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289 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 1, 2011
Your life, they say, flashes before your eyes in your last moments, and Salmon has taken this ridiculous cliché (how could anyone know, eh?) and turned it into a novel. Teddy Everett is dying of cancer, possibly in a prison hospital, and this is his deathbed confessional. Or bragfest, take your pick.
The Goodreaders were right about one thing: Teddy is misanthropic, and misogynist too. He is a horrible man, who comes from a genealogy of other horrible men. He grows up in Ethiopia, heir to a rapacious coffee empire, and comes of age as communist insurgents begin to make their presence felt. (There are references to Hailie Salassi, the Italian conquest of Ethiopia, the failure of the League of Nations to protect it and so on, but you can read the novel, as I did, in complete ignorance of Ethiopian history and politics and then look it up at Wikipedia afterwards if so minded. Where, alas, you will find the usual dispiriting chronicle of African colonial and postcolonial events.)
Teddy, like his male ancestors, has bedded and wedded too many hapless women and feminists may justifiably groan in despair at the absence of women with any real agency. But this misses the point: no one in this story has any real agency, least of all Teddy unable to do anything but endure the indignities and pain of terminal illness. The reader is not disposed to feel sorry for him, but even so, when Teddy betrays his wives, his family and his country, he is no more than a bit player in a melodrama not of his making. The characters in this novel are moving inexorably towards disaster, just as Ethiopia is.
And yet the novel is very funny. The playful narrator never lets the reader forget that this is a work of fiction, manipulating events with arbitrary authorial choices, such as when he declares that he's not given to suspense so let's alter the chronology and have the event happen then when it suits the narrative. The mockery is laced with black humour:
My father watched the pickers below as he knocked back the tej. He had thought that his arrival in Africa—he always called it Africa not Ethiopia not Abyssinia, my mother did the same—would be like in the movies, the white massa carried in a sedan chair, hoisted on black shoulders, a further sedan chair swaying behind with his wife and son. Obedience, obsequiousness, that sort of thing. Hanging with the Duke of Gloucester at the Coronation, the presentation of zebras and the peeling of grapes. Sitting on a porch being fanned by a native while the coffee-pickers turned plants into money and Ibrahim Salez turned that money into gold. A spot of big-game hunting in the evening, safari suits and pith helmets, him and Holbrook posing with rifles for photographs, while awestruck Ethiopes held the heads of lions, gazelles buffalo oryx. (p.162)
A white man's colonial fantasy, blithely indifferent to the reality around him.