While the idea of the recently-founded Folio Academy, electors of the Folio Prize, may sound impressive to some, when it comes to literary élites, there are groups with much stronger credentials, and one of those is the Académie Française, France's premier institution for the promotion (and protection) of language and literature. Today's book is by one of the biggest of big cheeses, a man who has been a member of this esteemed group since 1978, so I was expecting a lot. Luckily, it's a cracker ;)
*****
Michel Déon's The Foundling Boy (translated by Julian Evans, review copy courtesy of Gallic Books) takes us to Normandy, where Jeanne and Albert Arnaud, caretakers of the estate of the du Courseau family, are woken one morning in 1919 by cries. On investigating, they discover a baby in a wicker basket abandoned on their doorstep, and they decide to take the child in as their own, despite the objections of Madame du Courseau (who would prefer the child to grow up in her own house).
The years pass, and Jean, as the child is named, grows into a strapping young man, blessed with good looks, a strong body and ample intelligence. However, the mystery of his provenance is always at the back of his mind, and this refuses to allow him the peace required to settle down - he's a boy with itchy feet, and his wanderings will take him far and wide. Meanwhile, just as Jean reaches maturity, the clouds of war begin to gather once more. France prepares itself to send another generation of young men to the slaughter...
The Foundling Boy is wonderful, a really enjoyable novel. It's a book you fly through, sepia-tinted, but with a razor-sharp drollness, a Bildungsroman of the best kind:
"I sense that the reader is eager, as I am, to reach the point where Jean Arnaud becomes a man. But patience! None of us turns into an adult overnight, and nothing would be properly clear (or properly fictional) if I failed to illustrate the stages of our hero's childhood in some carefully chosen anecdotes."
p.80 (Gallic Books, 2013)
With a sympathetic main character, and an excellent supporting cast, this is a book full of interesting people living through very interesting times.
The novel paints a picture of France, and elsewhere in Europe, during the interwar period. The scars of 'The Great War' are still visible, whether psychological, as in the constant fear of another conflict, or physical, in the form of Albert's missing leg or the mutilated face of another old soldier, Léon Cece. Throughout the novel, the tension gradually builds, and by the end of the story, the uneasy peace binding Europe together has finally broken down...
Despite the shadow of war in the background, though, the novel is really all about Jean. He's a boy growing up with a mystery, a child of humble origins who will owe his rise in the world to a mysterious benefactor. If that sounds vaguely familiar, it should, as there are numerous parallels here to Great Expectations. The eerie start to the book has echoes of Dickens' novel, and the enigmatic figure of Constantin Palfy, Jean's own Herbert Pocket, helps Jean to understand the ways of the world (in London!). There's even a beautiful, seemingly untouchable, love interest in the form of Chantal de Malemort.
If it's a Great Expectations tribute, though, it's certainly a very French one, from the images of the Norman hawthorns on the first page to its occasional mocking of the English and Germans. One of the major themes of the novel is Jean's sexual awakening, and there's a fair bit of action between the sheets, and seduction of willing housewives. As he says in his diary:
"I've bought myself a notebook where I've started making a few notes:
a) Duplicity: absolutely necessary for a life without dramas. You have to harden your heart. I need to be capable, without blushing to my roots, of sleeping with a woman and then being a jolly decent chap to her lover or her husband. This is essential. Without it society would be impossible." (p.240)
Ah, the French... Suffice it to say, this is one lesson Jean manages to take to heart ;)
Moving on to non-sexual matters, part of Jean's education is learning from the people he encounters, as each person teaches him something new, removing the scales from his innocent eyes. His travels in Italy with the budding Nazi Ernst teach him that a helpful nature and racist rage are not incompatible, while his friendship with Palfy shows him that people with no morals can make the most enjoyable companions. It takes time, but our hero eventually grasps that what we see on the outside rarely reflects the inside completely - people tend to have more than one face...
My enjoyment of the novel was enhanced by the idiosyncrasies of the narrator. He's a constant intrusion, a self-important, witty, manipulative ghost, who leaves you in no doubt as to who is in control of the story:
"...Everyone came to watch: Adèle, Jeanne, Marie-Thérèse, Albert, Jean, Michel, Antoinette and two other servants, whose names I shan't bother with because they were only casual staff." (p.48)
Not everyone likes this kind of authorial presence, but I appreciated the skillful switches from a distanced narrative to a distinct involvement in the tale. Occasionally, however, this intrusion has a darker side. From time to time, the narrator takes us on little trips into the future, where we see the fate of minor characters who are no longer required for the story...
The Foundling Boy is a book I enjoyed immensely, gripping and very funny, with never a dull moment. It's a novel with a wonderful style - Evans' translation is excellent, and the text never seemed clumsy or unnatural. The best thing of all, though, is that the story doesn't end there. With The Foundling Boy ending at the very start of the Second World War (revealing some secrets, but leaving others to uncover another day), the scene is set for a sequel - which you can get your hands on now too! Gallic Books is bringing The Foundling's War out in a matter of days, and I, for one, can't wait to catch up with Jean and his friends for another trip down memory lane.
I'm sure it'll be another very French experience ;)
As you might know, I'm a big fan of J-Lit, but there must be many more over in France, where the number of works of Japanese literature in translation far outstrip those available in the Anglosphere (I've been very tempted on occasion to dip into this pool of books to see what I'm missing...). Apparently, though, the fascination with Japan doesn't stop there - it seems that for some, the country also provides inspiration for novels written in the French language too...
*****
Éric Faye's Nagasaki (translated by Emily Boyce, review copy courtesy of Gallic Books) is a short work based on a real-life story, an event which happened in Japan in 2008. It starts with a man in his fifties, Kobo Shimura, a worker at the bureau of meteorology who lives alone, never having found a lasting relationship. Recently, though, he has begun to feel a little uneasy in his small house, and with good reason - a check on the level of juice in the bottle in his fridge shows that someone has been visiting while he's at work.
Shimura decides that he needs to investigate matters further, so he installs a camera in his house through which he can monitor his home from work. Sure enough, he soon sees an intruder in his kitchen, drinking his juice and relaxing in the sun. However, in pursuing the truth about these unusual intrusions, Shimura finds out that matters are much worse than he could ever imagine...
Nagasaki is a great little book, one which can be read in an hour or so, but which resonates for far longer. Part of the charm is the voice of the main character, a man who... well, I'll let him tell you himself:
"Imagine a man in his fifties disappointed to have reached middle age so quickly and utterly, residing in his modest house in a suburb of Nagasaki with very steep streets. Picture these snakes of soft asphalt slithering up the hillsides until they reach the point where all the urban scum of corrugated iron, tarpaulins, tiles and God knows what else peters out beside a wall of straggly, crooked bamboo. That is where I live. Who am I? Without wishing to overstate matters, I don't amount to much. As a single man, I cultivate certain habits which keep me out of trouble and allow me to tell myself I have at least some redeeming features."
p.11 (Gallic Books, 2014)
It's a wonderful start to the book, and typical of the first part, in which Faye introduces a man whom time has passed by, a bit of an oddity at work for not wanting to join everyone for drinks at the end of the day.
Shimura struggles through everyday life, forcing his way to work amid the noise of trams and cicadas, and life is gradually wearing him down. He's becoming a fussy old man, dull and a little deluded, and the writer (and translator!) manages to show this perfectly, gently mocking his disdain of a centenarian on the television who has never drunk alcohol. It doesn't occur to Shimura that he isn't exactly the life and soul of the party himself.
It's when we get to the discovery of the intruder that all this becomes relevant, as the discovery of the woman in his kitchen forces Shimura to take a good, hard look at his life; it's fair to say he doesn't exactly like what he sees. In fact, Nagasaki is less about the crime itself than its causes and effects, with the woman's capture leading to a crisis of kinds for the innocent Shimura:
"And that wasn't all. The woman's presence had somehow opened a tiny window on my consciousness, and through it I was able to see a little more clearly. I understood that the year she and I had shared, even if she had avoided me and I had known nothing of her, was going to change me, and that already I was no longer the same. How exactly, I couldn't have said. But I knew I wouldn't escape unscathed." (pp.56/7)
In fact, the event is to affect him markedly. Already obsessed with news of the increasing number of old people, and the robots being developed to look after them, Shimura realises that this is his fate - to die alone, in the care of a machine...
It's not all about Shimura, though. Faye actually switches the point of view about two-thirds of the way through, and we get to hear the woman's side of the story and her reasons for the home invasions. The writer is attempting to add another angle to the story, showing how easy it is to slip through the cracks without realising and end up with nowhere to go (it's no coincidence that this all happens around the time of the GFC). However, for me, this final third is a little unnecessary, and I would have preferred the story to stick with Shimamura, leaving the woman's motives in the dark. As the Japanese know full well, there's a lot to be said for leaving the reader to figure some things out for themselves...
Overall, this a lovely little book though, deftly written with sly humour everywhere in the first half. I particularly enjoyed the focus on the grey Sanyo fridge, with its rather apt slogan of 'Always with You'... There were also some nice Japanese touches, such as when Shimura starts to suspect that he might have to look beyond the purely natural to find answers:
"What deity would demand offerings of yogurt, a single pickled plum or some seaweed rice? Never mind that I was raised a Catholic, I often go to feed our 'kami' at the local shrine, but it never occurred to me for one moment they would come into people's houses and help themselves." (p.31)
If only it had been the household gods stealing his food ;)
Despite my reservations about the final section, Nagasaki is an excellent read, a thought-provoking look at the loneliness of modern life. It's a book which makes the reader think about their own social ties, wondering if they too might be looking forward to empty twilight years. And, of course, the book has one other effect on the reader - you won't be forgetting to check your doors and windows in a hurry...
