BOOK REVIEW: Alan Furst's RED GOLD & Louis-Ferdinand Celine
The latest novel I've read from historical spy writer (his appelate, not mine) Alan Furst started out slower than usual. RED GOLD is Furst's only sequel and picks up the story of film producer Jean Casson after he has jumped ship on way to London and freedom and swims back to Occupied France "for love, not patriotism" he later confides to a flic who has run him in for questioning. As usual Furst delineates the normal people who get drawn into the dangerous and often fatal resistance to Nazi-occupied Europe not out of misplaced idealism but an existential awareness of moral right. Indeed, his characters could be lifted from one of Sartre's novels of resistance. And as usual his book is full of historical accuracies. But it wasn't until he descibes a sign by the cash register with a photograph of a funeral and the legend LE CRÉDIT EST MORT and later mentions "the doctor who wrote under tin- name Celine had worked with the poor, and now shrieked against the Jews on the radio" that I got it. Of course Furst had read his Louis-Ferdinand Celine and the take on his novel Mort à crédit (Death on the Installment Plan). So the novel of a film producer is told in a cross between cinamatique and Celine without the famous three dots...elipses. Celine, the novel as delirium, a perfect vehicle for the nightmare world of Nazi/Vichey France with the Gestapo, SS, whores and black marketeers. Listen:
"10:30 in the evening in the rue Hennequin. Some restaurants lived secret lives,
others spread out into their streets. This was the second kind; a green-and-gold
façade, a line of handsome automobiles. A Horch, a Lancia Aprilia. In the back
seat of an open sedan, a redhead with a dead fox around her neck was smoking
like a movie star. On the street: German officers in shiny leather, boots and belts
and straps; their girlfriends, wearing plenty of rouge and eye shadow and black
stockings; and the strange tidal debris--the Count of Somewhere, Somebody the
art dealer--that flowed into conquered cities."
and
"Upstairs, a small office used for interrogation--two chairs, a desk scarred with
cigarette burns, tall windows opaque with dirt, a floor of narrow boards. The
station backed up to a schoolyard, it was recess, and Casson could hear the kids,
playing tag and yelling. The detective leaned on his elbows and read the dossier,
now and then shaking his head."
We get the movie version of setting and action:
"Casson never knew who shot first or why, but there were five or six reports from
the front of the truck. Somebody shouted, a car door opened, somebody screamed
"Maurice!" When Casson saw Jacquot's hand move, he grabbed for the Walther, pulled
it free of his belt, and forced the hammer back with his thumb. In front, a shot, then
another, from a different gun. Jacquot's hand came out from under his sweater, Casson
fired twice, then twice more. Jacquot grunted, there was a flash in the shadows.
Casson ducked away and ran around to the front of the truck. On the road by the
Citroën, somebody lay on top of a rifle."
Or with wry humour:
"No. It can't be. Of course, we both know people who'd like to ignore the whole
thing--just try to get along with them. But you know the saying, le plus on leur
baise le cul, le plus ils nous chient sur la tête." The more you kiss their ass, the
more they shit on your head..."
"War changes everything."
Weiss smiled. "It should, logically it should. But the world doesn't run on logic,
it runs on the seven deadly sins and the weather. Even so, we have to try to
do what we can."
"And it helps," Casson said, "to have mac