Another beautifully presented novel by Thom Conroy after his The Naturalist in 2014, an historical novel about the German naturalist Ernst Dieffenbach. The Salted Air is contemporary and takes the form of the journal of 28 years old Djuna, who is grieving after the suicide of Harvey, her partner. As it is a journal written by the daughter of literary parents: “Words are like light in a jar” her father once wrote – some of the novel’s short chapters read almost like prose poems. And there are some striking similes: “As I’m merging into traffic on the highway the sun disappears and a rattling downfall begins. It looks, for a moment, as if someone has spilled marbles across the surface of the road”. The changeability of the weather and landscape in the novel gives us a feel for Djuna’s inner turbulence – at one point she describes how the sun and daylight have become conditional to her, the night resolute. She is critical of herself “Why must I always cast stones?” and she talks of “the extravagance of my grief”. She is so human – declaring her apparent decisions while describing her contrary actions. I liked the mundaneness of some of her musings: “the pleasure of staying of other people’s houses is using their personal care products”. Djuna finds solace in her grief with the brother of her dead partner – triggering the main impetus of the novel: Djuna trying to work out if Bruce, the brother, is what she is looking for or what she should be running away from. She is also dealing with the split up of the ideal and idealised family unit she grew up in – with her mother in America and her father living in an abandoned East Coast camping ground; the coming into focus of Lyle, a friend of Harvey’s; and her grieving for the children she and Harvey will never have. There are lots of interesting characters along the way as she travels from Wellington to Palmerston North and then heads up North to find her father – with Bruce’s daughter Ella in tow. The personalised nature of the book makes for some frustrations in knowing what is going on with some of these other characters – Joanne (Bruce’s wife and Ella’s mother) in particular – would she really have let Djuna take Ella away? And what happens to her given how events eventually unfold? Having said that it is when the narrative stayed personal that I loved the book, but when it veered into general descriptions of Maori grievances it lost its focus for me – and Djuna appeared quite racist, which I doubt was intended. Some criticised The Naturalist for ranging too widely in his telling of Ernst Dieffenbach’s story, where I found it a fine portrait, but I would criticise The Salted Sea for doing something similar, adding too much into the mix that Djuna has to think through. The Salted Air is a really good book, but for me if Conroy had stuck to the ultra-personal, it would have been a great one.
In my last review of a Grant Nicol book – The mistake, also set in Iceland – I suggested a longer novel might allow us more time to get to know his characters, saving them from the “all women are victims, prostitutes or evil; all men are well meaning, just following orders or psychologically damaged” array. A place to bury strangers is a full-length novel – but we haven’t really moved on in terms of characterisation. I had hopes for Eygló (no surname provided) – a woman copper who seemed to have a bit of nous, but she disappears from the narrative very early on – after having been called to the murder scene where a low-down-in-the-chain drug dealer has been incinerated, and a message in Norwegian written in black paint on the wall behind him. She is called off (from the crime scene and the novel) when she and her partner get word that a policeman has been shot. That policeman is Detective Grímur Karlsson, who we know from earlier novels. And Karlsson is even more depressed now – he is ageing, and unpopular at work from having a habit of not solving crimes (or rather letting perpetrators go due to a confused moral compass). Karlsson has been shot whilst following a young woman he fears is in danger and things not going well. Karlsson’s boss Ævar – worried about his job – focusses on a Norwegian for both crimes. This Norwegian’s frequent visits to Iceland are always accompanied by crimes that, until now, don’t really worry the Police, as they all involve damaging drug dealers. The novel jumps about all over the place time-wise (in part I suppose because of Karlsson being out of action for most of the ‘current’ timeline) – and the only way I could keep track was to memorise the date of the incineration and shooting and therefore knowing what events were ‘before’ and which ‘after’. Laid out in a line the novel is about illegal migrant workers and their vulnerability, women and their vulnerability, the evil of drugs, and the corruption of the elite – oddly enough in this case circling around Icelandic fishing quota. And all of these topics are relevant and worthy of a crime novel, and Iceland is a great setting, but with all combined A place to bury strangers doesn’t really get to the heart of any of them. We get the stories of many women, and their end is implied, but their journey ignored. We almost get to know Knut Vigeland ‘The Norwegian’, we almost get to know Svandís the young drug addict, we almost get to know many characters who I would have liked to know. And despite the long paragraphs on Karlsson’s world weariness I still didn’t get to understand him – some of his ethical calls sounding decidedly dodgy. And do they really talk of ‘lollies’ in Iceland? Despite this review there is much to enjoy in this novel – the atmosphere is good and the situations inventive – it was just too busy for my taste.
The second in Hayton’s Ngaire Blakes series and another great read! Ngaire is still coming to terms with traumas suffered prior to and during the first installment (The three deaths of Magdalene Lynton) and is working temporarily in a law firm. When two horrific murders put her in the frame as a suspect she bolts up North to seek refuge with her estranged father Patariki, and his just about off-the-grid mates. We learn more about Ngaire’s background – not only her Dad but also her wannabe actress Mum Maralyn, who lives in Los Angeles. With Ngaire up North the novel is run in parallel, with her police mates in Christchurch investigating the murders and her trying to piece things together in her new hostile environment. Both victims were counsellors Ngaire had consulted, and when a long ago former colleague is attacked the pieces start falling into place – but probably not soon enough for Ngaire to escape becoming a victim herself. Especially given that those back in Christchurch are following a false trail – or are they? The plotting is very clever, the resolutions of the various plot-lines satisfying – and in one case quite chilling – and there are some genuinely thrilling, and moving, moments. As with the previous book Ngaire is a flawed character who is not great at fitting in or reading those around her, but again those around her see her in a better light than she sees herself. The end hints at more Blakes mysteries – here’s hoping!
This is cold case mystery story telling at its best – in fact the case was determined not to be a case at all forty years ago when a determination of accidental drowning was made – but now there is more than one person claiming responsibility for the death of Magdalene Lynton, and a lot more suspects turning up. And what makes the solving of this cold case so satisfying is the character determined to sort out what actually happened – Detective Ngaire Blakes. Blakes is a cop with a traumatic incident in her recent history, and she encounters more such incidents as this story progresses. She is a physical and mental wreck, and does a good deal of the investigating while not officially working for the Police – off on sick leave. She carries guilt and fear, and misreads her work environment completely – she also does a quite reprehensible thing to her friend and colleague during the story. In other words: she is a mess, but she is also determined to give Magdalene some measure of justice. Blake becomes involved in Magdalene’s story when Paul Worthington, a frail man with terminal cancer, arrives at the Police Station to confess to the crime. When Blakes puts Worthington’s version of events alongside what was discovered at the time of the death, and all of that alongside the scant information gleaned from surviving witnesses, the pieces don’t fit. Blakes is assisted in her investigations (both official and unofficial) by two friends. First is her Police colleague Deb, and second a reporter Finlay – whose background knowledge of the victim and the religious community she came from was the only thing in the plot I found slightly contrived. We discover Blakes through her colleagues and the reaction of those she interviews – as her own appraisal of herself is tainted by trauma and guilt. She is compassionate and brave – worthy of forgiveness and loyalty – someone who looks beyond the obvious to try and get to the truth. She makes judgements about other characters by what she finds out about how they behave rather than what they tell her about themselves – and I really liked that the reader also starts to judge Blakes by her deeds and not what her thoughts ‘tell’ you about her. Forty years of silence about what happened to Magdalene testifies to the fact that Blakes is not the only character to err when judging their own culpability and worth. Magdalene’s story is tragic and the characters we meet: e.g. the lawyer William Glover who used to be Magdalene’s boyfriend Billy, Magdalene’s mother Mary, Isaiah who grew up in the religious community with Magdalene – are all complex and believable. Some of the Americanisms (presumably added for the US market) jarred a bit in the NZ setting, but I found The three deaths of Magdalene Lynton a great murder mystery, with a flawed but noble main character that I want more of.
How a quick but catastrophic event can set lives careering off at tangents. For Carla Reid the traumatic events that take place on her farm on the night of her wedding anniversary – when the only glitch had been her son’s announcement he didn’t want to return from the city to help on the farm and her harsh words afterwards – lead to years of suffering. For Ben Toroa, one of the young perpetrators of the home invasion, it leads to years behind bars. Ben’s life did not have any expectation of future comfort, except maybe earning respect from his crew, so his life didn’t veer so much off course, but he still has a journey to make, and surprisingly Carla eventually becomes part of that journey. The last time we spoke alternates points of view, that of Carla, of Ben, of other characters who become part of the story – and most difficult for me the voice of Beyond – that world of continuity that Ben has become separated from due to urbanisation and a history of systemic racism. Sussman’s book is one of hope and redemption – but not saccharinely so; the journey the characters make is far from easy or smooth. If all we need is “to belong … to be loved” there is a way through. If we have that love and belonging and it is taken away from us the way back is hard. If we have never had it we try and create it: gangs, drugs, trying to earn respect. If we have never had it, we suffer from the ignorance of not knowing what it even is to be loved and cared for – especially if we are also literally ignorant through lack of education to help us understand and navigate. According to the Acknowledgements The last time we spoke took about eight years to write – nicely echoed in the text where a journalist has had Carla and Ben’s story in his mind for eight years. So maybe another message from this moving book is the importance of patience for those in trauma; to be patient themselves and also to realise the patience of the Beyond.
“There was no puzzle to solve, like those lady crime writers devised. This was simply a matter of stopping another effort by other German agents … “ so Dan Delaney muses while holding the fort on Somes Island in Wellington Harbour in 1935 – but things are not that simple, and there is a mystery as to who is leaking intelligence and who is going to such violent lengths to get the plans for the ‘death ray’ that may be being developed on the island. Dan is a young Auckland lad who wants to be a detective and is determined not to muck up his first assignment. He is added to a team investigating the Auckland German Club and its growing sympathies to the Nazi regime. Dan’s task moves from casing out the Club to protecting an amateur scientist who may or may not have invented a way of remotely stalling airplane engines causing them to fall out of the sky – and whose invention is plausible enough for him to have been so viciously attacked at the Takapuna bus depot that he required hospitalisation. It is all pretty wacky stuff – but it is all true! The version of this book that I read started out with a precis of events and a description of historical context, which I initially thought a bit unfortunate, but it did mean that when Dan was dropped like a rat into a maze of investigating I had more information than the scurrying characters. As well as inter-nation rivalry there are inter-personal tensions and also a healthy lack of respect between the police and the army. Dan is a delightful protagonist, human and humble, not knowing if he is left- or right- leaning, just trying really earnestly to be a good detective. When he travels with Victor Penny, the inventor, to Somes Island – for Penny’s safety as well as so the government can keep tabs on his research – Dan ends up suspicious of everybody’s motives, including those of Penny. And as to the power who might be ‘turning’ the locals? – it’s not just Germany who would want the aircraft disabling technology with war looming. And of course there are always those idealists who want everyone to have the same technology to minimise the benefits of attack. And there is the charming suggestion that if the technology does work the Brits would want it as their own invention and not one coming out of the colonies. I had some issues with the writing: at first finding the dialogue a bit forced, but that soon settled down; I was puzzled by some similes: “His throat was as dry as a wooden god”, and there may be a few anachronisms – I’m fairly sure Kilroy didn’t start leaving graffiti until the Second World War, Foo was his predecessor, and lumbar rolls in the 1930s? I also got a bit lost in the personal pronouns – easily done when most of your characters are blokes. And as a social historian McGill crams as much historical detail he can into the book – but why not? – it is a fascinating time in New Zealand and global history, and Dan is totally plausible as someone who would be interested in what is going on around him. So read this book and learn about an amazing piece of New Zealand history, and at the same time try to work out who is after the plans and why, along with the lovely Dan Delaney.
What a cracker! A noir novel set in tea-drenched 1950s New Zealand. With the 1951 waterfront strike as the backdrop, Red Herring sets PI Johnny Molloy on the track of a murky character who has supposedly drowned in the Gulf of Alaska but who has turned up in a photo taken in New Zealand alongside the organisers of the strike. Molloy’s case is one of probable insurance fraud but more nefarious stuff and interesting characters keep emerging – including a feisty Caitlin O’Carolan, a reporter with a dream of being a war correspondent for a UK paper. For this is a New Zealand where for many ‘home’ is still seen as somewhere else – the place we send frozen mutton to, or the place we may look to for political guidance. But the recent war has allowed some characters to gain a “New Zealand perspective” on those countries once thought to have all the answers. And having been in the conflict also allows guys like Molloy to have a gun, which comes in handy when his hunt puts him in the firing line. It is a dark and complex tale; people’s allegiances and choices of allies often not being what you would expect. The writing is solid and blokey: “A look passed between them of such intensity that two strong men could have carried a double bed across it”, and not without humour – Prime Minister Sid Holland spends a lot of his time in his underwear, and an historian might have called Fintan Patrick Walsh the closest New Zealand had to an American-style industrial gangster, but in the book Walsh is the one bemoaning the fact that people keep misinterpreting his desire for them to ‘get rid of’ people. Who was doing what to whom and why was never entirely clear to me, but I think that was part of why I liked this book – the reader is like the ordinary citizen at the end of whatever deals and decisions are being made, supposedly on their behalf, but without their knowledge or consent. A great debut novel – and hopefully we haven’t seen the last of Johnny Molloy.
You just have to let yourself drift with this one – it is beautifully written and nicely plotted, but a little heavy handed with the symbolism and message. Elizabeth is slowly fading away in her Stockholm apartment when a neighbour, Elias, intrudes by way of an incorrectly delivered parcel (they share the same surname). The intrusion spreads to an upstairs neighbour, Otto, when Elizabeth has to approach him for help when disaster strikes Elias. And the three rather sad loners, one young, one middle aged and one approaching seventy, tentatively enter into friendship. Of the three we get to know Otto the most and he is the caterer and organiser of most of their gatherings. Otto comes from a literary background and there are nice literary quotes throughout. Elias is a talented artist with severe dyslexia – so Otto has taken on the role of literature interpreter for him – and we find out about him mainly from his new art project, inspired by his first glimpse of Elizabeth. We discover Elizabeth has had a large and eventful past, but her present has been purposely reduced and we just have to accept her as Otto and Elias find her. It is a sad and minor key read – the sort that has you dreading a happy outcome. The Swedish setting allows effective use of seasons to aid mood and the sense of ‘not quite fitting in’ that is expressed by each of the three characters. And of course the presence and absence of the blackbird – prefigured very nicely by a Wallace Stevens’ epigraph – is used to good effect.
A character in The Quiet Spectacular declares that the literary establishment considers men to be the north on the compass and “…it’s only by sending the whole compass completely haywire that anyone other than Western men get a look-in.” And the book, if not breaking any literary boundaries, does concentrate solely on female concerns and actions. Loretta is a school librarian going through a bit of a crisis. Her greatest sense of danger comes from a gang of teenage girls who visit her library, and from her husband casually mentioning every now and again that he wants to ditch his job and live off her part-time earnings. She once charmingly decided to re-name the male geographic names of the South Island with the names of remarkable, but often unheard-of, women – and thinking of these women she worries that she is of the generation who are “Too young to belong to the solo yachtsmen and moon explorers, too old to identify with the backpackers, the round-the-world mountain-bikers or base-jumpers.” And as a friend points out: “… women or, rather, menopausal women, aren’t really expected to do dangerous things, are they?” So Loretta is almost resigned to “The cow is my spirit animal”, and “I’m no lady when I change lanes” when a desire to recapture her joy as a child observing birds in her single member bird-watching club takes her walking on the nearby wetlands. Young Chance also ends up on the wetlands, she attends the school where Loretta works and due to a misunderstanding has to produce a taxidermy trinket in order to ask Loretta to suggest a book she might read – her attempt to escape her mother’s tyrannical book-reading regime where “a good reader was obligated to approach a text with the same energy that a [racing] driver negotiated a track”. Chance, who through a male misunderstanding is named Porsche, finds herself isolated from her peers at school as well as from her mainly male family on their goat farm. Her only potential ally, her mother, is frustrated with her life having gone straight from school into marriage, and takes her frustrations out on Chance. Even the books her mother makes her read provides no outlet for Chance: “Her mother’s books touched on every type of life except their own.” A third woman is Riva, once a successful business woman, now the owner and developer of the wetlands. Riva is coming to the end of the permitted mourning period for her younger sister and she must come up with a spectacular way to acknowledge the end of her mourning. So The Quiet Spectacular is the story of these three women who, I suspect like most women, feel they don’t quite fit the world they were born into. I was a little disappointed at the end – I was still mentally thinking of dangers writ large – but I think that was missing the point. The saving of wetlands, the taking charge of your own projects, the negotiations of everyday life and the willingness to enter into friendships are all quietly spectacular.
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