Fiction, Reviews

‘The Man with the Blue Suede Shoes,’ by David M. Baylis

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Accepting an offer on a novel by an unknown writer is always a gamble, even if you’re only risking a buck and a couple hours, but sometimes you get lucky. The Man with the Blue Suede Shoes, a novella by David M. Bayliss, was good enough to make me suspect that the author may be some established pro, writing under a pseudonym.

Cal Chance is a private eye, working for a small agency in Los Angeles. He’s not a go-getter. He does as little work as he can get away with. He pads his expense account. He’s not above blackmailing a sleazy client. Whenever his boss summons him, he expects to be fired, but somehow it hasn’t happened yet.

But his latest job is the strangest – and most ridiculous – of his career. His assignment is to find Elvis Presley.

Not the original, of course. Nor one of the countless Elvis impersonators who populate his town. This Elvis impersonator was actually named Elvis Aaron Presley at birth.

The context is a celebrity wedding. A major internet influencer is marrying a wealthy man. Their wedding is going to be a media event, and they’ve advertised the fact that a Real Elvis Aaron Presley is going to officiate. Only now he’s disappeared. Cal’s job is to find him. How many Elvis Aaron Presleys can there be in Vegas?

It’s a rule among fiction writers that (most of the time) you want to make your main character likeable. Cal doesn’t rate high on that scale at first, but he gets warmer and fuzzier as the investigation proceeds. The main reason for that is Lisa Marie Presley, the attractive daughter of the first Elvis he checks out, an elderly man who runs a shoe repair shop. The showpiece of his business is a pair of Elvis Presley’s certified blue suede shoes, displayed in a glass case. Someone is threatening this Elvis, accusing him of stealing those shoes, and Cal – though it isn’t strictly his business – feels compelled to step in. That will lead him into an entirely different investigation, which has nothing to do with the one he’s being paid for, but might impress Lisa Marie.

The Man With the Blue Suede Shoes was a fun book to read. The first-person narration was well-done, the characters were quirky and amusing, and I got drawn in by the plot. Author Bayliss doesn’t seem to have any other books published yet, but I look forward to the next one.

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‘The Other Norwegian’

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Our friend Dave Lull sent me the following article from Granta, “The Other Norwegian,” by Damion Searls. It’s about Norway’s two official languages, a subject of compelling interest to almost everyone.

Nynorsk and Bokmål are both ‘Norwegian’. They are used by roughly 10–15 and 80–85 percent of Norwegian speakers, respectively. They are spelled slightly differently but are mutually intelligible, with almost identical grammar and vocabulary. The case of Norway is unlike that of multilingual countries with actually different languages: Belgium’s French and Dutch, Canada’s English and French, India’s twenty-two officially recognized languages. A good analogy to Bokmål and Nynorsk might be Northern and Southern US English, if Southlish had an official spelling system, dictionary, academy, and language activists. But it doesn’t, which is why Americans speak with Northern or Southern ‘accents’. So what is a minority language that is nearly the same as the majority language? What is Nynorsk?

Damion Searles is, of course, a person I hate, as he’s making a living as a Norwegian translator while I fade into the sunset. Still, if you’re curious about Norway’s peculiar language situation, the article’s pretty good.

Fiction, Reviews

‘American Woman,’ by Alan Lee

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Alas, this is the last Sinatra book to date. I’ll have to wait for more now. “Sinatra,” you may recall, is the code name of Manny Martinez, Puerto Rican-American super-patriot and US Marshal. Handsome enough to be a supermodel, omnicompetent and void of self-doubt, he’s a parody of the James Bond/Jason Bourne stereotype, but also a vivid character in his own right, endearing and amusing. From time to time he’s summoned for super-secret assignments by a super-secret government agency. Most of the time he brings his partner along, the sweet, innocent Mormon girl, Noelle Beck. Their relationship is fun and flirty and a little poignant. And never more so than in the book under consideration, American Woman (number 6 in the series).

The assignment this time is a spur-of-the-moment thing. The DEA has learned of a very hush-hush meeting coming up in the Florida Keys, arranged by a couple aspiring South American cocaine lords. The purpose of the meeting is to demonstrate a new form of cocaine, to raise capital for a full-scale operation. Two potential investors have been identified, and they look enough like Manny and Nicole that they can stand in for them, once the originals have been safely detained.

Manny, of course, was born to play the role of drug lord, while Beck is a little hesitant about portraying a criminal’s bimbo. Except that a sudden revelation on their arrival forces them to radically alter that scenario, with highly amusing results.

The whole Manny-Beck dynamic started out as mostly comic (as I recall), but as the series proceeds, the characters deepen and the stories acquire depth and tragedy. Manny suffered a great loss in the last book, and in American Woman it’s Beck’s turn.

American Woman was both highly entertaining and touching (though author Lee’s ear for grammar sometimes fails). Cautions are in order for rough language and sexual (though not explicit) situations.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Stonecliff,’ by Robert Nathan

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He sighed, and shook his head. “The world has always been full of magicians,” he said; “they crowd the bookstore shelves, they fill the theaters . . . but they do not do anything with the heart, the way Benét did. They do tricks with cards, with a chicken in a hat . . . It is all sleight of hand, one can buy such tricks anywhere; even in a brothel. The true sorcerer deals with illusion; he does things with the heart.”

Another novel by Robert Nathan, the unjustly nearly-forgotten 20th Century urban fantasist. (He wrote Portrait of Jennie, which I recently reviewed, but he also wrote The Bishop’s Wife, which was made into a movie with Cary Grant and David Niven once upon a time, and more recently re-made with Denzel Washington.)

I’ve decided I’ll try to boost Robert Nathan on this blog. I picked up a later book, the 1967 novel Stonecliff. I wouldn’t say it’s his best work, though.

The narrator is a young writer named Michael Robb, who has gotten a coveted assignment, to write a biography of Edward Granville, a celebrated novelist, now old and beginning to be forgotten. To interview him, Michael drives to Granville’s remote home, Stonecliff, a cliffside dwelling on the California coast.

He finds Granville welcoming enough, but he’s surprised to find that the man’s wife is not present. Instead there is Nina, a lovely young woman who seems to occupy some undefined position in the household. Is she Granville’s mistress? Michael wonders about that increasingly, as he finds himself romantically drawn to Nina, who is distant and seems rather unhappy.

In between interviews, Michael roams the grounds, from the hills above to the beach below. He wonders about a treehouse he finds, where he’s sure he saw a serpent. He also believes he saw a cougar, perhaps – he’s not sure – walking in Nina’s company. His growing frustration and fascination with Nina leads to an inevitable confrontation and a shocking revelation.

I found Stonecliff less delightful than other Nathan books I’ve read. I wasn’t sure what to take away from the story, except that it’s about an artist growing old (a subject generally of keen interest to me). The specter of Merlin haunts this book, with echoes of the legend of Nimue, but Nathan uses that fantasy for his own purposes.

I also found the prose less lapidary than in Portrait of Jennie. There was not as much precise description of nature – though fog is described in a hundred ways.

Stonecliff wasn’t a bad book, but it may be that Nathan was losing some of his magic by that point.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Desert Eagle,’ by Alan Lee

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I’ll be sad when I finally catch up on the Manny Martinez (code name “Sinatra”) books. I’m sure there’ll be another entry in the Mackenzie August constellation of series soon, but I always miss them when there isn’t one waiting for me.

Manny Martinez, you may recall, is a Puerto Rican-born US Marshal. He is ridiculously handsome, has excellent taste in clothes, cars, and drinks, and loves America excessively. From time to time he is summoned for extra duty by a secretive government agency, and he and his innocent Mormon partner Noelle Beck fly off to have James Bond-style adventures.

In Desert Eagle, the job is supposed to be simple, though far from their usual stomping grounds. They’re supposed to fly to Abu Dhabi and pick up an American academic who, according to intelligence, has been targeted by Houthi terrorists for kidnap and execution.

Needless to say, it wouldn’t be an adventure if everything went to plan. The academic is snatched from under their noses, and soon Manny and Noelle are headed across the desert, assisted only begrudgingly by the Abu Dhabi government. Fortunately, they are able to join forces with an old pair of allies/rivals – independent agents Bronwen and Junior (Manny and Bronwen have major sexual chemistry, which is always a hoot).

Heroics ensue.

Desert Eagle, like all its predecessors, was lots of fun. The ending was bittersweet, though.

I recommend it, of course, with cautions for language and mature situations.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Portrait of Jennie,’ by Robert Nathan

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From then on, the sky seemed made of another blue, and the clouds, too, were a different white, with tones of yellow in them. Yellow is the true color of spring, not green, the new grass, the clouds, the misty, sunny air, the sticky buds like little feathers on the trees, are mixed with yellow tone, with the haze of sun and earth and water. Green is for summer, blue for fall.

***

I smiled at him across the table. “I’m only beginning to think about things like that,” I said.

“Well,” he said unhappily, “I wish you wouldn’t. The artist ought not to think so much. It’s bad for his color sense.”

Having watched and reviewed the old movie, “Portrait of Jennie,” a few days ago, I went and got the original novella. It’s better than the movie, even better than I remembered.

The film veers off from the book toward the end, but it starts pretty much the same. On a winter’s day in Manhattan in the 1930s, Eben Adams, a struggling artist, meets a strange little girl dressed in oddly antique clothing. The sketch he draws of her the next day becomes the first work of his that a particular art dealer finds interesting. On the basis of this sale, he begins an increasingly successful period of his career. Occasionally through that winter he meets the little girl again, and each time she is visibly a few years older. Gradually he realizes (as she seems to know from the start) that they are living in different timelines, which cross occasionally. She is “hurrying,” she tells him, to grow up in time to catch up with him.

In the movie, Eben goes to visit the convent school she attended, where he learns from a sympathetic old nun that Jennie studied there decades before, but died in a hurricane on Cape Cod. That is a departure from the book, where Eben goes to Cape Cod for artistic inspiration, and has his final encounter with Jenny there unexpectedly. In my opinion, the book’s ending worked better. (Another change the film made is changing Eben’s friend Gus from a Jew to an Irishman. Thus we lose Gus’s ruminations on the “tough break” God handed his people.)

Aside from the entrancing, fantasy love story, the great pleasure of Portrait of Jennie is the prose. Robert Nathan was a superb literary craftsman. His descriptions reminded me of Sigrid Undset – he revels in detail, in texture and scent, but especially in color – as is entirely appropriate for a story narrated by a painter.

I highly recommend Portrait of Jennie. Robert Nathan was Jewish, but there was almost nothing in his meditations on God and eternity that I disagreed with.

Fiction, Religion, Reviews

‘His Eyes,’ by Mark Charles Powers

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Sometimes you read a book that’s so well-meaning that you just want to root for it. Especially if it’s a Christian book. I wish I could say that Mark Charles Powers’ His Eyes was a successful work of art, but I’m afraid I can’t.

As the book opens (the opening is quite well-written), Michael Judson, a teenager in a suburb in an unnamed southern state, is in shock. His younger brother Lucas has just died in a freak gun accident, and Michael doesn’t know whether he, his (single) mother, or Lucas himself pulled the trigger.

This is the most successful part of the book, as the horror and finality sink in and he and his mother deal with it, each in their own ways. Michael finds some comfort in the friendship of an old neighbor, who lends him a cassette tape (this story is set in 1997) featuring a Christian song that’s brought him comfort. He also makes friends with a neighbor boy who has unspoken problems of his own. Meanwhile his mother sinks into depression and guilt, becoming increasingly dependent on prescription tranquilizers. Their grief is only aggravated by her ex-husband’s accusations that she’s responsible for Lucas’s death.

I think it’s a general truth that in fiction it’s easier to portray grief and pain than to portray comfort and healing. That problem is only aggravated when a Christian message is being proclaimed. One tends (and I know this from experience) to fall into preachiness. One’s words sound like platitudes, even when the truths expressed have been hard-learned through suffering and tears. Such scenes require a deft handling of dialogue – and I regret to say that author Powers hasn’t quite mastered that skill. Michael, in particular, tends to fall into verbiage that sounds nothing like a teenager talking.

I wish Mark Charles Powers well. I think he has talent, and is capable of very good things. But he’s not ready for prime time. I fear that His Eyes, well-intentioned though it is, will not do the good he intended (though it certainly may in some cases, with readers less picky than I).

Fiction, Reviews

‘Some Sort of Justice,’ by Peter Grainger

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My ardor for Peter Grainger’s King’s Lake police procedural series, set in northern England, has waned slightly in the time since he made the (probably inevitable) decision to let his previous main character, the enigmatic Detective Inspector D.C. Smith, retire (though he remains a presence in the stories). The team has a more modern look now, headed up by DI Cara Freeman (the obligatory Strong Female Lead), and including a black woman and a “gay” guy. (There may be other ethnic or societal subtleties that I missed because author Grainger is shy with character descriptions.) Nevertheless, I found Some Sort of Justice, book 17 in the series, engrossing and effective.

DI Freeman’s superiors offer her a case, implying strongly that she might be wise to turn it down. It’s a reinvestigation of a death more than a year old, and it’s also a potential minefield. The victim was an earl, whose sister is unsatisfied with the police’s conclusions. He was found dead in a pool after a party at the home of a high-level entertainment agent. Accepting the case, Freeman soon learns that the facts are very hard to determine. The cremated body is no longer available for examination. The host’s story doesn’t make sense. And it appears that a prominent politician was present and desires very much to cover that up. As the investigation goes on, the team is confronted again and again with the choice between doing the easy, political thing or seeking the truth. They choose to seek the truth, but they’ll lead a lot of intelligence, some shrewd strategizing, and a little plain luck if they’re to keep their careers when it’s all over.

I was highly pleased with more than one conservative sentiment expressed in passing. I enjoyed Some Sort of Justice. Cautions for adult themes.

Fiction, Reviews

Saga reading report, three sagas

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A venerable custom on this blog is my post-Viking event saga review. During reenactment events I like to (at least most of the time) read from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, to keep myself from (further) violating authenticity standards through reading off my Kindle device. During the Scandinavian Festival in Moorhead I read three sagas, two of them connected, all of them weird to various degrees. We’re getting into late sagas here, and weirdness goes with the territory.

The Saga of the People of Kjalarnes

The first one is The Saga of the People of Kjalarnes, which deals with early settlers in the area around Reykjavik. It’s also interesting because it depicts early Christian-heathen conflicts, and features one of the few saga descriptions of a heathen temple (historians consider this description pretty much worthless as evidence).

Helgi Bolan is an early Iceland settler, and we’re told he welcomed a group of Irish immigrants who were Christian. (I believe these people should probably be considered mixed Norse-Irish, ones who fled Ireland following military reverses in the Emerald Isle. These people would have thought of themselves as Norse, but had converted to Christianity.)

Every saga begins with a can of genealogical worms, and this can finally brings forth the saga’s main hero, Bui Andridsson. Bui is an open “Christian,” and is actually prosecuted at the Thing assembly for false religion. He is outlawed but (interestingly) simply ignores it. Nobody seems to be able to do much about it, because he’s such a skillful fighter. He has a foster-mother who keeps egging him on to desperate acts, justifying it by saying that his fate is already determined, so there’s no point playing safe. He finally burns Helgi Bolan’s temple down, killing a man in the process. (I think we’re supposed to sympathize with Bui, but objectively he sounds like a jerk.)

Outlawed, he flees to Norway, where the king sends him on a quest to the giant Dofri (identified with Dovre mountain in Norway; this element connects this saga to lesser-known legends about King Harald Fairhair). While staying with Dofri, Bui cohabits with the giant’s daughter, who is (we are told) very tall but very beautiful. (The mind boggles.)

Later he returns to Iceland where he’s finally killed fighting with Jokul, his own son, born to the giant’s daughter, whom he’s never met. The saga ends by telling us that they don’t know what happened to Jokul, but read on…

Jokul Buason’s Tale

Somebody must have wanted a sequel about the patricide Jokul, because that’s the next story in the collection. This is a saga that seems to have no historical basis at all, and so it runs wild along fairy tale lines. In his adventures, Jokul encounters a couple of giant sisters. He and his companion kill one, but spare the other, and she becomes their useful and devoted slave (giant psychology would seem to be somewhat different from human psychology).

The saga goes on to take Jokul, in the end, to the land of the Saracens, where he rescues a prince and princess. He marries the princess and succeeds her father as king of the Saracens.

To live, one assumes, happily ever after.

Gold-Thorir’s Saga

Gold-Thorir’s Saga returns us, tenuously, to some connection with the real world. Gold-Thorir is Thorir Oddsson, who as a young man vows sworn-brotherhood with a group of other young men. They go out to have adventures. They rob a grave mound, where the ghost prophecies great wealth but a bad end for Thorir. After that, we’re told, Thorir’s personality changes.

They go on to assault a clutch of dragons in a cave, managing to kill the dragons and seize their treasure. As their leader, Thorir is awarded the larger share of the loot.

[One peculiarity of this saga is that a few pages are missing. They weren’t lost, but were erased, probably with the intention of re-using them (not uncommon with old book manuscripts). Someone wrote in a summary of the missing material, but we don’t know if it’s authentic.)

In his old age, we are told, Gold-Thorir becomes increasingly sour and antisocial. Finally, according to the saga, he actually turns into a dragon. And his treasure disappears.

That, you must admit, is a dramatic ending.

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Fairy Tale Dragons Can Be Killed

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Chesterton is often misquoted with a couple lines about fairy tales and dragons. Here’s what that master of words actually wrote in “The Red Angel.”

The timidity of the child or the savage is entirely reasonable; they are alarmed at this world, because this world is a very alarming place. They dislike being alone because it is verily and indeed an awful idea to be alone. Barbarians fear the unknown for the same reason that Agnostics worship it—because it is a fact. Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.

Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear. When I was a child I have stared at the darkness until the whole black bulk of it turned into one negro giant taller than heaven. If there was one star in the sky it only made him a Cyclops. But fairy tales restored my mental health, for next day I read an authentic account of how a negro giant with one eye, of quite equal dimensions, had been baffled by a little boy like myself (of similar inexperience and even lower social status) by means of a sword, some bad riddles, and a brave heart. Sometimes the sea at night seemed as dreadful as any dragon. But then I was acquainted with many youngest sons and little sailors to whom a dragon or two was as simple as the sea.