Would you take an international flight that only made it 75% of the way to your destination?
Would you buy a set of headphones that played 75% of your favourite songs in perfect, concert-like fidelity, but filled the final quarter of each with a scratchy Nickleback/Hootie and the Blowfish medley?
The reason I ask is because this book is 75% brilliant.
And I mean brilliant. It freaking shines. It’s so good, that I was recommending it friends while I was forty pages in - forty pages!!!!! I
never
recommend a book so early on – that’s how strongly this novel starts. I was thinking about it lying in bed, thinking about it at work, and desperate for my day to finish so I could get home and get me some more sweet Europe in Autumn action.
Yep, that first three quarters is killer.
The future setting of Europe in Autumn is no longer the Europe of the Schengen zone, the borderless place of frictionless transit we know today. This future Europe has atomised - the EU is now only a rump of itself while the rest of the continent a crazed map of fractured polities and micro-states, each with its own borders, its own rivalries, its own hatreds.
The story begins in a Krakow restaurant. Rudi is an Estonian chef working in Poland, making steak tartar and trying to make a living. A group of toughs come in to Rudi’s restaurant one night. Massive, broad shouldered men with full shoulder holsters, a team of Hungarian gangsters looking for good food and drink, and the respect due to hard men of violence.
Rudi and his boss calmly handle these men, and Rudi catches the eye of the local Mafioso, who recruits him to join an international organisation of ‘Coureurs’ - a shady underworld of people who take packages, messages, even other people, across the myriad borders that have sprung up around Europe. His employers are half criminals, half borderless-world idealists, committed to making sure their cargo gets through, no matter what it is.
Dave Hutchinson writes damn well, and brings Poland to life – the streets of Krakow, the restaurants and lanes of Warsaw, even the life of an itinerant chef, working like a slave around Europe’s restaurants. It feels like Hutchinson knows the Poles and their nation well, and as a friend of several Poles I felt I gained greater insight into their people from reading this novel.
Europe In Autumn also contains some of the coolest spy/espionage sequences I’ve read. Just the description of how Rudi gets a passport from a forger is a stunning journey through the art of document falsification, and had me reading segments aloud to my long-suffering partner.
Hutchinson’s detailing of the ways that the coureurs build their ‘legends’ - fake personas and identities they use on their deliveries - is also fricking awesome. He manages to make the behind-the-scenes dogsbody work of creating fake people almost as cool as the smuggling itself.
I totally bought it, and I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.
And then…. BAM! With no warning the narrative flips from super-cool futuristic spy thriller to, well, something I would call magical realism.
It’s the reading equivalent of a sudden shot to the testicles/gut/jaw (take your pick), delivered with all the subtlety of an angry clown wearing a neon pink shirt emblazoned with the words ‘plot pivot’.
I was totally blindsided. One minute I was flying through the narrative, eating up Rudi’s story, the next I was bogged up to my thighs in a slow story-within-a-story that had clumsily been jimmied into the narrative as part of a code the main character needed to crack.
I plodded on, expecting to get back to the very cool espionage-ing, only to find that this clunky story snippet was the key to the rest of the novel. You see, apparently there’s an alternative dimension, and… ahh, screw it. I’m not going to spoil it here, just in case it works for you. For me it was pretty lame, and I didn’t buy it.
As you can imagine, after such a strong start, my disappointment was weapons grade. All the anticipation I’d built up, all the amazing world building and character work done in the first ¾ of the novel – all of it was laid waste.
If this was American Airlines A893, non-stop Sydney to Paris, we would be terminating in Tehran.
Whether that is enough for you, whether an amazing journey full of color and excitement prior to a literary ditching in the sea miles from where you thought you were headed is OK, will depend on how much you love that first seventy-five percent.
For me, I loved the first three-quarters, so despite my disappointment I still dig this novel, and I think it’s well worth you giving it a chance.
Three point five international men of mystery out of five.