Library Limelights 171

Linden MacIntyre. The Only Café. Toronto: Random House Canada, 2017.

The author could not have chosen a more complicated back story: civil war in Lebanon in the 1970s. First of all, we have Cyril Cormier in Toronto, son of largely absent father Pierre. It's now five years since Pierre went missing-presumed-dead in a boat explosion in Cape Breton. Cyril the newbie journalist becomes curious to learn more about his refugee father, but meeting a shadowy character from Pierre's obscure past is scarcely informative. The role of Cyril's fellow reporter Nader is equally nebulous as Cyril's colleagues and some undercover agents take an interest. We hear the story of Christian Arab Pierre's youthful, horrendous experiences in between his son's incomplete discoveries. Incomplete and obscure are applicable descriptors. Let's say it's not easy in this context to follow the timeline of war in Lebanon.

Pierre's early PTSD ‒ and so it must be ‒ does not prevent him from becoming a successful mining executive in his new country. But Cyril will never know exactly what his father's early life was like; in fact he seems rather slow at picking up on the slight clues being offered. Talking with Ari, the Middle East figure, reveals little, as do most of Pierre's diaries ― the one of the crucial time period being missing. The author's post-notes mention his own involvement in Lebanon at that time but it's mainly up to the reader to fill out assumptions, and possibly research further references to warring factions and destroyed places. I admire MacIntyre's books in general, with this almost a trip down memory lane for him. In the end, it's complicated and not quite like a novel.

One-liners:

▪ The father that he knew had been a very private man, a paragon of professional and personal discretion, an introvert, in fact. (5)

▪ For Aggie Lynch anything east of the Don Valley meant vulgar and not a little unpredictable. (5)

▪ But for Pierre a single image would continue to roil the darkest places in his memory. (67)

Three-liner:

Memory is sentiment. The future impenetrable. Anxiety a waste of time and energy. (149)

Suspicions:

Suzanne continued smiling, appraising, interested, civil. A smile that could have led the moment anywhere she wanted it to go. "I didn't get a last name," she said.

"No? I suppose you didn't." Ari laughed and turned away. "I'm with a friend just now but I'll come back. Can I get you anything?"

Cyril looked at Suzanne and she shook her head. "We're fine," he said.

Ari nodded and walked away.

"I know him from somewhere," Suzanne said as he disappeared through the curtain.

"Really?"

"But then again." She picked up her drink, then put it down and clasped her hands, chewing on the corner of her lip. "Just my imagination, I expect. He's out of central casting."

"How so?"

"IDF. Israeli military macho. The confidence, the poise. Hard to imagine these were the most vulnerable, paranoid and victimized people in the world until just a few generations back." (127)

In the midst:

It was a long time ago but Fadi's words came back. The future is a harvest of consequences. They were in Fadi's office near the port, watching a group of stoned Kata'ib outside firing automatic rifles in the air, randomly and for no reason.

"A harvest?" Pierre said laughing. Fadi, everyone said, was far too educated. The rattle of the automatic weapons resumed.

"It's raining bullets somewhere," Fadi said.

"It's crazy," Pierre said.

"But it will be worse afterwards, when we try to return to what we think is normal ... that's when they'll be a problem. This, for them, is normal. They think this insanity is freedom. A licence to do anything they want. I don't want to be the one to put that back in the box."

"Put what back?" Pierre had asked.

"Anarchy," Fadi said. "That's the harvest we've planted here." (149)

Silent observation:

Pierre smiled. This curious habit of English speakers amused him—always looking for concurrence. Right? Eh? You know? You hear what I'm saying? Am I right or am I wrong? Meaning please agree with me. Arabs and Frenchmen rarely worry about concurrence, tone. (149)

Pierre examines his near-confession:

He sat in the large captain's chair tilted back against the wheel, alone and going nowhere. There was an old moon, one sliver away from fullness, hanging heavily over the Mabou hills and it flooded the cab with light. It was a distraction, if only briefly, from the hovering anxieties Angus Beaton left behind.

He shifted his position and the chair tilted, springs in the rocking mechanism creaked. He struggled to quell a feeling of regret for having gone too close to irrevocable disclosure. To blab or not to blab, that is the question. Whether or not 'tis in the mind nobler to disclose. But disclosure is rarely noble. Disclosure is transactional. Disclosure is a ruse to create trust. He had heard so much disclosure of "facts" that were lies, emotions that were false. Deception through disclosure. Engagement. Empathy. The best interrogators were the ones who were capable of manufactured empathy. (157)

Rebecca Fleet. The House Swap. Large Print. USA: Random House, 2018.

Caroline and psychologist husband Francis swap their flat in Leeds for a week in a small house in Chiswick. Why? Change of scenery, a holiday for the non-affluent, a base for visits to London. Also, the couple are still working on some marriage issues. Caroline's passionate affair with Carl is over; Francis has apparently conquered his drug addiction. But odd reminders of her extra-marital affair crop up in this stranger's house, triggering unease. Caroline knows nothing about the owner of the house. A brash neighbour who claims the very same Carl as her boyfriend creates even more anxiety. All this Caroline hides from Francis.

Soon we see that Francis is not the only one with an addiction. Caroline herself, who narrates the bulk of the story, is/was addicted to sex with Carl. Is it really over in her mind? Or his? Her narration is directed to her ex-lover - "you" - as she reviews the affair and its consequences. Occasionally we get words from Francis, but never from Carl. Emails from the mysterious house owner begin to torture Carolyn, someone who knows the secret she hides. Menacing events continue to prey on Caroline while we realize something yet unknown, something more sinister is behind the house swap. Psychological suspense at its best, an author definitely worth watching.

Caroline:

▪ All I can think about is the tiny circle of warm air where my hand is touching his, and all at once I realize, with a clarity that shakes me, that this could really happen. (51)

▪ I stare around at this stranger's kitchen, and I find myself breaking away, walking fast through the rooms, trying to find some chink in their anonymity. It's a show home, a shell. (102)

▪ My phone feels hard and heavy in my hand. I want to look at the email again. I want never to have seen it. (129)

▪ Even without the drugs, Francis is impulsive. I can't predict what he might do. (134)

▪ I could change her expression, I think, if I told her what was really happening here. (287)

Francis:

▪ Nice enough face, but I can see from ten paces that it's been metaphorically stamped all over by some woman's stilettos. (78)

▪ She's so fucking good at being angry and all I can do is stand here and wonder how the hell it all went so wrong so fast. (180)

▪ If you can't even look me in the eye, I think, don't think you can tell me what to do.

▪ Some days it still feels as if I'm walking the most fragile of tightropes, that there's no way that the violent batterings of my mind can be contained by this thin shell I live in. (335)

▪ Take your feelings out to lunch, my sponsor said to me a while ago, and then tell them to fuck off. That's what I do. (337)

Irina Reyn. The Imperial Wife. USA: Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin's Press, 2016.

Who is the imperial wife? Catherine the Great, subject of a novel written by minor academic Carl Vandermotter? Or Carl's wife Tanya Kagan who misguidedly rescues his dull efforts? Tanya is the Russian art expert at a large New York auction house; very aware of being an immigrant from the old Soviet Union, she burns with energy and ambition. Mixing with impossibly wealthy oligarchs is her business but befriending one of them is unconvincing. Tanya is smitten by Carl's physical perfection, his quiet demeanour, and his family's upper class background – the opposite of her own. The arrival at the auction house of a significant piece of Catherine the Great's jewellery promises to elevate Tanya to the professional status she wants.

Contrasted with the life of those two, the parallel story of Catherine II of Russia is awkwardly expressed with little substance to her imaginary inner thoughts and aspirations. The only persuasive aspect is descriptions of her wreck of a husband, the childish, irascible Emperor Peter III. Is the author reaching for comparison of two strong women? Two women who by marriage find themselves far from their beginnings, recognition and power within their reach. Yet in near-thoughtless attempts at supporting her husband, Tanya does not comprehend that she thereby emasculates him. Tanya's story has much of interest, Catherine's less so in Reyn's hands.

Tanya and Carl:

▪ As Carl talks, it is as if America itself is welcoming me inside. (60)

▪ Hadn't I once dreamed of being embraced by her like this, the ultimate proof of my belonging in their family? (243)

▪ "I'm trying to tease out the history so it'll be comprehensible to the layperson." (265)

▪ Wasn't this what Russian women did every day? Pass off their own accomplishments onto their husbands, so the men remained above them as saints to be admired? (271)

Catherine and Peter:

▪ On his person, there are few signs of maturation or masculinity. His skin is the lifeless color of parchment, a face punctuated by the faintest of chins. (27)

▪ "So the rumors are true? He just plays with soldiers all day?" (84)

▪ She has watched how the court treats Peter as dispensable symbol and perhaps a fool is preferable to a wily despot. (84)

Admonitions from a Russian Jewish mother:

No man wants a daunting woman.

No man wants a woman who earns more than him.

No man wants a woman who is too opinionated.

No man wants a woman who values career over family.

No man wants a woman who is vocal about being confident, who makes the first move, who picks the date activity, who makes a reservation, who has male friends, who does not greet him in full makeup, who serves her own food first, who wears sneakers, who admits to being hungry, who drives while he's in the passenger seat, who doesn't cook, who's messy, disorganized, complains, confronts, acts like a martyr, plays sports, watches sports, lounges, remembers past slights, fails to forgive. Women are very particular things here. (76-7)

Tanya reflects:

Wear the pants. CEO. I'm used to people assuming I'm the alpha in my marriage. Yes, I am more competent, more efficient; taking care of others comes naturally to me. Faster to have me accomplish something than Carl with his lack of attention to details, his indecision. It was during our honeymoon that the terrible thought occurred to me. Weak. (134)

Suffering writer:

Carl's zigzags of self-confidence depressed me and I hated the contours of that feeling. I couldn't understand all those tortured nights Carl spent staring at a blank screen, deleting and adding, pouring himself countless cups of coffee, complaining about the agony of the craft, of the ticking tenure clock and his own lack of talent. His protests of how soul-wracking writing was, how I could never truly understand the extent of his torment. Privately, I hoped his anguish pointed to some kind of authenticity as an artist. What I was ignoring was a transformation before the prospect of failure, my placid, life-coasting husband shrinking before me. (264)