Just like with his novel The Feast of the Goat, Llosa chooses the stories of two tragic but famous (or infamous) real-life characters to infuse life into what would otherwise be a dull historical record. And he couldn’t have picked better with the flamboyant and flawed Paul Gaugin and his equally left-of centre grandmother, Flora Tristan, in the last phases of their lives.
This is a classic rendition by Llosa, told in alternating chapters for each character, in third and second person voices that weave and blend into the narrative – a dislocated style perfected throughout his oeuvre. The second person voice acts as the conscience of Paul and Flora, reminding them, even accusing them, of past deeds and misdeeds, taking them back in time to pivotal events that shaped their characters.
Paul and Flora are opposites: she is chaste and dislikes sex after having fled from her brutal husband Chazal, who pledged his life thereafter to kidnapping their children from her. Paul, on the other hand, finds sex regenerative, and is pedophilic, with a curiosity for cannibalism. Flora dedicates her life to work for the rights of women and workers who are exploited in mid-19th century Europe, while Paul wants to flee the bourgeoisie life for the far corners of civilization – Tahiti, and when that place gets polluted, the Marquesas Islands. However, his grandmother’s spirit takes over in the end and Paul launches his own crusade against the French colonial authorities for their cruel treatment of the local Maori islanders.
The canvas of Europe in 1841, when Flora sets off on tour of France, is full of organizations intent on reversing capitalism. There are Fourierists, Saint-Simonians, Evadamists, Icarists – all intent on creating utopian societies to flee the prevailing oppressive one for the underprivileged, a place where men and women would be equal, workers well compensated, and sex would be unbridled (or bridled, depending on the group). Flora is touting her latest book and manifesto, The Worker’s Union, but finds that her audiences of the downtrodden are so dumb and scared that few find wisdom in her words or are able to act on them. The Church and the French authorities are scared of her message of insurrection and are intent on shutting her down.
Paul’s life too is one of struggle: the vivid colours and sexually charged imagery of Tahiti that infiltrate his post-Impressionist painting takes long to find acceptance in Europe where aficionados are more intent on grabbing the work of the now dead Vincent Van Gogh while blaming Gauguin for the demise of the “mad Dutchman” after their tragic life together in Arles. If there is one redeeming feature in the sex addicted and syphilitic Gauguin, it is his conviction to give up the life of a wealthy stock-broker and follow his calling of the starving artist, to capture Polynesian life on canvas, even if that means abandoning his formal Danish wife and five children. But he wasn’t deprived of sex in his remote new home, for I lost track of the number of 13-14 year old Maori women he bedded and abandoned, some with child.
Llosa is Peruvian, and we discover that Flora had a Peruvian father from an aristocratic family, and that both she and Paul spent time in Peru, although neither of them got a share of the immense family fortune in that country. Instead, Flora lands in the middle of a civil war while in Arequipa, which amounts to a comedy of errors, and has to flee for her life – another lesson that affirms her determination to be a social justice activist.
Given the spectre of death lurking around Flora and Paul, this is a tragic book. However, it rings up the flag for those who go against the grain and follow their star, no matter how unpopular it is, and no matter what personal hardship must follow that decision.