“What country more dear or defiant than that of our own blood?”
For an author of "reliably prolific" repute, Country of the Bad Wolfes was a long time coming for James Carlos Blake. It took seven years in total for it to see publication, two of which were spent on lengthy trips to Mexico in pursuit of research materials based on his own family history. The territory is personally and professionally resonant to the bi-cultural Blake whose previous novels tend to centre on characters drawn from history and re-imagined into fictional and often viscerally violent borderland adventures. He has said of his own work: "I'm attracted to...people who are very resentful of submitting themselves to authority that they don't think is warranted" and so it is in this novel: a sprawling historical crime epic largely characterised by men who hold to a similar philosophy.
At its heart the tale is a relatively straightforward one, documenting three generations of the Wolfe family over the course of two centuries and culminating with ferocity against the political upheaval of Porfirio Diaz’s ousting from Mexico’s presidency in 1910. Yet the sheer breadth of both character and incident involved over the course of these decades is dizzying, and only facilitated in part by the diagrammatic family trees at the start of each of the novel's five parts, intended to enable the reader to keep track of the ever growing Wolfe genealogy.
Blake does well to focus primarily on two sets of identical twins, the first begat by an Irish-English pirate in 1828 New Hampshire who is executed for his crimes, the second the progeny of one of these brothers, as well as the women they love and the enemies they accumulate along the way. In addition to the main protagonists the novel is otherwise peppered with delicious vignettes of those who move into and out of their lives giving the impression of a huge and varied canvas across the whole cultural and socio-economic sphere of Mexico’s borderlands in the nineteenth century. Nothing, it seems, is immune to Blake's attention, from the broadest spectacle of a country in the throes of enormous political change to the individual intimacy of a first Holy Communion or the tentative erotic transactions between children on the cusp of adolescence. At times, the narrative falls victim to a lack of pace: a rather too-lingering elegy on the landscape or the scars on a man's face, yet these are largely forgiven by the reader, partly due to Blake's obvious passion for his story and partly because we cannot help but be in awe of his mastery given the volume of his material.
The political backdrop is initially allowed to take a secondary place in the novel, simmering away like a tense malcontent or one of the ox bow lakes on the borders of the Rio Grande; unassuming until a sharp bend in the narrative forces it to become a distinctive and critical element of the landscape. It is not until a good way into the novel that the reader gets a sense of how these political and socio-economic tensions will come to bear on the Wolfes in a directly personal way through the character of Edward Little, advisor and confidante to Porfirio Diaz. The document of Diaz’s rise to presidency is one of the aspects the novel borrows from history, his unprecedented term remembered for both its promotion of industry and its development of infrastructure via foreign investment, even as it saw the subjugation of freedom of speech and opportunities for the ordinary man on the street. It is this rise in economic growth and the possibilities it presents that will form the basis of both the twin’s fortune and their bloody destiny.
The theme of Fate versus Free Will is writ large in the novel and is postulated at various points by several of the peripheral characters, especially. For the deeply catholic Mexicans the hand of the divine is often attributed to some of the novel's crueller events: a curse, a preordination to tragedy and violence. However, not even the various examples of happenstance that are given as evidence of this belief are enough to temper the sense that man is in fact the architect of his own Destiny. In an interview Blake has been quoted as saying "Without physical courage you can have no other kind. If you're afraid to defend your convictions because you might get your ass kicked for it, you're not really fit to advocate for them,” and this certainly seems to be the position taken by the majority of the Wolfes. At several points throughout the narrative, including the inciting incident (which separates and effectively seals the fate of the first pair of twins), a man is seen to make a choice thereby committing himself to a particular philosophy, a particular outcome.
Blake's decision to render the novel via a rather limited third person perspective is a good one given the depth of its reach. It lends an objective sense of reportage to the historical aspects of the story whilst maintaining the idiosyncrasy of memoir. The inner lives of the characters are explored just deeply enough to understand their various motivations, and part of the novel's charm is the enigma the protagonists present both to the reader and to the other characters with whom they interact, a mysteriousness that suits the almost mythic status they eventually acquire.
As mesmerising as its protagonists are, however, one of the great joys of the novel lies with the presentation of its women who, though bound by the cultural and social mores of their time are nonetheless imbued with the Wolfe spirit of both enterprise and resilience. Characters such as Gloria, Sofi Reina and Marina live long in the memory, and Blake does not short-change them in the playing out of their respective stories. Special mention goes to a beautifully rendered chapter early on in the novel involving a courtesan whose confidences and eventual fate form a moving vignette which stands against any of the set pieces elsewhere in the novel.
Much has been made of the violence of Blake's writing, drawing comparisons to the likes of Cormac Mccarthy and Elmore Leonard amongst others. Yet whilst there is some overlap in their mutual preoccupation with male protagonists whose demons are exorcised through violence or sex, Blake's sympathetic and comprehensive rendering of his female characters sets him apart from these writers as opposed to being in direct competition with them.
Unlike them too, it is fair to say that Blake's commercial success remains niche though the reasons for this are harder to ascertain. Perhaps it is because readers are denied the usual singular goal-driven force that typifies more commercial (and perhaps less challenging) reads. It is true that the novel appears sprawling and unwieldy at times, betraying Blake's bias towards the material, his personal investment to do it justice by omitting nothing. And yet by its furious and unforgiving denouement readers are left with a feeling of complete and utter satisfaction as the author’s design is made plain for us; a sense that everything that has gone before it has led not just to closure but to inevitability. One of the tenets of great fiction is that there should always be an inherent logic to the plot so that though it may end in any number of ways it can only end in one particularly right way. To this end, neither the Wolfes nor Blake disappoint.