The trouble with books that end poorly is that no matter how much you enjoyed the beginning, it's always those last few pages, that collapsed narrative, those damning passages that linger in your memory. You forget, several years later, how much you relished the first 200 pages, how tightly the prose gripped you, how quickly you devoured it. And so when I slammed Kartography shut, exhausted by the redundance of its last 50-70 pages, I tried to separate the beginning - that I did race through - from the sorely disappointing end. Sadly I realised that despite it being fast-paced, parts of Kartography grated on me from the very beginning.
Kartography is the story of Karim and Raheen, two best friends growing up in an increasingly violent Karachi. Intriguingly and somewhat salaciously, Karim's father used to be engaged to Raheen's father and vice versa. Despite this mysterious partner swap, the families remain admirably close. The only explanation from Raheen's father for this swap is that "the music changed." Karim's mother, Maheen is a Bengali living in West Pakistan at the time of the brutal civil war that created Bangladesh: Shamsie hints that her ethnicity somehow plays a role in the partner exchange, but the reader is denied the details.
Against this suspenseful backdrop, Kartography is ostensibly a tale of children growing up in 1980s Karachi, a period when the city was once again beset by ethnic strife. Frightened and frustrated by the violence, Karim's father decides to move the family to England, a decision that both separates the best friends and destroys Karim's parents' marriage. For reasons that Raheen - and the reader - never fully understand, Karim is never the same again. Though they keep in touch, Karim is conflicted between his undeniable love for Raheen and a dark truth that gnaws at this helpeless love. He develops an obsession with maps, as if by lending structure to Karachi's streets, he could make sense of his beloved, imploding home.
Shamsie does a decent job in driving home the irrational and fatal grasp of ethnic struggles, stressing that no one - no matter how upright - is immune from the madness of war. While making this point, she often overexplains to the point of being didactic, but it's an important message, one relevant to all wars, not just the largely forgotten Pakistani civil war. Shamsie also evokes the constant struggle of expats between the staid comforts of the West and the love, loyalty and guilt that draws them back to their troubled homelands.
That said, one of my biggest gripes with the book from the very beginning was Shamsie's dialogue: It is unattractively witty. Every character speaks with arch self-consciousness, meaning Shamsie clearly could not separate her own voice from that of her characters. The most glaring offender is the banter between the four teenagers. The dialogue between the kids - especially between Karim and Raheen, but Zia and Sonia were guilty too - was unrealistic and annoyingly precious. Maybe one precocious 13 year old could make jokes about kinky communist parties, but 4 precocious 13 year olds infusing their comments with casual socio-political references and scathing wit was a bit excessive. The end result is that most of Shamsie's conversations are structurally really contrived, even if they are substantively interesting.
Despite these irritations, I finished the book in one sitting, urgently wanting to solve the mystery behind the spouse swap. Shamsie builds up a crescendo that is enticing, making the reader desperate to know why Karim's mother and Raheen's father broke up, why they remained close friends and why this knowledge ultimately repels Karim away from Raheen. Unfortunately, the denouement of this narrative is seriously underwhelming.
Shamsie never adequately explains any of the characters' motivations or reactions. Raheen harps on about being ashamed of the last letter she wrote to Karim, but I re-read it several times trying to figure out what was so offensive. Yasmin's forgiving nonchalance is lazily written. Ali's immunity from ethnic issues is never addressed. Zafar's hysteria is flat. Karim's hatred is warranted, but strangely uncompelling. I kept waiting for more sinister revelations to come tumbling out, but they never did. Worst of all, the book continues for 70-odd pages after this big climax. Here Shamsie's writing is clumsy and rudderless, never quite knowing how to make its way home, hysterically connecting every sub-plot and character to each other for no real reason.
Still, Kartography isn't as bad as I am making it out to be. Shamsie clearly has a lot of talent. Her prose is lush with symbolism and shamelessly lovely in certain parts. Never is her writing more incandescent than when she is describing Karachi. She writes, "It hits you in unexpected moments, this city's romance ; everywhere, air pockets of loveliness just when your lungs can't take anymore congestion or pollution or stifling newspaper headlines. (...) I knew that there were so many reasons to fail to love it, to cease to love it, to be unable to love it, that it made love a fierce and unfathomable thing."
It might be cliched to invoke the city-as-character trope but in Kartography, Karachi really is the main character, one I empathized with most and understood best. Perhaps this is because I am from a city but 2 hours away by air, a bitterly estranged sibling, but one that shares Karachi's turbulent history, frustrating filth, maddening chaos but most of all its inexplicable, heart-wrenching magnetism.
Kartography is not a perfect novel, but it is a quick read that is interesting in bits, frustrating in others; sometimes beautiful, other times blundering. I wouldn't write Shamsie off completely, though. If nothing else, her pained but beautiful description of Karachi compels me to search out more of her work.