First published in Russian in 2002; published in translation by Melville House on September 27, 2011
When we last saw Viktor Zolotaryov (at the end of Death and the Penguin), he was fleeing the crime syndicate that threatened his life, leaving Misha, his penguin, in an animal hospital in Kiev. Now on an island near Antarctica, Viktor is offered the opportunity to adopt a new identity. Returning to Kiev, the melancholy with which he was afflicted in Death and the Penguin is replaced, at least temporarily, with "a cheerful touch of mystery," largely the result of a happy encounter with a part-time prostitute named Svetlana. Still, the murder of his former editor reminds him that "every story must end at a full stop, and none bolder or more final than that of death."
Viktor's search for Misha brings him back into contact with some shady characters. Even worse, he becomes a political consultant, a job that gives Andrey Kurkov the chance to lampoon politicians, their image makers, empty promises, and hypocrisy. Fans of cynicism will find much to love in this novel, but so will fans of humanity. The tender relationship that Viktor established with a little girl, Sonya, in Death and the Penguin continues in Penguin Lost, but Viktor's time in Kiev is limited. Soon he is off to Moscow, on three missions: one for the man whose identity he borrowed; one for his political employer; and most importantly, one of his own -- his search for Misha. Viktor will do almost anything to recover Misha, but does that include traveling to Chechnya?
The Russia and Ukraine that Kurkov describes are full of problems and (as one of the characters advises us) woefully short of individuals who are capable of solving them. The characters in Kurkov's novels are resigned to their dismal fates, but they persevere in their grim lives -- even Misha. Viktor endures his trouble-filled life yet always retains a faint hope that something better might come along; a hint of optimism flickers throughout the story as Viktor ponders the nature of fate.
Of course, there is always the chance that what comes along next will be death, but death might not be so bad. Viktor finds something enviable in the death of fisherman whose frozen body he finds on a lake; he deems the man "worthy of respect, though, not having known him, he could not say in what particulars." The comment is typical of Kurkov; respect for the living and for the dead who surround them is inherent in his work.
The story Kurkov tells is odd (the supposedly dead don't always stay dead in Penguin Lost), filled with strange twists and unexpected turns, but in Kurkov's view, life in Ukraine and Russia (and particularly Chechnya) is odd. "The absurd here was amazingly real," Kurkov writes. "Life here was ruled by it." The absurd is more real than Viktor's life; in his isolation, "noticed by too few to feel real himself," he wonders if he even exists. He wants to feel something, to recover himself, but only in rare moments does he feel empowered to control his own destiny. Fortunately, if there is one thing that can be counted upon in a dismal world, it is a man's love for his penguin.
Kurkov balances the story's darkness with light touches, comic moments that provide relief from the gloom. Of course, political corruption is always good for a laugh, and any scene centering on a penguin is bound to provoke a smile. Reading Kurkov's short chapters is like eating tasty snacks -- they're easy to devour and it's difficult to stop.
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