In the 1980s, Avon books under their Bard imprint released a series of novels that originated in Latin America, including both original and pre-published material. Thus, the series contained the already classic One Hundred Years of Solitude by Garcia Marquez and Hopscotch by Cortazar, as well as the new novel by Márcio Souza, who had made somewhat of a splash with his previous book, The Emperor of the Amazon (also published by Bard). I mention this because it was the Bard imprint alone that caused me to pick this up in the first place--it is an attractive series, pleasing to look at, and with the implication that the editors had scooped up the best literature available so that the reader could relax and benefit from their hard work. A significant portion of the literature from South and Central America had also not been translated at that time, and so I also hoped to run across some hidden gems that had been previously passed over, and which may have disappeared after the Bard print run was over.
A then-current article in the Washington Post credits Souza's earlier novel as the catalyst for a new interest in South American literature--this despite the fact that Garcia Marquez had published One Hundred Years a decade prior. With all this background information, plus the cover blurbs and synopsis on the back cover, I was nearly convinced, before even cracking the cover, that I had found one of those gems.
Mad Maria is the historical account of the building of the Madiera-Mamoré Railroad in Brazil, with the hope that the railroad would bring Bolivian rubber to worldwide markets. It was known as 'The Devil's Railroad' because of the thousands of deaths associated with disease and violence, and Mad Maria chronicles a portion of that by following a large assortment of people involved in the building; from the financier to the construction engineer to the indentured laborers who did the dying and laid the tracks. A beautiful widow, out of her mind with grief over her husband’s recent death, and who accidentally wanders into the worker’s camp after a terrible storm, and a Caripuná Indian, who had been subsisting by thieving from the camp and is mutilated horribly when caught, round out the cast of characters. Together, they help reflect an image of Brazil at the beginning of the new century—unsteady, and hounded by the forces of corruption, cynicism, and capitalism.
Although Mad Maria is not a bad book, I was very disappointed. No doubt that had to do with my heightened expectations—readers coming to the book without those expectations are likely to find an average to above average book of historical fiction about a location that is generally not a familiar subject to North American readers. Unfortunately, I never really felt there was anything particularly Brazilian about the book. That may have been because there were so few of them in it—the financier, doctor and rail engineers were American, the construction engineer was English, the girl Bolivian and the laborers were Barbadian, German, Hindu, and Chinese.
Nor did I feel that Souza’s satire was focused enough on any one subject to make it effective. Was it about the evils of Capitalism? Brazilian corruption? The destruction of natural habitat? Or the infection of cynicism, that eventually made even the most idealistic give up and finally sink into apathy? Probably all of that, although the railroad did indeed get built—a kind of marvel really, and it may have just been the mixture of these evils that put it on the map. That it was eventually failure is true, but that had as much to do with the fact that Bolivian rubber couldn’t compete with the Asian markets. The cost, though, of building it, in terms of money, death and subservience to foreign interests may have been too high, even if the markets had functioned as initially expected.
Even taking the novel as an epic story—rather than the psychological or phantasmagorical adventure I was hoping for—I still think Souza failed to produce a well-written book. Nor do I think that was the fault of the translator—there were too many times I felt the novel shifted direction, as if in the middle of writing, Souza decided to switch his emphasis, to highlight some new aspect of his satire. The idealism of the young doctor seems ridiculous given the conditions he found himself in, and the hard-headed, cynical construction engineer undergoes a personality shift in the latter third of the book that struck me as more the whim of the author than because of any intrinsic circumstances. The few sexual scenes, while not graphic, were a little silly, I thought, coming as they did from nearly out of the blue, and the appearance of Consuelo Campero seemed little more than a plot device in order to inject a woman into the narrative and provide a love interest.
I have a copy of Souza’s earlier novel Emperor of the Amazon, and I still plan on reading it—I began to wonder while reading Mad Maria if the shortcomings I found were the result of the pressure of trying follow up his first success with another, and in the end he tried too hard. Chances are, though, that my expectations will be set to match--I hope--the kind of novel that Souza’s actually wrote, rather than the one I envisioned.