Library Limelights 194

Margaret Laurence. The Prophet's Camel Bell. USA: University of Chicago Press, 1963.

"A Memoir of Somaliland" is the subtitle of this stunning time-capture of an equatorial land emerging from British protectionism in the late 1950s, a land ill-prepared and under-resourced to govern itself. Naturally, I'd read Laurence's novels (years ago) but this ... this ... was an eye-opening study not only of a strongly fatalistic people, but also of the intelligence and warmth of Laurence herself as a young bride. She deconstructs stereotypes of white-sahib-conquers-Africa and the-natives-are-stupid-savages as only a thoughtful, sensitive writer could do. With her husband Jack engineering the construction of water reservoirs in the parched desert, Laurence eschewed the social life of memsahibs and found her own calling in translating Somali poetry; no small feat for someone who began knowing nothing of the language, beliefs, and customs.

Communication on all levels was often frustrating and sometimes futile between very different life perspectives. Plans of assistance raised suspicion and misunderstandings among the largely nomadic people who annually survived in severe drought, then floods of rain and mud, to scalding monsoon winds ... unimaginable hardships in subsistence living that the Laurences experienced firsthand. Tribal conflict could arise over matters most colonials did not comprehend, nor could they withstand the natives' interminable arguments used to resolve disagreements. Laurence is intense, lyrical, delightful, and not without gentle humour about all the characters she meets ‒ indigenous workers, village people, and colonial officials. It's an exquisite, albeit gritty, prose picture of a period in a land where the greeting is "May you enter peace."

One-liners:

▪ I had been born and had grown up in a country that once was a colony, a country which many people believed still to be suffering from a colonial outlook, and like most Canadians I took umbrage swiftly at a certain type of English who felt they had a divinely bestowed superiority over the lesser breeds without the law. (16)

▪ He believed that all Somalis were incomprehensible and insane, and they in turn believed the same about him. (109)

▪ Dark myths germinated and flourished in the stagnant pool of boredom that was the greatest threat to the memsahibs. (206)

Multi-liners:

▪ The wind would be everywhere. It would ring in the ears, clog the nostrils, drive breath from the throat. (94)

▪ The Somalis thought I was foolish to want the cheetah put out of its pain at once, and I thought they were cruel to want to prolong its agony. Neither of us would alter our viewpoints. (132)

▪ Our basic outlook came from science; theirs, from faith. We put our confidence in technical knowledge. They appeared to put their confidence in ritual. (139)

A Brit work foreman:

He had no gift for analysis, however, and perhaps that was just as well, for in trying to turn camel-herders into truck drivers, desert tribesmen into town-dwelling mechanics, he was trying to construct a bridge that would cross centuries and oceans in a single span. He went on speaking to them in terms of one culture, and they continued to hear and interpret his words in terms of quite another. Small wonder he was at cross purposes with them half the time. (18-19)

The scorching dry season (Jilal):

By the roadside were the graves of people who had not reached the wells. So little stone existed here that grey acacia branches and piles of brushwood were used for the marking of graves. People were buried in a shelf jutting from the pit, in the hope that this might protect the bodies from hyenas. The body was faced towards Mecca; the prayers were spoken and the tribe moved on for no one dared linger to mourn the dead. (52)

In the desert camp:

He would shove the plates in under the net, but never quickly enough. "Oh-oh, I think some small something fall in —" 

A dozen detached ant-wings and several frantic beetles would be floating like croutons on the surface of the venison soup. If this invasion had occurred when we first arrived in this country, I would probably have starved out of sheer repugnance. Not any more. Stoically, I spooned the bugs out and began to eat. The soup was easy — it was the rice which presented a problem. Mohamed cooked rice with snippets of fried onion in it, and in the half-light of our dining hall it was not easy to distinguish insects from onions. To Mohamed, the situation presented limitless possibilities for laughter. (78)

Leaving:

And then I saw that my sadness had been partly for myself, and my fascination with the reasons for others being drawn to Africa had been in some way a veiled attempt to discover my own. It seemed to me that my feeling of regret arose from unwisely loving a land where I must always remain a stranger. But it was also possible that my real reason for loving it was simply because I was an outsider here. One can never be a stranger in one's own land—it is precisely this fact which makes it so difficult to live there. (226-7)

Jessica Barry. Freefall. USA: Hudson & Guide Post Limited/HarperCollins, 2019.

Allison goes down in a plane crash in the Rockies, presumed dead; Maggie in Maine mourns her beloved daughter who has been estranged for a few years. Alternating between each woman's POV, we see that Allison secretly survived but bears an unnamed fear as she struggles, hurt, to find her way out of the mountains. Maggie is determined to learn about her daughter's recent life, surprised to uncover her plans to wed a wealthy pharmaceutical CEO ... among more sinister hints. Someone is pursuing Allison, someone who knows she is hiding explosive information; along the way she reveals her own past to us. Maggie meets a man who encourages her to research the drug company. Maggie doesn't read detective novels; she doesn't know she shouldn't spill everything she learns into her telephone.

Suspend your disbelief somewhat, fellow readers, as Allison miraculously manages to cross the country, convinced her mother needs saving. Seems to me that someone could easily have killed her along the way, since she was being tracked. Yet the story and characters are intriguing in their experience of loss until shades of the ever-popular romance theme appear: rich man transforms a smitten naïf into his very own artificial doll ‒ reminders of a couple of recent books. Ben, the potential groom, is clearly controlling and patronizing (calls Allison his "baby girl" – grit your teeth or scream). Starts out with promise, but a bit too predictable for true suspense.

From Maggie's POV:

▪ I wondered if it was possible for me to rip off my own skin, just claw my way out of it and leave my old bones and my ravaged heart behind. (29)

▪ She was a light in this world and now she was gone, and no one seemed to give a damn except me. (119)

▪ "Her clothes, her jewelry, her books—all of it was gone. There wasn't a trace of her in that place." (215)

▪ No one tells you how good you have it at the time. No one warns you about how you'll feel when it's taken away. (283)

From Allison's POV:

▪ They could be out there somewhere already, searching for me. (34)

▪ This is a new sort of power, I think, tucking the rifle by the side of the door. (135)

▪ Legs stumble. I can't feel my feet, or fingers, or face. I touch my hands to my ears to prove they're still there. The parts of my body feel like stars loosely gathered in the same universe, remote and disconnected. (110-11)

▪ I would soon learn that that was always the question: How much will it cost? How much for their silence? How much to make this go away? (281)

Maggie's BFF:

"Have you thought about a memorial?" I looked at her questioningly. "For Ally," she said gently. "I think it might help you if ..." 

I felt a flutter of panic. "They haven't found her body, Linda. How can I have a funeral for her when there isn't a body?" 

There was an awful look on her face, tenderness mixed with pity, and I looked away. She reached out and took my hand. "I'm not suggesting a funeral," she said. "Just something where people can come and pay their respects. There are a lot of people in this town who loved Allison, and who love you. It could be good for you. Help you get some closure." 

I pictured a lid closing on a coffin. "I don't want closure," I spat. "I want to know what happened to my daughter." (79-80)

Survival thoughts:

I think of all the hours I spent making myself pretty. The mani-pedis and cuts and blowdries and laser hair removals and rejuvenating facials. The foils and the steams and the juice cleanses. I wanted to be coveted and admired and adored, like a pampered little cat, or a trinket in a shop window. I wanted everyone to look at me, and for the most part, everyone did. Sometimes too much. 

And now here I am, stripped down, filthy, covered in bites and scratches and wounds. Unrecognizable. I think of myself as sloughing off another layer of skin, revealing the tender flesh underneath. I'll be brand new after this. I'll be someone else completely. 

I stare up at the sky and watch the clouds float past above. The world is almost big enough to make me forget what led me to this place, the moment that shattered my perfect glass-encased world and sent me spiraling into the splinters. (168)

Blackmail?

I rolled my eyes. "Drug companies are regulated by the FDA. They have to be tested, go through research ..." I trailed off. I was out of my depth now, just repeating phrases I'd heard. "There's a process," I said, more confidently than I felt. 

He smirked. "Oh, sure, there's a process all right. The process of being bought and sold to the highest bidder. You think the FDA is above a little bribery?" 

I hated him. He was just like every other patronizing man I'd ever met in my life, and there's been so many—hundreds of them—all eager to pat me on the head and tell me not to worry my pretty little head. But this was worse. He was trying to tell me I didn't know the man I loved. I wouldn't let him. "You don't know what you're talking about. You're crazy," I hissed. (189)

Sara Blaedel. Her Father's Secret. USA: Hachette Book Group, 2019.

Peculiar goings-on in Racine, Wisconsin ‒ again ‒ as we pick up the second in a series about Ilka Jensen from Denmark, who inherited her father Paul's funeral home — a father who had long abandoned her. With no experience whatsoever, she finds the business deep in debt and industry forces trying to squeeze her out. Ilka is also trying to unravel the mysteries of her father's life in America and his second family. While she spends half her time frantically attending to the last remaining clients, supported by employees Artie and Sister Eileen, sinister elements in the Fletcher family threaten her. Their last client involves a murdered woman who, Ilka discovers, had been blackmailing her father. The staccato action suits Ilka's personality and jumpiness.

Unbelievable, the obstacles thrown in her way to get free and clear and return to Denmark. Imagine a yard sale at a funeral home. A new wrinkle uncovered was Paul's periodic addiction to racetrack gambling and the plot grows ever more complicated involving a partnership in a racing stable, an innocent man accused of grand theft, and strangers following Ilka as she pieces together some of her father's story. Then Artie is badly beaten. Much as she wants to leave Wisconsin, it seems Ilka ain't goin' nowhere. It's a crime novel with a difference and the shocker ending clearly portents more to come.

One-liners:

▪ "You have the same father, you'll find something to talk about." (67)

▪ "I've got to be careful what I say, I know, but I have this bad feeling he owns the police station, or at least the people leading the investigation." (113)

▪ "Paul and Mary Ann had an open marriage, you know." (192)

▪ "He never forgave himself for putting you and your mother in danger." (195)

Multi-liners:

▪ Amber closed her eyes again. "I was trying to keep you out of all this. Trying to protect you." (71)

▪ "Are you saying they might have killed somebody to get the horses back?" Ilka couldn't believe her ears. (151)

▪ "This is my last offer," he warned, still holding the check out. "You keep the house and its contents, but you have to shut down the business and give us your clients." (202)

A lost father:

She tried to picture him in her mind. There would be no more answers, she realized now. It was time to accept that fact and get rid of him too. Mentally. Get him out of her head. Come to grips with the emptiness he'd left inside her. Live with it. She was old enough to understand you can't always find explanations for what's happened or for the life you've ended up with. That went double for other people's lives. She wasn't one bit wiser, and now she was involved in a homicide, which meant that for the first time in her life she'd had to come up with an alibi. (97)

Death certificate:

Artie explained that the physical certificate had been delivered to the crematorium. "It's the law. It's used as identification before the body can be cremated. And then they gave it to the family, along with the urn." 

"But surely we have a copy?" 

He nodded. "Digital. On our computer." 

"Did you see him up there in bed?" 

Artie studied his hands on his knees; a small fleck of tobacco was stuck in the corner of his mouth, and she was about to lean forward and brush it off when he shook his head. (121)

Revelation:

While Dorothy was talking, Ilka slowly realized that the rage roiling inside her was actually sorrow. And it literally took her breath away.Dorothy nodded; she seemed to understand what Ilka was going through. "I know. It's almost too much to bear." 

She was right, Ilka thought. It was really and truly almost too much to bear. Also, because the story she'd been carrying around inside her for her entire life turned out to be false. (197)