This is an example of how those glowing blurbs that marketing puts on books to get you to read them really does a disservice to the poor writer who suddenly has to live up to a nearly impossible standard. This book, according to the glowing quotes on the jacket, 'did for the 17th century what 'The Name of the Rose' did for the 14th.' Ouch. Not true.
I couldn't wait for this book to end, which is just ridiculous considering that Amin Maalouf set up a really fantastic setting for his story. It's the year of the impending Apocalypse (1666, which tweaks out numerology cranks in every variant of the Abrahamic religions), and the main character ends up on a trip from the Levant to Constantinople to Genoa and eventually up to London, just in time to get mired in the Great Fire. He's after a book that may or may not contain the Hundredth name of God, which might be useful when all the nasties from Revelations start making the rounds.
Somehow, the book manages to be tedious. It's all the main character's journal entries, and I guess it's in character that the journals of a shopkeeper would be a bit pithy, especially one that is a member of a religious minority running a business in a region of the world that has never really been settled or civil. Still, it's a particular device that I have a hard time with, where characters ruminate endlessly on what a minute turn of phrase meant, and who is mildly insulted and who isn't and how little points of etiquette must be observed. It's what makes a lot of Victorian and Regency novels unreadable (Jane Austen, I'm looking at you,) and it's disheartening to see one of the most respected Arabic novelists writing to day mired in this trap. At least he doesn't pull a Melville and natter on and on for pages about what the water looks like when you're sailing from Constantinople to Smyrna.
There are a few subplots, involving romance, deep friendships made with fellow travelers, and a random fake Messiah who complicates the already hysterical religious mood of the region, and every single one of these story lines just sort of dies out in the most unsatisfactory way. Every single one of these subplots is set up as something interesting that could develop into something cool, and then it just kind of doesn't.
About three quarters of the way through when it became clear that I had slogged through all this tedious build up for nothing, nothing whatsoever, I wanted to loose this book on the Metro so I would have an excuse to not finish it, but I'm trying to gain an appreciation (or at least, an understanding), of the literature coming out of the Middle East, and I paid full price for it, so...
Now to be fair, if you took an actual person's journal, this is pretty much what it would be like. When you write down day to day things that you do and things that seem important, there's no narrative flow or story arcs. At least, not polished ones. So, ok, I suppose if you wanted to pretend that this was actually a guy's journal, fine, but it makes for terrible reading. Novels are supposed to skip all the boring crap and have some sort of awareness of narrative flow.
Anyway, I uppsed my rating to two stars because for whatever other faults, it's well researched. I mean, there's not a LOT of stuff, but the few little things like mastis smuggling was pretty interesting.
I'm really sad, I have to say, that this author wasn't more engaging. I really, really want to find an author from the Levant and Middle East that I like. I'm just spoiled by reading the likes of Neal Stephenson and Umberto Eco. Also, the other titles by Maalouf look amazing - I have a copy of Leo Africanus, and I'll probably read it, just in case it's good. One can hope.