A paean to sordidness. That's what Christopher Moore accomplished with Comfort Zone. The Comfort Zone itself is the geographic confines of what amounts to Bangkok's Red Light district. Except it's Red Light Plus, encompassing bars, prostitutes, shady deals, and everything from gun running to drug dealing. But it's more than that to Moore. It's a metaphor for a state of mine, in which especially aging expatriates have had their psyches trapped, zapped, and drained of normal human interaction and responses. Not only the expats but the bar girls, bar owners, and everyone else who makes the place what it is also falls prey to this repetitive, abnormal existence.
In this novel, however, Vincent Calvino has decided to escape the Zone and look for normal relationships with people. It starts at the American Embassy's July 4th celebration, where Vincent has a sort of blind date with a friend's sister in law. It doesn't come off, and the friend convinces Vincent to take a case in Saigon. So off to Vietnam goes the story, where Vincent finally meets the girl of his dreams. Without giving anything away, it all ends predictably enough. Vincent ends up back in Bangkok, nursing his wounds, literal and psychological. And life goes on.
This marks yet another book devoted to Vincent's love life. His Japanese girlfriend worked herself out of his life in the first two books of the series. And in the volume published right before this, Zero Hour in Phnom Penh, he begins a dalliance with a white female French physician, which ends up going nowhere.
Moore produces consistently high quality work and never fails to lock in the reader. But there is always something, just that one thing, that keeps his books from going to the next step. And that is he lingers on obsessions and simply will not let them go. The obsession, here, is the Comfort Zone. By the end of the novel, it is overused, exhausted. I felt fatigued with it. Pity, because there is such an excellent story within and without it. Moore needs a touch of sparseness, I think, to achieve the right dose of melancholy. Overworked central metaphors prevent that.