"Matthias could no longer picture the face of Stepdaddy Number Two, but he retained a sparkling image of that two-tone Coupe de Ville, its red-and-white bodywork polished by Stepdaddy Number Two until it glowed. One Sunday morning an errant baseball went through its windshield while it was parked in the yard; the sound had gotten Stepdaddy Number Two out of bed and running outside in his undershorts, whirling his belt in the air. Matthias’s legs had frozen at the sight. He hadn’t been able to run a step. Number Two had given him the kind of beating that was known in their neighborhood as “a good whipping.” Matthias could picture the belt as vividly as the Coupe de Ville—snakeskin with a silver buckle. Once he’d woken in the night and seen his mother wearing it and nothing else."
Just give that passage a little bit of thought. Think of how much that passage tells you about a character while telling nothing, only showing. Authors of lesser talent would tell you that Matthias feared and hated his stepfather, or that he resented his mother for not sticking up for him. They would tell you these things and move on, having nominally covered a Sympathetic Backstory base. And in doing so, they would deny you your greatest pleasure as a reader: getting to look on throw the windowpanes of the pages and work out what's going on for yourself. You would be denied the right to let your synapses fire on the way to earned discovery, and as a result, you will be held at a polite and well-intentioned remove from the text and engage with it at the deepest possible level. As a result, you're just an accessory to the story, a bystander, an extra. You're nit a partner.
The books of Peter Abrahams make you a partner. He does so by approaching you with the greatest respect, by not presuming to deny you your greatest prerogative as a reader. That is his particular genius — knowing just how much to give you in order to know what's going on while giving you all the room in the world to decide what it means, who wants what, who's willing to do what to get what, whose moral compass is in good working order, and who doesn't have one to begin with, without ever withholding too much or making textual engagement so challenging that it begins to feel like something you have to punch a clock and pull on work gloves to participate in.
Reading Peter Abrahams for me is feeling the pleasant prickles of a brain massage. He's giving me something to enjoy, but it's up to me to decide how I enjoy it and what it feels like. It's a lot comfortable and a little painful, but in that way that makes you want more of it if you're capable of admitting it to yourself because you like the feeling of being alive in the midst of pleasure, not just checked out. Plain and simple, he's just got the touch.
PRESSURE DROP, published in 1989, was one of a mini-canon of Abrahams novels that I call his "For Some, The War Never Ended" series, even though beyond that loose theme, they share nothing else in common beyond the master's uncommon touch. Previous novels in this "series" touched on the legacy of World War II in North Africa, on the complicated aftermath of the struggle that gave birth to the modern state of Israel, of ongoing score-settlings from the births of Communist China and the Vietnam War. All have in common vain old men and their deranged acolytes and descendants , all determined to avenge decades-old losses and feeling justified, in the spinning centrifuges of their peculiar moral compasses, in killing and kidnapping in the name of some eugenic or ethnic ideal.
PRESSURE DROP is chiefly the story of N.M. Matthias, ex Bay of Pigs-era Navy frogman turned proprietor of a down-and-almost out diving resort in the Bahamas; and Nina Kitchener, hard-charging Manhattan public-relations executive who decides, abruptly, on the cusp of forty, to have a baby even though there's no man in her life. More I will not say because I would not want to deny you the pleasures of figuring out how their worlds could possibly intersect, but suffice to say, they do, amid a trail of casual cruelties and baroque horrors.
It's not a perfect novel — Abrahams, like most authors in the crime genre, struggles with stick-the-landing endings, often opting for climactic scenes of restored order that seem too suspiciously timed and too tidily stage-managed; I got the feeling in the last few chapters that Abrahams lost interest in his story to some degree and needed to wrap it up with unsatisfying swiftness and silly, snarling-villain speechifying. But a novel that's just 90% great is still great — much greater than stories that don't know how much to tell or to show.
It may be bad form to cite a review in a review, But Joyce Carol Oates' 2005 review of another Abrahams novel in The New Yorker has helped me to understand the elusive and elliptical pleasure-properties of an Abrahams novel:
— "Although Abrahams’s novels are genre-affiliated, they differ considerably from one another in tone, texture, ambition, and accomplishment. Often the prose is coolly deployed as a camera, gliding over the surfaces of things, pausing to expose vanity, foolishness, pathos."
— "Unlike most suspense fiction, which operates on the practical principle that swift, cinematic scenes will keep readers turning pages without lingering to wonder about verisimilitude, originality, or, indeed, literary worth, Abrahams’s novels are gratifyingly attentive to psychological detail, richly atmospheric, layered in ambiguity."
— "Peter Abrahams’s strongest novels seem to suggest, despite their allegiance to genre, a fascination with something beyond mere form."
Give PRESSURE DROP — or any Peter Abrahams novel — a try. The experience of it may seem a little foreign and unsettling to you at first, given the refusal to traffic in simple, straightforward declaratives. But, should you persist through a period of the cerebral bends (PRESSURE DROP is rich in authoritative diving scenes), you'll discover the finest reading pleasure there is: the pleasure of being shown, rather than told, a great story in a great style, and the pleasure of being invited inside the covers to show something of yourself at the same time.