Instant Gratification

Fausta Delivers

Man, that's upsetting.

While what he said was upsetting in itself, it's that this man who is a master of portraying the undercurrents of human life in his novel is absolutely, positively clueless as to how this would come across that's really bothering me.

If you've never read a Perez-Reverte novel, know that it is truly a wonderful experience. While he works within the thriller genre, his prose is absolutely wonderful. That his books are translations and his prose doesn't get lost in the translation makes me wonder if he isn't actually better in Spanish, but that's neither here nor there. His words are wonderful, but the feelings they evoke are even better. You, as the reader, are pulled into the character's world. Even if that character is a not-too-bright unemployed merchant marine, or a somewhat off-the-rails art restorer who spends too much time by herself, or a priest who is having issues with his servitude to a Church he's no longer sure he believes in, it doesn't matter: he brings their world alive in such a way that you would have to be an emotional incompetent to not feel what they are feeling. He is a master of the carefully chosen word. As a result his novels are not just thrillers, they are a meticulously crafted insight into the human mind and condition.

For example:

He went down into the garden with his jacket over his shoulder and breathed in the night air. She was waiting. The moonlight cast the shadows of leaves over her face and shoulders.

"I don't want you to leave," she said. "Yet."

Her eyes shone, the teeth between her parted lips gleamed white, and the ivory necklace was a line of white around her tanned neck. The day was very hot. Thin slits of afternoon sun filtered through a bling onto the naked body of a woman. Carmen the cigarette girl rolled tobacco leaves on her thigh, tiny drops of sweat beading a dark triangle. There was a soft breeze. The leaves of the orange trees and bougainvilleas moved over Macarena Bruner's face, and the moonlight slid down the priest's shoulders like a coat of mail being taken off and falling to his feet. The weary Knight Templar stood straight and looked around, listening to the rumble of the Saracen cavalry heading toward the hill of Hattin. He heard the stormy sea thundering against the breakwater as the fragile little boats struggled to return to port. And a woman dressed in mourning held a child's hand. Soup boiled while an old priest sat by a fireplace declining rosa, rosae. And, lost in a world that guided itself by starlight five centuries old, the little boy's shadow was cast on a wall that protected him from the bitter cold outside. His shadow moved closer to the other shadow waiting beneath bougainvilleas and orange trees, until he could breathe in her fragrance and her warmth, and her breath. But a second before he ran his fingers through her hair to escape loneliness for a night, the shadow, the boy, the man watching the naked body in the sunlight filtered through the blind, the exhausted Knight Templar, they all turned to look up at the dimly lit window of the pigeon loft, where an old priest, unsociable, skeptical, and brave, deciphered the terrible secret of a cruel sky, in the company of a ghost searching the horizon for a white sail.

{Excerpt taken from Chapter XI, Carlota Bruner's Trunk, The Seville Communion by Arturo Perez-Reverte. Copyright 1995. All Rights Reserved. English Translation by Sonia Soto, Copyright 1998. All Rights Reserved.}

And so is the condition of Father Quart on the night he breaks his vow of chastity. All of his life is laid out in one paragraph. How he sees himself during the various stages of his life, knowing that these various incarnations of himself led him to this very place. I could go on, but I think you get the gist. That you find this wonderful prose, this fantastic character development in what is, essentially, a mystery novel, is extraordinary.

Pushing aside his prose, Perez-Reverte's novels also make you think. They invariably revolve around a big idea and how that big idea comes to fruition in everyday human lives. This is the dilemma he crafts his novels around. These big ideas are where the conflict comes in. He handles these conflicts deftly and generally rails against the postmodern idea of never making judgments based upon what one values. His characters make the call and act according to their consciences. So, knowing this, knowing that he gives his characters the correct sort of ideals even if they struggle to practice them, why Perez-Reverte refuses to make the call that anti-Semitism is, indeed, wrong, makes one wonder just how inbred that disgusting philosophy is in Europe today. While this might seem like a big leap, to my mind it's a small jump.

To explain: I don't believe Perez-Reverte would ever allow one of his contemporary protagonists to be an anti-Semite. The language he employed in that article wouldn't be good enough for one of his characters. The ideas wouldn't be good enough for one of his protagonists. Why he let it fly from his own fingers, to represent his own views, I don't know. None of his protagonists would be so crass and uneducated. His antagonists, yes. But not his protagonists. That's why I find it so hard to swallow that he actually wrote that. It's why the repulsion is so strong. It's such a large disconnect from his work and the ideals he promotes in said work that I actually goggled when I read that paragraph. That he apparently thought he would get a hale and hearty "hear, hear!" as the audience response is even more shocking. Did he have a clue as to how this would come off? Did he just not give a damn? Does he regret his words? I don't know, but that he wrote that in the first place does seem to indicate that he believes he's penning words that represent the voice of popular opinion.

All of this makes me, again, wonder just how deep are the anti-Semitic waters of Europe today.

I don't want to sound like a rube. I know Europeans are blasting Israel and Jews, in general, left and right. I would, however, like to think that, just like the election here in states a few months ago, it's only the fringe loudmouths who are getting the most press. That the normal European who minds their own business, who goes to work and then goes home to be with their family at the end of the day, doesn't espouse such views, but doesn't get the opportunity to voice their dissent either. That would be my hope. It's a hope that is getting fainter and fainter as the months go by, but I'm still trying to have faith that they haven't forgotten the genocide of sixty-years ago that occurred, quite literally, on their doorsteps. Whether this hope of mine is a naive Anne Frank-ish sort of dream will shortly, I believe, be borne out in the months and years to come. I can only wait and see if these views we see coming out of Europe are truly representative of the whole.

I have no idea if this is making any sense, so I will cut it off here. To sum up: Arturo, Arturo, why hast thou taken the easy road of cheap and popular hate and vile beliefs and forsaken us in the process?

I honestly thought you were smarter than that.

Posted by Kathy at January 16, 2005 02:31 PM