At long last, the time has come to review this book. I've been waiting since April or May, since whenever I read the review in the Guardian and thought that it sounded interesting. Interesting, indeed, it was, but not always in the best of ways.
Briefly outlining the work, the first part is a faux-saga written only haltingly in saga-style featuring the coastal American travels of a band of Nordics led by a domineering woman who constantly pushes the men further and further to the south where they meet people, generally amicably, live among them, win esteem, and then everybody starts dropping like flies some time later, necessitating the fleeing of our blonde-haired warriors.
Part two carries forward a few centuries to 1492, that famous year which saw what event again? Columbus discovers America! But nobody in Binet's Europe will find out for a while, because he never makes it back. His crew are massacred and Columbus teaches a princess Spanish. Two intact ships and a partially-wrecked third remain on the shore of Cuba until...
In part three, a few decades later, Atahualpa and a band of men flee a civil war among the Inca and arrive in Cuba where they meet that princess from earlier. Together, they decide to risk their lives crossing the ocean rather than await Atahualpa's murderous brother. This volume is where most of the action occurs, so I'll leave it here and move on with the review for now.
I said the book's interesting. One way it's interesting is to see how he managed to take an alternative history in which native Americans (the Inca) conquer Europe, and yet somehow Eurocentrism remains the lifeblood of the story, the prime mover of the action. The Inca, it would seem, are incapable on their own. It's only presumably because they have Norse blood, some Norse customs, the Spanish-speaking princess (named Higuenamota) and Columbus's ships that they manage to cross the ocean.
As a brief aside, I'll explain: At the core of white supremacism is this Eurocentric notion, patently and almost absolutely false in both the general contours and the most intimate details, that Europe is the great producer of ideas and innovations; it is the center of human culture and intellectuality, the wellspring of every momentous positive that has advanced history (history-changing negatives, like diseases, all come from outside Europe, the Periphery, in this puerile fantasy). I'm not suggesting by any means a white supremacist motive of the author, of course; this is so intrinsically a part of the culture that almost everybody accepts it without thought and almost nobody (white) sees it without a great deal of experience and awareness of non-European history.
But I couldn't help but ask: Why was it that the Inca couldn't have developed their own navigational technology? If you're going to change history to produce a work of fiction, surely you're free to come up with new devices to move the story along, as Binet did in abundance, no? Columbus and his men were not massacred and thought failures in Europe until the Inca arrived in Lisbon decades later, that's all made up by Laurent Binet, along with the action of every other page of the book. So then why did the Inca have to rely on Europe for everything good that happened to them in this timeline? Is it because most people still just can't imagine such a thing, such that it would have turned an alternative fiction into a fantasy in the minds of too many readers?
I won't dwell on that point any longer. There is much more to criticize. To start with low-hanging fruit, I'll note how their abundant gold, for instance, allows them to essentially buy Europe (never does Binet consider the obvious inflation that would result from the massive influx of countless shiploads of gold, being distributed widely across Europe), with all the princes, merchants and electors eager to give away European sovereignty to dip their hand into this endless fountain of gold arriving from the constant stream of ships sent by Atahualpa's brother back home. Poor Suleiman the Magnificent, if only he'd realized Europe would have been his for the taking with enough bribes and a promise of religious freedom!
Atahualpa arrives to find Lisbon devastated by a tsunami, so nobody knows how to react to their arrival. Higuenamota only partially understands the language and there isn't much to interest them in this little kingdom, so after holing up in a monastery and drinking tons of wine, they leave. They move on to a Spain so spiritually exhausted by the Inquisition that nobody even really registers their arrival, the low point of which is the massacre of a city. Eventually they arrange a meeting with the king in what should be a tactically inexcusable location, such an obvious ploy, where they effortlessly take 'Charles Quint' hostage and use him to cement Incan power in the Hapsburg monarchy. They could never have done anything more without this initial victory, since there's only like a hundred Americans present in all of Europe by this point, but with the king in their hands, everything else is there for the taking.
Next, on to the Germanic lands, where the Reformation has torn society asunder. After having instituted freedom of religion in Spain (with a heathen caveat that almost nobody seems to mind), the Germans are more than happy to compromise on their newly won Protestantism. Even the great Christian theologians of the Reformation are mostly on board with this new program. How in the world could that have happened in an atmosphere of intense religious violence and extreme calls for doctrinal purity over the most insignificant of points?
Halfway through the Atahualpa section, it turns from an engaging narrative that could have won a third star from me, to a painfully didactic exercise in juvenile wish fulfillment, imagining a Europe so eager for the Enlightenment that it's able to be layered atop the culture by force of law rather than naturally evolving over (mostly later) centuries of thought and writing and, significantly, contact with other cultures and ways of being around the world.
Nowhere are we given an explanation for why Atahualpa is such a man of the Enlightenment. The 95 theses (written by Atahualpa himself?) posted to the door a la Luther read like the manifesto of a heathen Dawkins and ends up roiling the people to the point that they kill Luther (I have not yet figured out why). It includes communalist items like:
24. Christians must learn that one who sees a poor man and, ignoring him, spends his money on indulgences, will earn not the indulgence of the Pope but the wrath of Viracocha.
59. The Sun supports the rights of the poor.
63. The earth cannot be monopolised. It is divided according to each man’s needs.
But also some downright heretical entries, including:
11. The Holy Trinity imagined by Tertullian at the beginning of the old era is the imperfect allegorical representation of the Sun, the Moon and the Thunder.
From Spain to the Netherlands to the Holy Roman Empire, everyone is tripping over each other to secure freedom, freedom only Atahualpa is willing to provide. No less likely, as far as I'm concerned, would be Martians landing to conquer the Five Quarters (America, the Four Quarters, and Europe, the Fifth Quarter, as they're known to the Inca) right about now.
One of the implicit goals of Binet, I believe, is to show religion as nothing but a tool of power, something all the characters seem to understand, unspokenly at least. This seems like projection on the part of the author. I don't disagree with the notion itself, but I absolutely cannot for a moment consider with a straight face the possibility that all these zealous Christians who lived, killed, and died in wars of religion during this same period would agree with us. Faith is most assuredly a real part of human existence, it's not going anywhere today, why would it have been so absent during a pre-scientific era? Sure, there were probably a number of characters who in reality felt the same way as us, but everybody? It is essentially taken as a given that nobody at all could care less about their religion or any of the unfathomable doctrinal issues that caused such a commotion in real history.
Binet seems to take a perverse pleasure in having his historical personages take ridiculous actions. Henry VIII converts to the religion of the Sun because the pope refuses to condone his divorce, unlike the real Henry who merely tweaked Roman Catholicism a little to produce the Anglican Church with himself as head. Pius V runs away from the Incan conquerors and takes refuge with the Ottomans, receiving Athens from Selim II to set up a new Holy See. In history, of course, it was Pius V who championed the Holy League to fight against the Ottomans. I have no problem with alternative history, but this is just sadistic, an exercise in creating the illusion of hypocrisy around so many dead people. Nothing is sacred for Binet (except Eurocentrism, perhaps?).
What's more, the constant name-dropping is a little tedious, too, with almost no original characters to my knowledge (I didn't recognize every name, but the dozen or so I Googled all came back positive, while he gave some later American characters names from earlier centuries to maintain continuity), as if everyone who is known to history would have played analogous roles in this alternative timeline, with nothing truly original happening, a sort of fatalism I simply cannot abide. The vast differences of Binet History versus real history should have thrown many lives completely off course, yet here we have too standard of occurrences, if at times anachronistic. Leo XI, for instance, becomes antipope decades earlier than he really became pope, perhaps a decade before the real one was even made a cardinal! Lorenzaccio, too, plays the role of assassin, though his victim is not the same as in real history. And not just people, but events are similar, as well, like the battle of Lepanto, which this time is between the Franco-Incan alliance versus the Ottomans, Venice and Austria.
The fourth and closing part deals with Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote, who escapes to Italy (fleeing seems a very frequent activity in this book) after committing a crime in his native Spain, where he's rounded up and put in chains to be taken back to Spain. However, he's rescued by rebels fighting against the heathen overlords and becomes close friends with El Greco, with whom he has a series of misadventures, including losing the Battle of Lepanto.
Another cameo is made by Hieronimo de Mendoza, who was kidnapped by Moroccan pirates in 1578 and later wrote about the experience, only to surface near the end of the novel - as a galley slave, no less! He's there with Cervantes and El Greco when Sir Francis Drake, fighting out of Queen Elizabeth's Icelandic base (because the Mexicans and French have taken England), attacks, freeing the prisoners (not lost on me is the inverse historical incident, the Turkish Raid on Iceland, which claimed hundreds of slaves, told grippingly by survivor Olafur Egilsson in a book a hundred times better than this one).
One of the more ridiculous episodes began like this: "so they sharpened their iron spoons and used them to saw open the doors." They'd been sitting in a crowded prison cell with neither food nor light for days because nobody outside the jail was left alive who would bother to bring them food thanks to the Plague. This becomes apparent as soon as they escape to find dead rats littering the floors beyond their cell. Considering how poorly treated and fed they had been in such a crowded jail, with rats apparently quite prevalent in the building, it is simply miraculous that the prisoners were the people who survived unharmed from such a position of powerlessness in the midst of the epidemic!
In the end, I'm happy I read this book, despite the invective. It's been a fun experience, one point of agreement between me and the Guardian. But a lot of the fun has been heaping scorn on the nonsense that can be found not just on every page but behind the page. I wouldn't suggest anybody else bother to read this novel, though for the sake of the translator, who did a good job with such hopeless material, maybe picking up an English copy wouldn't be the worst decision you'll ever make; I won't be mad at you if you do.