Winner 2008 Commonwealth Writer Prize for Best First Novel
I have read this book twice, each time in less than two hours; at 20K words this is probably more properly a novella, not a novel. But it’s a gem of a little book: C S Richardson’s tale is a tender and poignant portrayal of a couple very much in love, and how they differ in their reaction to inevitable loss.
At about age fifty, Ambrose Zephyr is informed quite matter-of-factly, that he has thirty days “give or take” to live. His doctor speaks quite blithely: Something of a mystery [we never learn what he has:]. Fatal? Yes, quite; Yes, the doctor offered, unfair would be a very good word about now. [Quotation marks are not used in the story.:]
Ambrose’s wife, Zappora Ashkanasi, known as Zipper, who had kept her last name “for the apparent reasons”, definitely believes it’s unfair, and can’t imagine life without Ambrose, the only man she has ever loved. Without adjustment. So when Ambrose decides they must take a whirlwind trip to all his favourite places, and to places he’s always wished to see, from A (Amsterdam) to Z (Zanzibar), the two – A.Z. and Z.A. – leave without informing friends or employers. (Childless, they have devoted themselves to one another and their careers.)
Richardson zigzags between the present and the past as Ambrose and Zipper zip from place to place. But en route to Elba, Zipper wants to hop off the train at Paris. She’s not tired of Paris. They had met in Paris. Thus the Eiffel Tower substitutes for Elba. Zipper awakens slightly disoriented, then recalls where they are, and where Ambrose must be: on his stroll. And she knows, by the time she sets out, exactly where on his stroll he will be. When she gets there, she sits down beside him:
You smell like cigarettes, she said. How was the walk?
Ambrose lied. Lovely, he said. Zipper caught sight of his slowly trembling hands, the subtle curling and uncurling of fingers.
How was your lie-in? he said. Feel better?
Zipper lied.
They miss connections to Haifa, and go on to Istanbul, where the “niceties” begin to disappear. Ambrose snaps at Zipper when she asks if there’s anything she can do. She wants to throw something at him when he wants to be left alone. Later, after emerging from a Turkish bath, Zipper’s exasperation with her husband’s “absence” reaches a peak. She pushes until he admits to being afraid, but so what? And, he adds, this isn’t happening to her.
Zipper: You selfish, shitty bastard. This is happening to me.
Ambrose: Really? In less than a month, you’ll still be alive.
Zipper: Really. I can hardly wait.
I leave the rest of this conversation for you; suffice it to say that that we are now not far from Home, and the end of our fable.
It’s interesting: at first I thought the whole concept of the alphabet, from characters’ names, to the travel from A to Z, to the title (to say nothing of chapter titles!) was just a bit too much – until I discovered it was the editorial staff at Random House that came up with the title. The author’s working title was The Grand Tour of Ambrose Zephyr; had that been left intact, the ending would not have been as effective. Richardson wrote a good story, and the title makes it even better.