchild of Dutch plantation owners, is initially raised as a privileged mixed-race girl, but the advent of war will put an end to her wealth and her liberty. Given her legendary beauty and no less fabulous love-making skills, she will manage to remain self-reliant and powerful in her own way. She is by far the most powerfully-depicted character, and her life story, together with her three daughters’ life stories, combine to create a richly imaginative and humorous epic. By contrast, male characters seem rather flat in their unwavering adherence to violence or their indecision.

Author Eka Kurniawan at the 2017 Goteborg Book Fair. Photograph: Peter Norrthon.

Annie Tucker’s translation is a true gift to 21^st-century literature. Bearing in mind that Beauty is a Wound was first published in 2002, two years before Bolaño’s 2666, we need ask ourselves if it is just mere coincidence that two works by two writers who had never heard about (let alone read) each other have much in common. The world of Kurniawan’s novel is one where the beauty of women is a burden, almost a curse, to them. The violence men direct at them echoes the brutality Bolaño was denouncing in Mexico.

A great work of literature. Highly recommended.

Jordi Coca's En caure la tarda: A Review

Jordi Coca, En caure la tarda (Barcelona: Edicions 62, 2011). 222 pages.

Who is Miquel Gironès, and what does he do on Earth? Unless the two foregoing questions raise a modicum of curiosity in you, read no more.

For Gironès, in terms that everyone understands almost immediately, is basically a loser. A sixty-odd-year-old, grossly overweight Catalan businessman, who is bored to death with both himself and the life he leads. Quite possibly, a Fascist, too.

Gironès has arrived home from yet another week of work. Barcelona has been drenched with rain for the last few hours, so his shoes, socks and trousers are soaked and changing into dry clothes has become such a drag for him, it almost makes you feel sorry for him.

Except that it does not. Not then, not ever. And what’s more, a perverse reader might even rejoice when Gironès finds he has left the car lights on and has to yet again walk in the blasted downpour to turn it off. Off you go, sodden sod!

Through over 200 pages Coca provides a detailed account of Mr Gironès’s remarkably mediocre life. The only son of a doctor and his unexceptional wife, Miquel never stood out either as a student or as a sportsman. He’s a man of his times: insecure, uneducated, full of racist and misogynistic prejudices, quickly approaching a likely painful death. As soon as he gets home, he turns on the tele. Rather than cooking himself a healthy dinner he prefers to drink a can of beer and try and deceive his stomach with a tiny tub of yoghurt.

The bulk of the narrative is made up of his interior monologues, his twisted thoughts on the past. And what sort of a past can such a mediocrity have? This is where En caure la tarda certainly gains traction. We learn that Gironès did have a wife, Ester, who kind of adored him at the beginning. However, things soon started changing. Gironès fancied Ester’s sister, Agnès, and she kind of obliged. Somehow his wife found out, they were arguing while driving somewhere and an accident happened. That was 30 years ago. Ester died at the scene. Agnès stayed around for a while until her conscience dictated she had to kick him out of her life.

For over thirty years Gironès has been living a lie, but he feels little remorse over this. If anything characterises him, it’s his laziness, his unwillingness to make any effort at all to change things for himself. Jordi Coca’s skilful depiction of Gironès renders him as a ridiculously pitiful, overindulgent and spineless wimp.

Yes, ‘cause the way I go about my life, everyone’s telling you stories. Nonsense, gossip, most of it in any case spares you the need to read. There's no need to read anything. News flies past so fast. Nowadays everyone’s up to date with everything through everyone else’s comments. Culture, which Agnès liked so very much, has turned into shit. She liked to show off about culture. Let all poets kill themselves! The vast majority of paintings in the most prestigious museums are completely worthless. Straight away Gironès would admit to himself that he enjoyed this kind of verbal terrorism.

"Yes, because I harm nobody, no one starves because of what I think. And here, in the bathroom, in this tiny space, seeing my massive face in the fogged-up mirror, is where I best articulate my brilliant ideas on the world. If I was able to press the little button that would make everything blow up, would I do it? If for a moment I was God and I had the possibility of erasing the whole of creation itself, life and everything that exists, those galaxies that are light years away, what we can see and what we cannot, if I could restore the void, would I? Yes, I think so, boooommm!!!! My image would vanish from the mirror, the street would disappear, to hell with the migrants and all those annoying people, politicians and bankers being blown to pieces, doctors painfully disintegrating, planets and stars exploding just like soap bubbles, a thorough clean-up, leaving just the emptiness, the silence…” (p. 217, my translation) Fotografía: Traquair

The novel alternates between first and third-person narration, which makes the story flow more smoothly than if a first-person only approach had been used. Even so, many ideas and episodes of Gironès’s life are repeated all too often, which slows down the minimum plot there is.

Many questions may nevertheless arise for a conscientious reader. Did Jordi Coca have in mind any actual person known to him when creating Miquel Gironès? How much of a Gironès does each of us have? And since it is out of the question for us readers to feel pity for him, should we really recommend En caure la tarda?

While I cannot answer the first two, I would not hesitate to mention Jordi Coca’s book to anyone who enjoys serious literature and can keep a safe, sane distance between themselves and the protagonists of fiction.

Han Kang's The Vegetarian: A Review

Han Kang, The Vegetarian (London: Portobello Books, 2015). 183 pages. Translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith.

The number of articles and essays outlining the ever-increasing risks of eating the meat of chickens and other animals that are being treated with antibiotics and/or chemical substances is alarming. The presence of microplastics and fibres in ocean-caught fish has been proven and is yet another threat to any attempts to live a healthy life. Even the most widely used herbicide, glyphosate, appears to leave dangerous levels of residues in vegetables and fruits. It’s enough to drive one crazy, isn’t it? Should we eat only what we grow ourselves? Should we eat anything at all?

The premise of Han Kang’s novel is not too dissimilar: Yeong-hye, married to boring office worker Mr Cheong, wakes up one morning after having had a dream. Hers is nothing like Martin Luther King’s, though. Whatever her dream may have been, what it means is that she will no longer eat meat. The couple’s fridge and freezer are promptly emptied of all meats and fish (much to her husband’s wrath). When a few days later they have to attend a corporate dinner with the families of his bosses and other employees, Yeong-hye refuses to eat and is disparaged and sneered by every person at the table.

Her own family cannot understand or even accept why she has turned vegetarian. During a family reunion, Yeong-hye’s father reacts violently to her refusal to eat the many dishes that have been prepared. After he tries to force-feed her, she slashes her wrists. The commotion is of course huge, and as a result her marriage will soon be over. Yeong-hye goes down in a spiral of violence, psychosis and suicidal thoughts compounded by anorexia.

The novel is in fact a series of shorter narratives. The first one is narrated by Cheong in the first person; this provides the story with a rich point of view while allowing Kang to depict Korean society as coldly patriarchal and man-centred. Cheong describes his vegetarian wife as unattractive and uninteresting when he met her, reasons for which he sought to marry her. Go figure.

The second part is narrated in the third person, and tells of how Yeong-hye’s sister’s husband, an unsuccessful visual artist, convinces her to get her whole painted with flowers and act, together with a colleague of his, in a profoundly erotic video. When her brother-in-law suggests they perform actual sex, his colleague feels insulted and leaves. Yeong-hye shows enthusiasm for the sensations flowery skin arouse in her, so he gets painted by a former lover and returns hours later to film the sex video. They are found a few hours later by the artist’s wife and Yeong-hye’s sister. A birthmark in Yeong-hye’s buttocks gives this second part the title: ‘The Mongolian Mark’.

The third and final part adopts the protagonist’s sister’s point of view. Some time has passed since her sister kicked out her artist husband, and Yeong-hye is now in a residence for mental patients. She now refuses to eat: nothing at all will make its way into her stomach and an intravenous drip has been attached to her emaciated and fast-deteriorating body.

This is not a story about vegetarianism, which in any case is always a completely respectable ethical choice these days. The Vegetarian shows the clash between a dreadfully traditional society and the search for personal freedom of a woman trapped within the strictures of such a society. It is also a thought-provoking tale on death and the right to put an end to one’s life. Although there is no actual justification for Yeong-hye’s stubborn descent into emaciation and physical and mental ruin other than her insistence on avoiding contact with animals and loving trees, the question is asked: why is dying such a bad thing?

Personally, I’ve never given vegetarianism much of a thought. I still remember the most delicious bife con papas I’ve ever had, in a place called Energía in the province of Buenos Aires. If only all meats were this good!

The place is called Energia. The beef was superb! Photograph by

luis1977. 

The Vegetarian was awarded the 2016 Man Booker International Prize for literature translated into English. If you feel like reading further about it, I recommend this insightful article by Tim Parks, who raises some meaningful questions about Deborah Smith’s prized job. Naturally, the book has now been translated into many other languages. But is it really such a worthy winner? Hard to say.

Niccolò Ammaniti's Anna: A Review

Niccolò Ammaniti, Anna (Melbourne: Text, 2017). 261 pages.

Sicily, the year 2020. A virus has wiped out the world’s adult population and only children have survived. Anna, a mere 12 years old, has been living with her little brother Astor in their now defunct mother’s home near a small Sicilian village. Once they have run out of food, she starts searching and pilfering. The world outside Mulberry Farm is a dangerous place: packs of hungry, aggressive dogs roam the autostradas and other minor roads, and in this post-apocalyptic scenario survival requires not only resolve but also great doses of ingenuity.

Astor has never been outside the perimeter marked by the fence of the farm. Anna has made him believe there are smoke monsters beyond and gases that will kill him instantly the moment he steps outside their safe area. But Anna cannot keep him forever in the darkness about the real world. When a group of children approach the house while Anna is out looking for food and medicines, Astor joins them, marvelling that, apart from Anna and himself, there are after all other people alive on this planet. What other surprises does this world have in store for him? This is a world where scorched landscapes, ransacked shops and broken windows are the norm. How can there be any hope?

Anna will follow and attempt to rescue her brother. In her pursuit, she’s accompanied by a big Maremma dog she had previously almost killed and then saved from a certain death. How to survive in this lawless children’s society is a challenge her mother’s handwritten book of rules and advice does not have answers for.

Another young boy, Pietro, follows her to an abandoned spa hotel in the Sicilian hills where thousands of children have gathered. Rumours about remedies and cures are endless, and no one knows exactly what is going on. Anna locates his brother, but Astor initially refuses to go with her. The tyranny of the hordes is shown here in its crudest form. After a so-called Fire Party goes horribly wrong, Pietro manages to rescue Astor, and the three leave for the coast.

The coastal village of Cefalù is where Anna, Astor, Pietro and the dog flee from the chaos in the hills.   Photograph by Bjs.

Anna never lets despair take hold of her heart, though. Survival is the only possible goal. Can there be adults still alive somewhere on the mainland, across the Strait of Messina? Anna, Astor and Pietro (always followed by their loyal Maremma) start a journey towards Messina, where they hope to find a boat or barge that will allow to reach the continent.

Strait of Messina. Can there really be a future across the seas?
Photograph by Enzian44.

Anna is an unusual dystopian novel. The only adult voice comes in the form of a notebook, written by Anna and Astor’s mother in the weeks before the viral infection killed her, and where she wrote the Most Important Things. A post-apocalyptic world where children are the only survivors, and only for as long as they do not suffer any hormonal changes, is a doomed one. No child would make it into adulthood, and thus humanity would eventually vanish from the Earth.

Ammaniti includes some ironical elements in the narrative. The twin brothers who are still looking after their parents’ supermarket will only accept Domenico Modugno’s CDs as payment, but only those CDs they do not own yet. Some of the pre-pandemic advertisements Anna sees while roaming empty towns and cities are a stark reminder of the futility of the Western market-based economy. For instance, the insurance companies’ insistence on assuring our future. As if there were one!

Jonathan Hunt’s English translation captures the Italian flavour while staying close to familiar grounds for English language readers. The plot has some ups and downs in terms of tension and cohesion: there are loose ends, yes, although one may wonder if they need tidying up in a novel that portrays a future as grisly and dismal as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (NB: in Spanish). Good entertainment.

Muriel Villanueva's Motril 86: A Review

Muriel Villanueva, Motril 86 (Barcelona: Proa, 2013). 286 pages.

In what is yet another dilatory strategy from a desperate(ly) conservative government, this week the Turnbull-“led” government (the quotation marks stand for sarcasm) decided to prevent a conscience vote in Parliament and waste many millions of taxpayer money (which should be directed towards people who are in dire need of assistance) on a postal plebiscite on same-sex marriage, the constitutionality of which will need to be determined by the High Court. As ever, Australia is dragged back into the 20^th century. It’s sickening.

Our friends S. and M. have been in a solidly steady relationship for over 20 years. They are, for all intents and purposes, a married couple – they are the proud mothers of a gorgeous teenager, A. Yet intransigent, narrow-minded bigots of the religious persuasion do not want to allow them to legalise their marriage on an equal footing as heterosexual partners. There are many thousands of Australian couples who share in their injustice.

Our kids used to think A. was incredibly lucky to have two mums. These days, the boys irately remonstrate against the backward, fundamentalist stance of the parties in government. If only Australian teenagers were granted the right to vote! How quickly the country might change for good!

My reader may be wondering what all of the above may have to do with the book under review. The answer is easy: everything. Motril 86 is a novel about a 10-year-old girl with two mums. It is 1986, and Spain has managed to survive yet another Fascist coup. After 40 years of social and political repression, there was among the young a hunger for many, various freedoms. Among them, sexual freedom.

Mar, the young girl and alter ego for Valencia-born Villanueva, travels to a small coastal village near Motril (Almeria) with Paula, her biological mother’s partner. She is to spend a week there. And what a week it will end up being: Mar will get to know the most intimate secrets of Paula’s friends and flatmates, she will have vital experiences unknown to her until then, and will learn more about herself than in the ten years she has lived so far.

A view of Torrenueva beach. Photograph by Jorgechp

The plot deals with how Mar engages with Paula and tries to make sense of her ‘second’ mother during the trip and the short stay in the Andalusian village. The dialogues are crisp and perspicacious; the characters are powerfully drawn; the trip narrative is replete with amusing anecdotes Spanish readers of my generation will recognise and identify with instantly. For instance, Flores, the macho hitchhiker who in the end manages to make even Paula laugh, is a plausible character who adds spice to the plot.

There are two narrative voices here, though. First and foremost, there is 10-year-old Mar, through whose fresh, naïve worldview we read the story. But there is also 35-year-old Mar/Muriel Villanueva the writer, who reflects on the difficulties of the writing process and discusses the trustworthiness of her memories with her two mothers twenty-five years later. Of course, such memories are unreliable – that is why we write fiction, don’t we? To make unreliable memories more dependable? Motril 86 delves therefore into the autofiction genre, and it does so quite successfully.

There are occasionally some weaker parts. Personally, I disliked the inclusion of the Facebook comments and queries, which hardly add anything to the story. There are also far too many musical references, as if Villanueva had been planting the seeds of a soundtrack for a movie to be made down the track. On the other hand, it is undeniable that music was a very significant part of our lives back then.

Els Pets was one of the bands Mar would listen to on her radio-cassette. Bon dia! (Good morning!)

Villanueva shows skill in creating Mar’s narrative voice: a wryly ironic young girl whose view of the world would have been very different from other children of her age. The smooth mix of Spanish and the two regional varieties of Catalan in the dialogues is also quite an achievement.

And now, can we please bring Australia into the 21^st century for good? Pretty please!?

Vicenç Villatoro's Moon River: A Review

Vicenç Villatoro, Moon River (Barcelona: Columna, 2011). 182 pages.

I feel I have an ambivalent attitude towards hospitals. It is the kind of place where you usually welcome the most cherished new life into the world. It was at a hospital that I first held my firstborn, my beloved daughter; yet there are also the memories of the place where many decades ago I saw my grandmother enduring the completely undeserved indignity of having her leg amputated a couple of days before she passed away.

The story of Villatoro’s Moon River takes place almost completely at a hospital in Barcelona. The day is the 11^th of September – TV sets everywhere keep showing the footage of two New York twin towers falling over in pieces, while in the Barcelonan streets enthusiastic youths march with flags wrapped around their shoulders and backs. The protagonists are two: one is a middle-aged writer, Pere, who has been feeling under the weather and goes to the emergency ward at the Hospital Clínic to get some tests done. While waiting for the results he meets Maria.

Maria is also awaiting results. She has recently returned from a trip to Africa, and her symptoms have been baffling the doctors. It’s either some recurring form of cancer or a tropical disease. They start talking, and over the next twenty-four hours, an unexpected empathy develops between total strangers, who are very much alone. The reader can easily conclude that they both feel terribly lonely, something that is par for the course in big cities.

The plot is minimal: apart from strolls through corridors and lucid discussions while sitting together on benches, plus a charming scene in which the two engage in a dance to the tune of Henry Mancini’s song, very little actually happens in Moon River.

What matters is the words and the glances (and let’s not forget the ever-meaningful yet unfathomable silences that accompany the words unspoken by eyes) they share on every single aspect of human life. The issues are many: the proximity of unavoidable death, the imperishableness of human deeds on earth, religiosity, beliefs and superstition, the feelings of guilt derived from our wrongdoings.

Moon River is narrated in the first person, and there is little doubt that the narrator is partly inspired by the experiences of Villatoro himself, who in the acknowledgements makes mention of the many doctors and nursing staff at various hospitals where he was well looked after.

A place as good as any to start a new life...or to finish a spent one. Photograph by Jordi Ferrer..

As you can presume from the cover, Moon River was marketed as “a novel about love and the fear of losing it”; despite Pere’s seemingly unconquerable pessimism, it is indeed a book about love – perhaps more about the love for life than the romantic love the photograph appears to hint at. While not an extraordinary book, Moon River is mostly an entertaining read. Villatoro repeats some sentences way too many times: it is difficult for the reader not to begrudge a narrator who keeps admitting “I didn’t know what to say”. Leaving such minor flaws aside, it turns out to be an intimate, introspective account of a fictional encounter, one endowed with enough verisimilitude nonetheless.

Care Santos's Diamant blau: A Review

Care Santos, Diamant blau (Barcelona: Columna, 2016). 433 pages.

Researching your family history is a hugely popular hobby in Australia. Most descendants of European settlers can only look back at a 200-year-old history in Australia, and some (or, rather, very few) are able to precisely retrace their origins beyond the local records to European roots. Whether our ancestors remain somehow present in us or not is certainly debatable; yet writing about them certainly amounts to remembering something that may have not occurred at all.

Creating a family saga out of one’s own family is a risky literary proposition, and Care Santos gets away with it in Diamant blau. But only just. The family are the Pujolars (the patriarch drops the ‘r’ from the name after he decides to move the family from Olot to Mataró). The story spans two centuries, from the early 1700s to the decade just before the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. The narrative is at times somewhat chaotic rather than fragmentary, as it takes leaps forwards and backwards through time without much of an obvious order to it.

This old church in Olot has seen more history than you and me... Source: Wikicommons

It is 1853 and Silvestre Pujolar is leading a less than peaceful existence in Olot, where he runs a textile dyeing business. The Carlist wars force his hand and resolve; he packs everything of value in a horse-drawn cart and sets course for Mataró, close to the textile factories and the growing metropolis that is the capital of Catalonia. He has a good eye for business, a convincing tone of voice and the manners that create friends rather than enemies. In just a few years he will become a well-off, respected gentleman. Pity that his son Florià is not endowed with the same shrewdness and talent.

Over the decades, the family’s fortunes change from success to ruin. Not even the First World War was to be sufficient for Florià to make the dyeing business flourish. Some of the decisions he makes soon after his father’s demise are plain dumb – the biggest mistake being asking for Margarida’s hand in marriage. They have four children, three girls and a boy, Josep, a pusillanimous prat who cannot stand the pestilent stenches of the business. The eldest is Teresa (the author’s grandmother), who is by far the most charismatic character in the whole book.

Teresa has been betrothed to a … how can we put it? An idiot? Someone who spends his days and nights studying in order to try and pass the examinations that will make a notary public of him. Allow me at this point to stray off the topic a little and remark that the incompetent PM currently in charge of the central Spanish government used to “work” as a notary public. These “professionals” enjoy some “special reputation” in Spain. Just ask anyone who has gone through the ordeal of trying to get an inheritance.

The market at Plaça de Cuba in Mataró is frequently mentioned in Diamant blau. Source: wikicommons

But let’s go back to the literature. I will not deny there is some in the novel, but it rarely reaches the heights of that which constitutes ‘high literature’. It seems to me that Care Santos throws all caution to the wind and chooses to tell a story rather than a history. In other words, Santos eliminates the possibility of creating a great work of literature right from the beginning, choosing the path of plain, simple storytelling. Which is fine as well, of course, but makes the book appear curtailed in its scope and generally underwhelming.

Two aspects need to be mentioned in this regard. First, the poorly finished portrayal of some characters, who seem to merely appear for the purposes of pushing on with the plot. For a novel with so many leaps forward and flashbacks into the 18^th and 19^th centuries and such a long cast of characters, it is regrettable that some of them come across as mere fillers. I daresay this is due to the author’s obstinate eagerness to construct a story out of a few historical facts.

Secondly, there is at times a palpably condescending tone towards the reader. This is most evident when the novel creates a parenthesis in the narrative by presenting a cul-de-sac stub in the plotline (a rather superfluous one, if not outright annoying). For example, the brief chapter devoted to William Perkin, the discoverer of mauveine, the first synthetic organic chemical dye, which concludes in this fashion: “And this was, my dear friends, my modest contribution to the story. I hope I did not commit the sin of boring you. I wish you all a very colourful life.” (p. 370, my translation). Oh my, 😬.

As in any family story, many are the themes that are central to the narrative: there is a family curse embodied in a grandfather clock; there is melodrama around marriages, unrequited love and illegitimate children; there is the hard fall from affluence and the despair poverty brings about; and there is the bravery of the women who defied social taboos and conventions in the early 20^th century.

Do all these themes, subplots and gratuitous trimmings add to a great work of literature? Let other readers decide. For my part, I have made up my mind about the Diamant blau: the title refers to a feathered automaton kept in the birdcage the Pujolàs have in their back yard.

Set the bird free, I say.

Jordi Tomàs's El mar dels traïdors: A Review

Jordi Tomàs, El mar dels traïdors (Barcelona: Proa, 2013). 233 pages.

Idealism and naivety characterise the protagonist of El mar dels traïdors, a young Catalan doctor who, soon after graduating from university, is accepted aboard a merchant ship that is to cross the Atlantic Ocean from the coasts of Africa to the Spanish colonies in the Caribbean Sea. The year is 1864, and Antoni Riubó is the young physician’s name. At such tender age and with the promise of acquiring valuable professional experience, who wouldn’t take such a step forward when exotic adventures and the appeal of fortune are calling from the tropics?

But Riubó is being all too easily deceived. The ship is owned by a friend of the family, and the goods they will be exporting from Africa are not limited to ivory, ebony and spices. Although prohibited by law, the slave trade can still render juicy benefits, as the captain will remind Riubó many times during the voyage.

La notícia del motí al vaixell Amistad va recórrer el món sencer l'any 1839.

When the young doctor finds out what their real cargo is, he is appalled and disgusted. His duty is therefore to look after the health of the human cargo below deck, and ensure they make it to Cuba in as healthy a condition as possible. Driven by his moral principles, he starts planning a mutiny. Does he have any support among the crew? It is hard to say, one way or another. As he reads his predecessor’s notes, left within the pages of a medical book, he realises he is all alone in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by the boundless sea and a crew of unprincipled men who will only look after the money the illegal commerce of humans can bring them.

His extremely innocent attempt to take control of the vessel fails miserably. The captain decides not to kill the doctor – Riubó might still come handy should an infectious disease break out among the more than 400 Africans crowded inside the Verge de Monserrat. By chance, an English frigate appears in the horizon. Riubó thinks the English have received his letter he tried to send them while docked in the Cape Verde archipelago. But the captain is always one step ahead of developments.

When Riubó wakes up – the cook and other crew members force feed him some sleep-inducing substance mixed with the ratafia – all the slaves are gone and the English boat has vanished. His life is not a worth a cent, obviously, but the captain still retains him. The rest of the voyage becomes unendurable for everyone on board as they run out of fresh fruit and drinkable water, so they’re extremely glad to reach English territory in the Antilles.

Monserrat Island, Riubó's final destination. Photograph by Mike Schinkel 

Faced with the opportunity to make a dime where a loss had been incurred, Captain Tubau gets the commission to transport an abolitionist lawyer and his daughter to the island of Monserrat. Riubó then sees his chance to report him to the authorities and, believing the words of a fellow crewman, plans to reveal the true nature of the ship and the men who travel in it. The plot has a tragic final twist, and after falling into the trap the slave traders have laid for him, Riubó fails again.

The ending contains yet another surprising twist, one that exposes how disgracefully treacherous the nature of persons whose only aim in life is greed can be.

Jordi Tomàs uses a mix of personal diary entries and letters written to relatives to narrate Riubó’s story, and it is mostly an effective format. El mar dels traïdors highlights the true origin of some of the wealthiest families in 19^th-century bourgeois Barcelona. Tomàs spares no detail on the cruelty and brutality slave traders were capable of.

In choosing the format of a personal account through the diary and letters of the young doctor, Tomàs creates a very credible character, a young man whose idealism starkly contrasts with the captain’s appetite for money. Slave traders stopped at nothing: if the abolition of slavery could have made some people think the end of such horrors would be the last to put an indelible stain on humankind, the 20^th century came to prove just wrong they had been. El mar dels traïdors is a very good read, and no doubt deserved the award it received.

Josep Bertomeu Moll's Capvespre: A Review

Josep Bertomeu Moll, Capvespre (Gandia: Lletra Impresa, 2016). 224 pages.

I was a rather naïve 11-year-old boy when Fascist dictator Franco died, yet I do have a few memories of the difficult years before his death, and particularly the profound changes that occurred in the years that followed. It could very well be argued that more than 40 years later, those political changes have turned out to be rather cosmetic in their nature. Spain has basically retained the political status quo resulting from the military coup in 1936, the ensuing Civil War and forty years of a dictatorial regime. It is a country where conservative elites and economic oligarchies exercise their unfettered power, where corruption unashamedly spreads to the top echelons of government. Unsurprisingly, though, a clear majority of voters continue to elect politicians whose decency is, to say the least, questionable. Go figure.

In those years, my home town, Valencia, was not the markedly touristic destination it seems to be today. Valencian life in the 1970s was rather different from the easy-going, festive city it is in 2016. Then there was fear in the streets, and news of the political repression elsewhere in the Spanish State would have been very discreetly commented on by people in the streets. One of my first memories associated with anything remotely political is of my paternal grandmother telling me not to speak our local language instead of Spanish when in public. I must have been about 5 or 6 years old.

This is the Valencia Capvespre (The Evening) is set in. Written in 1977, the author kept it hidden in a drawer for decades until Lletra Impresa, an enthusiastic publisher from Gandia, rescued the manuscript and took a gamble by printing it as their first volume in their fresh fiction collection. Unless there are more uncovered manuscripts of his, this might unfortunately turn out to be Bertomeu’s only published book, since he unexpectedly passed away just a couple of weeks ago.

A fragmentary narrative, Capvespre follows the lives of Lluís and Pilar, the two main characters, whose complicated, twisted, on-and-off relationship makes up the main plot of the novel. They are part of a wider circle of friends, university students who fight the regime hoping to achieve freedom, hoping to reach for their future, for their dreams at a time when Francoist repression had intensified its brutal force. Moreover, Bertomeu employs different narrative points of view, providing noteworthy contrasts between the various characters about the same events.

The terrible mishaps associated with mandatory military service, the patently injurious conditions for young females within what was a creepily Catholic society, the lively nights of jazz music and cheap booze in well-known bars of the different barrios of Valencia, the ground-breaking literature that was landing at Spanish bookshops in those years (Neruda, César Vallejo, Cortázar, Arguedas, García Márquez, Cabrera Infante, among others), the first sexual experiences of very young men and women, the extremely risky business of joining the then illegal Communist Party … these are some of the situations and circumstances narrated by Lluís, or explained through letters by Pilar, Jordi, Sergi. Bertomeu succeeds in contriving a 1977 narrative that feels way before his time, and is at times more ‘contemporary’ than some novels written in recent years, both in its circular structure and its utterly compelling style.

Non-conformism was an essential part of the philosophy of the young people at the time. They would not abide by a State that repressed and coerced them. Gathering in the streets and plazas of Valencia (which Bertomeu cleverly identifies by using the Francoist names they had until the late 1970s) to distribute radical pamphlets or marching in protest, the students regularly had to run away from riot police, or occasionally clashed with Fascist gangs at the Faculty.

For anyone arriving in Valencia by train, Plaza del Caudillo (wash your mouth, boy!) was an unavoidable passageway towards the bars in the older parts of the city. Today it is known as Plaça de l"Ajuntament.

In Capvespre, some of Lluís’s friends are arrested by Franco’s Secret Police and sent to jail, where they languish for months or even years, found guilty in trials run by ludicrous judges. Their crime? Wishing freedom for their peers and themselves.

Capvespre is a welcome and necessary reminder of the struggle for dignity a whole generation of Valencians engaged in. It should also help us to focus on the fact that 40 years later, younger generations of Valencians, let alone Spaniards, time and again see how their hopes and their dreams are smashed by inept governments that continue to underpin a decrepit, dishonest, fraudulent political system.

Apart from a few well-accomplished historical recreations such as Silvestre Vilaplana’s L’estany de foc, the city of Valencia had never really been the protagonist of a book. It is a pleasant surprise to see how the city comes alive in Bertomeu’s words, in his sharp-eyed descriptions. How unfortunate it is that Bertomeu is no longer alive to write a sequel to Capvespre.

Lluís-Anton Baulenas´ Quan arribi el pirata i se m´emporti: A Review

Lluís-Anton Baulenas, Quan arribi el pirata i se m'emporti (Barcelona: RBA, 2015). 429 pages.

20^th-century Spain allowed many an unsavoury character to make progress in life; Francoism was the ideal socio-political system for ruthless and callous non-entities to make their fortunes through dodgy deals, exerting their influence way beyond what the normal extent of their actual abilities and competencies should have reached. One of these people could have easily been Miquel-Deogràcies Gambús, introduced to us readers as ‘the Ogre’. The Ogre’s middle name (“thanks be to God”) is of course a finely sarcastic detail from Baulenas.

At 96, Gambús’ CV is one to be dubiously proud of: a double murderer before becoming of age (a young local shepherd and his own grandmother are his first two victims), he quickly profited from the Civil War and the Francoist regime by doing whatever it took to achieve his ends. Many years later he is the owner and President of a big international company called Prospective Business. He has everything money can buy, yet everything is never enough.

One thing he cannot have is eternal life, though. His end is nigh, as they say, and he wishes to keep his secret “treasure” in safe hands. His treasure is a little cave with the most amazing rupestrian paintings ever discovered, above which Gambús has built his mansion, appropriately named La Fortuna. The local shepherd was the first person to pay for this secret with his life, but a few more end up losing their lives throughout the years, his first wife included.

Gambús knows not what scruples are, nothing has ever stopped him, or will ever stop him for that matter. Not even his two sons, very wealthy businessmen who live in London and New York respectively, have ever been allowed to see the paintings. So why does Gambús all of a sudden summon fifty-something-year-old gay amateur photographer and Raval-based nurse Jesús Carducci to his mansion, offering him huge sums of money to photograph the paintings?

A Raval street in broad daylight. Photograph by Jeny.

Quan arribi el pirata i se m’emporti, loosely translatable as ‘When the pirate comes and takes me away’, is narrated in two parallel plotlines that eventually meet and clash at La Fortuna. While the story of Gambús’ life since his birth in 1909 to the megalomaniac project he has devised in order to make his legacy a long-lasting one is certainly an attractive one, the storyline around Carducci’s flirts with various men and his walks around the Barri del Raval are less so. The former is narrated in the third person (we later learn Carducci is the narrator), while Carducci’s adventures are a first-person narrative.

The novel, however, takes a few too many chapters to really engage the reader: there are a few too many diversions, as well as an excess of probably irrelevant details. Baulenas indulges in rather verbose descriptions where, at least in my opinion as a reader, the editor should have used the old red pen.

The Ogre’s machinations are indeed the driving force in this quirky yet at times captivating story. Carducci becomes a puppet whose strings Gambús pulls at will. Which is not too difficult a task for someone like Gambús, of course, who is known to have flown across the world to propose to his would-be second wife, French prostitute Martine, in extremely convincing terms: he more or less says, “I came here to either marry you or kill you. Choose what it will be.” Like the slogan in those T-shirts many people used to wear all over the planet not that long ago, Marta Gambús, as she will be known eventually, will choose life. A life sentence of sorts indeed.

Quan arribi el pirata i se m’emporti deals quite aptly with the allure of power and how it corrupts everyone who comes near those who exert it. Two very different worlds are confronted with each other: the world of wealth and limitless influence versus the microcosm of El Raval, the old Barcelona barrio where crime, crudity and hardship dominate people’s lives.

An old city gets a facelift - AirBnB does the rest. Photograph by Alain Rouiller.   

Unlike El nas de Mussolini, the only other Baulenas book I have read so far (a review in Spanish is available here), Quan arribi el pirata… is not as masterfully paced or skilfully structured. Still, it’s entertaining enough. 

Yet apart from the slow start to the story proper, the ending is a little long-winded, too. And to compound things, Baulenas adds an 18-page epilogue, situated three years later in 2009. Why a 400-page story would require such a lengthy epilogue is something that escapes me. Not every character needs to have their life sorted out and explained at length in a novel, methinks.

Esperança Camps' Naufragi a la neu: A Review

Esperança Camps, Naufragi a la neu (Alzira: Bromera, 2011). 214 pages.

Fortunately for us readers, literature has endless possibilities for mirror games. When re-creating a creation produces reflections as varied and meaningful as those produced by Camps’ skilful narrative technique in this novel, Naufragi a la neu [literally, Wreck in the snow, although an alternative translation for the title could be Failure in the snow] the result can be delightfully playful.

Take Cristina, a youngish ex-drug addict who was rescued from the squalor and wretchedness her life had become by a charitable middle-aged woman, Teresa, in an ugly, tacky Mediterranean city on the east coast of the Iberian Peninsula no one can fail to recognise: my home town, Valencia. For reasons we are never completely told (Camps can also conveniently leave gaps where appropriate) Teresa saves Cristina from herself and probably from a certain and premature death, too. They become an item in more senses than one, and in time Teresa will give her young paramour an education. Cristina embraces literature while disengaging herself from all the vices and substances that used to be part of her bodily fluids, and just before their breakup she is invited to go to a writers’ retreat in the mountains.

The place has been snowed in: it should be an ideal situation for her fresh talent to flourish. The main character of the novel she is writing is Paco el Moix: an ex-convict, Paco survives in an all too familiar jungle of poverty and drug deals. The man has no scruples and will stop at nothing just to get a few euros with which to buy the next dose. When he the opportunity to do a big job come his way (a bank robbery in a small town), he does not hesitate to join two gun-toting Slavic thugs who treat him with absolute contempt. Will they succeed in getting away with the money?

It’s raining and I’m the woman in the wide-brimmed hat who is reviewing some papers and travels in Compartment C, Car 193 by Edward Hopper, who always painted loneliness. The thick, viscous unsought for loneliness that falls on your eyelids and corrodes your spirit. So many book covers have been illustrated with Hopper’s unreal atmospheres! I am who I want to be, and I know I’m fleeing. (p. 1, my translation) Image sourced from www.museumsyndicate.com/item.php?item=9758

If this were the whole plot of the novel, the book would have never seen the light of day. But because this is not what Naufragi a la neu is about, the reading is far more interesting than simply crime fiction. Camps presents the reader with three parallel texts. The first one is Cristina’s journal, where she confesses her fears, her aspirations, her miseries. The second one is the story Cristina is writing about Paco el Moix, which hardly ever goes for too long and is cleverly and frequently interrupted by a third voice, that produced by an anonymous narrator, who makes it first appearance in brackets, interrupting Cristina’s crime story.

Cristina’s stay at the mountain retreat eventually becomes some sort of mirror where she will need to confront the reality of her personal failure. Is Cristina the product of the narrator’s imagination? Or is the “narrator”, the intrusive narrative voice that nudges his/her way into the text the product of Cristina’s imagination (as Cristina appears to suggest in her journal)? Or are they all the result of yet another creator working at a higher level? Is it Teresa perhaps? Or Esperança Camps? We will never know because we are never told.

The metaliterary game played by Camps is remarkably thought-provoking. Towards the end of the robbery story, Cristina shows pity for Paco el Moix, whom she would have liked to kill in her fiction since she could not do so in real life. Was the narrator’s influence on this narratological choice determined by his/her affection for Cristina? Do these decisions mirror each other?

A story within a story is given an even wider narrative framework through the disruptive intervention of the anonymous narrator: “(this is not the way, I know, I’ve got no excuse to barge into the text Cristina’s writing, I’ve got no reason to do so, it’s one of the basic rules of the profession: our presence in the novel must not be noticed, but since I’ve already breached the precept of invisibility so many times, one more will hardly matter; I’ll make the most of the darkness in this room now that she’s gone down to supper and has left her laptop on, it looks like she intends to keep on writing when she comes back upstairs, that’s a good sign; oh, how I hate waltz! This one I can hear now, too, this one by Hans Christian Lumbye, so fat, with an insufferable moustache, the music he wrote seems to me too slimy… I’m going around in circles, I’m moving the cursor up and down because I know what I’m about to write is reckless, because I know I can’t sneak into Cristina’s novel to say that, despite my initial reticence, I like this woman, there, I’ve said it, I like Cristina, head over heels, there, it’s written, it makes me happy to hear her by my side, adjusting the pace of our thoughts, to think up what she writes, I like her so much! Even though I am no one, I don’t have any feelings, I don’t have any feelings? How can I write without feelings? I should not have written the word ‘feelings’ three times, and that one makes it four, it is an unnecessary reiteration, and now I need to write that I don’t have an identity, nor any need to love or be loved, that I’m just a simple narrator…) [p. 111, my translation].

Naufragi a la neu was awarded the 31^st Blai Bellver Prize for Fiction, and I believe it was thoroughly deserved.