The Barbarian Nurseries by Héctor Tobar

Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on September 27, 2011

The Barbarian Nurseries begins with the flip sides of LA: the one that Hollywood showcases, populated by prosperous, shallow, socially competitive consumers; and the one almost invisibly populated by maids, landscapers, day laborers, and the other workers who, speaking heavily accented English, struggle to sustain their families while serving the needs of those who hire them. I am impressed by the fullness of the characters on both sides of the economic divide.

The principle characters of means are Scott Torres and his wife, Maureen Thompson. The Torres-Thompsons and their three children live in a posh house tended by a staff they can no longer afford. As the novel opens, the gardener and nanny have been recently sacked, leaving only Araceli, the maid whose duties suddenly expand to include childcare without a commensurate increase in pay. Following a mild incident of domestic violence, Scott and Maureen make independent decisions to take a "break" from domestic life. Maureen goes to a spa with their daughter, Scott doesn't come home from work, and neither of them bothers to tell the other -- or, more importantly, Araceli, who finds herself taking care of the two boys without guidance from their parents.

Araceli, fearful that the kids will be placed in foster care if she calls the police, begins a journey through the sprawling city and its suburbs in search of their paternal grandfather. Héctor Tobar uses Araceli's quest to illustrate the city's cultural evolution: the ever-changing character of its neighborhoods as members of various ethnic groups settle in and later move on, replaced by new arrivals with a different group identity. Tobar sketches the people Araceli meets in a way that makes each a community representative without sacrificing the character's individual identity.

Araceli's well-intentioned trip begets a chain of events: misunderstanding morphs into misplaced blame that feeds xenophobic fears of undocumented immigrants. Sadly enough, the news media's instant fascination with the story of missing children -- cute white children from an affluent family allegedly abducted by a Mexican woman -- is all too credible.

The last section of the novel is an indictment of the media's "talking heads" who make accusations of criminal behavior before they have all the facts, of prosecutors who feel compelled by media pressure to accuse the innocent, and of the television viewers who -- lacking the patience to wait until a trial brings out all the facts -- allow race or ethnicity to influence their opinions about guilt. While the story loses some of its magic as it shifts from the personal to the political, it also gains power and social relevance. At least for me, the magic returns near the novel's end, beginning with some realistic courtroom drama.

The last section captures an unfortunate aspect of American life with deadly accuracy. In an ideal world, the "no harm, no foul" rule would leave the parents and Araceli free from repercussions, but Tobar recognizes that the media-driven lust for scapegoats drives decisions about arrest, prosecution, and deportation. In different ways, both Araceli and the Torres-Thompsons become victims of politics and a frenzied media. Those with an agenda view Araceli and the Torres-Thompsons as symbols, not as persons.

Tobar's handling of this serious social issue is nuanced: he doesn't simplistically portray all affluent whites as evil or all immigrants as nonjudgmental victims. Scott and Maureen demonstrate complex and evolving reactions to the crisis. They are never depicted as uncaring parents although some members of the public, including some in the Hispanic community, unjustly regard them that way. Some members of the criminal justice system are sympathetic to Araceli and indifferent to political pressures; others are motivated by headlines. Tobar's deft and balanced juggling of these different points of view is impressive.

The Barbarian Nurseries is a captivating, beautifully written novel that tells a timely and important story. It is also one of the best novels I've read this year.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

God, No! by Penn Jillette

Published by Simon & Schuster on August 16, 2011

God, No! is, I think, about the possibility of being a good person without believing in a supreme being. When Penn Jillette stays on point, he uses humor effectively to make meaningful arguments. When he rambles and digresses -- which he does frequently -- he dilutes that message. In the introduction, Penn tells the reader that he rambles, but the admission should be in all caps, printed in bright red ink, surrounded by stars and preceded by a WARNING sign.

Penn tells us that he is an atheist, not an agnostic, because anyone who doesn't know whether there is a god necessarily doesn't believe in one and must therefore be an atheist. It seems to me Penn defines agnosticism out of existence. Most people I know who call themselves atheists deny the possibility of a deity while those who argue that the existence or nonexistence of a supreme being is unknowable tend to call themselves agnostics. Penn understands the distinction but rejects it; in his words, "If you're not willing to pretend that matters of god can be certain, you're an atheist." I suppose Penn can define his terms any way he wants, but he didn't persuade me that "Do you believe in god?" is a question "that needs to be answered yes or no." I think it's a question that can legitimately be answered however an individual wants to answer it (including "I have no belief either way"), even if Penn thinks that any answer more nuanced than "yes" or "no" is "a cheesy grade school dodge."

Definitions aside, there is something to be said for Penn's larger point: It is possible to live an ethical life based on rules derived from shared experiences that are not dependent on biblical commandments. This book, Penn tells us, is a response to Glen Beck's challenge "to entertain the idea of an atheist Ten Commandments." Penn offers ten "suggestions" that, to a large extent, parallel the Ten Commandments. He illustrates each of his suggestions with a group of funny stories -- or, more accurately, with stories that are intended to be funny. Some are, some aren't, some are funnier than others. While Penn's sense of humor isn't always on key with my own, I found many of his stories to be at least moderately amusing. My favorite is a very funny story about battling the TSA over his right to drop trou. Despite his general abrasiveness, some of his stories, particularly about his family, are sweet. I also appreciated his ability to use self-deprecating humor to tone down the preachiness of his message.

I can't quarrel with the "suggestions" Penn offers in place of "commandments" but I do think he made some odd choices to illustrate them. For instance, his first suggestion is "The highest ideals are human intelligence, creativity, and love. Respect these above all." After positing the suggestion, Penn launches into a lengthy discussion of Siegfried and Roy. Penn loves Siegfried and Roy despite belittling their glitziness, their animals, their magic, and their music, because of the "desperate purity" of their desire to be onstage. They may have invented "a new art form," as Penn argues, but if Siegfried and Roy's Vegas act represents our highest ideals, we are in serious trouble.

Despite Penn's occasional takes on atheism, God No! is less about religion than it is a stream of consciousness ramble about the people Penn knows (including a surprisingly large number of strippers and porn stars) and the random events that have shaped his life. If you're a Penn & Teller fan, you might enjoy the backstage stories, the gossip about other magicians, the venting about Kreskin, or the descriptions of Penn's house and the parties he throws.

I imagine there will be people who complain that the book is anti-Christian without actually reading it. It isn't. It could be viewed as anti-religion (Penn skewers a variety of religious beliefs) but his larger point -- that religion isn't a necessary component of an ethical life -- is not a concept that depends upon hostility to religion. The book doesn't have a mean-spirited feel (although religious people might be offended by some of the things he says). One of Penn's precepts is that most people are fundamentally good, whether or not they belong to a religion. Penn is actually meaner to self-described agnostics (who, in his view, "are really cowardly and manipulative atheists") than he is in his discussions of sincerely held religious beliefs.

While nothing in this book offended me, neither did much of it delight me. I don't hold it against Penn that he doesn't believe tax money should be used to fund libraries or cancer research (he's entitled to his opinion, after all) but I wasn't impressed with his defense of those positions, among others. In the end, I was indifferent to much of the book and a bit put off by its rambling nature, but I liked enough of the stories to give it a cautious recommendation.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

In the Sea There are Crocodiles by Fabio Geda

 

Published by Doubleday on August 9, 2011

In the Sea There Are Crocodiles is a fictionalized account of Enaiatollah Akbari's real-life journey from Afghanistan to Italy, as he related it to Fabio Geda. Akbari left Afghanistan when he was ten years old, shortly after his mother disappeared. After spending time in Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, and Greece -- sometimes working, sometimes sleeping in parks, sometimes paying traffickers to help him move on -- Akbari ended up in Italy at the age of fifteen. He told his story to Geda when he was twenty-one (ages are approximate since Akbari isn't sure of his birth date) and encouraged Geda to write this book so that readers would better understand people like Akbari.

Akbari's story lacks the intensity and urgency that is a common feature of the best accounts of displaced persons fleeing oppressive regimes. Akbari had a difficult childhood, but his travels and struggles do not seem nearly as vexing as those of many other refugees. Even a month long walk from Iran to Turkey does not seem as arduous in the telling as it must have been. The narrative voice is surprisingly detached from the hardships it relates; it didn't make me feel the pain and deprivation that Akbari undoubtedly endured.

On a few occasions, Geda pauses to insert his own voice into the narrative, as if he were providing the reader with excerpts from a transcript of his interview with Akbari. Geda says things like "I'm interested in everything [you say], Enaiatollah" and "We'll say [this thing you think is important] loud and clear, Enaiat." These interruptions seem designed to portray Geda as an admirable biographer. A couple of the digressions were all about Geda; they did nothing to advance the story. The book would have been better without Geda's intrusions.

Too often, Akbari comes across as insensitive to the people who helped him. Akbari more than once tells us that his story is important -- and I have no doubt that it is -- but he makes it sound as if he doesn't regard anyone else's story as important. He expressly states that he doesn't want to tell Geda about his mother or friends or village because "they aren't important." At another point he refuses to talk about a woman who gave him food, clothing, and a bus ticket, because "She could have been anybody. ... Anybody could have behaved like that." Actually no -- most people wouldn't behave like that, which is exactly why she (not just her behavior toward Akbari) is important. According to Akbari, "It's what happens to you that changes your life, not where or who with." Many people changed Akbari's life by making his journey much easier than it could have been, and it struck me that he might have bothered himself to learn their names. Granting that Akbari is still young, it seems clear that he still has a lot to learn about life, and that realization diminished my belief that he is capable of telling an insightful story.

If Geda's goal was to tell Akbari's tale in Akbari's voice, I suppose I can't fault his unremarkable prose. Not every displaced person speaks poetically. Still, in a book that is packaged as a novel rather than a memoir, I expect stronger writing. Whether the voice is Geda's or Akbar's, it is surprisingly lifeless. Nothing about the unremarkable writing style encourages me to recommend the book.

Having said all that, there are things I like about this book, although I'm not sure they are the things Akbari intended his readers to take from it. I was impressed by all the people who helped Akbari along the way -- people willing to assist a boy from a foreign land who was a complete stranger to them. I also agree with Akbari that it's important for the world to understand what life is like for displaced persons. For those reasons, I give the book a guarded recommendation.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Those Across the River by Christopher Buehlman

Published by Ace on September 6, 2011

With only light foreshadowing of the horror to come, the first 40 percent of Those Across the River is devoted to atmosphere. Frank Nichols is a former history professor and recent transplant to depression-era Georgia, having moved into a house bequeathed to him by his aunt. Frank left Ann Arbor with Eudora Chambers, with whom he had been having an affair. Dora had been married to a faculty member who had enough influence to prevent Frank from finding employment at another university; hence the move to a house Frank's aunt had warned him not to inhabit. Frank decides to spend his time in Georgia writing a book about his great-grandfather Savoyard, a cruel and bigoted plantation owner who not only abused his slaves but refused to emancipate them after the Civil War ended.

As Frank settles into languorous rural life in the small town of Whitmore, passing time on the porch of the general store or conversing with hard-drinking Martin Cranmer (the only local resident who possesses even a smidgen of intellectual curiosity), he comes to learn that the locals avoid the nearby woods where the Savoyard plantation could once be found. The woods figure prominently in the town's annual social event -- the pig chase -- which inevitably culminates in the disappearance of pigs into the woods, never to be seen again. Frank's nightmares about his service in the Great War are supplanted by more immediate fears when, strolling through the woods in search of the Savoyard plantation's remains, he comes across a mute, half naked boy who may be nothing more than a phantom. After a neighbor's son is taken into the woods and ravaged -- a crime that prompts the lynching of a large black man found picking berries in the woods -- the novel begins to shift into horror mode.

The next 40 percent is ordinary horror fare: shape-shifting, once human creatures with supernatural abilities; silver bullets; frightened and ineffectual villagers. Well written though it is, this part of the story didn't grab me. Whether the creatures and their susceptibility to silver is viewed as traditional or unimaginative is open to debate, but it seemed too familiar to be frightening.

The final 20 percent ties the first two parts together in a way that redeems the novel. It is creative, intense, surprising -- and yes, at least one scene is genuinely scary. I like the story's open-ended conclusion, its effective use of the horror convention that more terror may be lurking beyond the final pages.

Although I wouldn't describe Christopher Buehlman's prose style as poetic, his background as a poet is reflected in his careful word choice and in the fluidity of his sentences. He assembled this novel with craftsman-like storytelling ability. I'd love to see him turn his talent to meatier subjects. In any event, while I'm far from a devoted fan of the horror genre, this novel tells a well-paced story that transfixed me in the last chapters.

RECOMMENDED

The Train by Georges Simenon

First published in French in 1961; reviewed edition published in English by Melville House on July 19, 2011

Belgian-born Georges Simenon's The Train was first published in 1961. Marcel Feron lives in France, near the Belgian border, with his daughter and pregnant wife. On the morning of May 10, 1940, Marcel hears a radio broadcast announcing that Germany has invaded Holland and that tanks are crossing the Belgian frontier. Deciding to flee to the south of France, Marcel feels a "somber joy," for he isn't running from the invasion, but from responsibility. He is relieved that the welfare of his family will be in the hands of Fate rather than his own.

Women and children board the southbound train first, separating Marcel from his wife and daughter. He eventually boards one of the last freight cars but that car is later linked to a different train. Officials cannot tell Marcel where his wife and daughter have gone but he thinks of them "without overmuch anxiety, indeed with a certain serenity." Although Marcel tells us that he loves his wife, that she meets all of his expectations, he is happy to abandon the life he has built. It is as if "the world had recovered its savor." A break has occurred that causes him to live "on another level, where the values had nothing in common with those of my previous existence." Marcel believes he has surrendered to Fate.

If Fate is really a force, will we recognize it when it comes calling? During the train journey, Marcel befriends a formerly imprisoned woman named Anna. Feeling that he has also been released from prison, Marcel bonds with Anna. Were they fated to meet? Or is it Marcel's destiny to be with his wife and child?

The train, I suspect, is a metaphor. The train rolls down the tracks, transporting its passengers from station to station, its next destination determined by the progress of the Germans, the availability of food and lodging, and other factors that the passengers cannot influence. Marcel is happy to be borne along, to have decisions about the course of his life made by others. Marcel's journey on the train represents his idealized journey through life, a journey in which he is the passenger, not the driver. Once he is on the train, he has no worries; life just happens and he contentedly takes it as it comes. Marcel reinvents himself as a man who lives entirely in the moment.

Is this a good way to live? What Marcel sees as fate is in some sense an abdication not just of responsibility but of free will. Although there are costs to taking control of your life (including the burden of responsibility that torments Marcel) there are also benefits. Is it better (or even possible) to seize control of your life rather than taking life as it comes? Simenon poses these questions but leaves it to the reader to answer them, just as it is for the reader to decide whether Marcel is following fate or free will at the novel's end. Clearly he makes a decision (although, according to Marcel, not one to which he gives any thought) but whether the decision is to accept fate or to follow a path of his own choice is ambiguous, and I'm not at all sure that Marcel's opinions on the matter are the product of a reliably introspective mind.

This short, stimulating book tells a deceptively simple story while raising provocative questions. The ending holds a surprise that requires the reader to rethink one of the main characters. The Train is an intriguing character study with existential overtones but it is also worth reading for its fascinating story of people set adrift in newly occupied France. It is a buried treasure that has lost none of its power in the half century since its first appearance.

RECOMMENDED