The one-star reviewers do not deign to share why. The two-star reviewers generally found it a bit long, dated and/or boring. The three-star reviewers are a mix of those who seem to love it but curiously gave it only three stars, and those who recognise some strengths but still feel the two-star weaknesses. The four-star reviewers have written the best reviews, critical but appreciative.
So why have I given Simisola five stars?
Well, something just felt right about it. It really was moving. And very, very timely, with its exploration of race, class, welfare, unemployment and more. Simisola is the first of the later, longer novels (nearly double the wordage of the early and middle period Wexfords like A Guilty Thing Surprised and Murder Being Once Done) and though it might therefore have dragged, it never actually did. Rendell moved us effortlessly from crime to crime, theme to theme, everything overlapping, doubling back and being cleverly resolved. There was some wonderful misdirection, too, as the climax approached. I was just beginning to congratulate myself on working it out, when…
This length meant there was adequate time for the deep exploration of the complex psychology of the detectives (Wexford in particular, of course) as they were forced to negotiate racial prejudice without and within, articulated and unarticulated, blatant and subtle. This was pretty uncomfortable at times — the quality dramatising of unconscious bias being so much more convincing and morally powerful than a hectoring polemic.
Sure, the novel might lack some of the immediacy of contemporary discourse on race, might use some of the wrong words, and obviously doesn’t in itself give direct voice to the marginalised (poor Ruth was white and privileged, after all), and, yes, it might be just another elaboration, no matter how subtle or finely observed, of a collection of obsolete liberal views… but in the first few pages (of something published in 1994, don’t forget) our hero insists, and not in a glib way, “We’re all racists, Mike”.
[Those apparent faults are actually strengths in my opinion, anyway. I’m no fan of political correctness.]
There are some colourful characters and lovely scenes, too. The interactions between the old man who habitually observes the street outside the scene of the first murder and his blind wife are a treat. The chapter that narrates the march of the unemployed is so well done it’s almost like a short story in the Chekhov tradition.
[Ok, roping in Wexford’s daughter’s latest woes was a bit artificial and tedious, and something in the solution owed a great debt to The Speaker of Mandarin (my other favourite, and also, perhaps not by coincidence, concerned with questions of racial or ethnic bias, albeit more simply) but I’m still giving this top marks. Having been everso slightly mean with my stars for Rendell’s oeuvre so far I’m going to set parsimony aside for today.]