In 2008 I read the epic Man Booker Prize shortlisted “The Northern
Clemency” by Philip Hensher. A novel which covered the period 1974-1994, it put
a mirror up to a suburban existence, the banality and the slow decay during the
Thatcher period. The ordinary was becoming art. Then in 2012 the Man Booker
Prize Longlisted “The Yips” by Nicola Barker (another behemoth) explored the
extreme oddities that live behind the ordinary suburban doors, agoraphobic
tattoo artists, Church of England clergy who are obsessed with their fringe,
internet savvy barmaids and of course
more.
Move over English suburbia and a banal existence because
Jorgen Hofmeester has arrived, a resident of the best suburb in Amsterdam, so
therefore the whole of Holland, our novel opens with him preparing sushi for
his daughter’s graduation party. Jorgen’s a successful editor on the
translation desk at a publishing house, has a much younger wife, has invested
his property income into a Swiss bank account and he simply lives for his two
gorgeous daughters. A suburban dream, the story of a man who has arrived. But
is it?
Having children was the wife’s
idea, to start with. One morning at breakfast, a breakfast which now seems to
him as though it was consumed in another lifetime, she had said: “We’re going
to have a baby.”
“How can that be?” he’d asked.
And she had replied: “I stopped
taking the pill.”
“A baby,” he said. “My God,
aren’t there enough of them in the world? And how can you be sure the child
will be healthy?”
But all she had said was: “If I’d
left it up to you, it would never have happened.”
All morning long the idea had
flustered him, but bu the time lunch was over he had decided to shoulder his
responsibility. He waited until work was over at five, then cycled to the bank
and took out a life-insurance policy, without telling the wife about it. It was
to be a surprise, the money the policy would pay out if anything unexpected
happened to him.
That, then, was how Jorgen
Hofmeester became a father; as a man who knew nothing more about fatherhood and
wanted to know nothing more about it than that it was wise to take out life
insurance before the child entered the world.
The first 295 pages of this novel take place at youngest
daughter Tirza’s graduation party, we have our protagonist , Jorgen, drifting
back and forth in time, recalling what happened to his marriage, his tetchy
relationship with his eldest daughter Ibi, his dislike of hedge funds, how
Tirza’s boyfriend bears a striking resemblance to September 11 ring leader Mohammed Atta, how Jorgen has been spending
his days since the publishing house decided to move him on and of course we
learn more of his relationship with Tirza.
This is the party that has to be
perfect, that has to prove that the rumors going around about him are not true.
How well it has all turned out, that’s what he wants to say, that’s what he
wants to get across, how well his life has turned out, how well the children
have turned out.
On the surface we have an ordinary family, but as each layer
of the onion is peeled back we begin to see a rotten core. I don’t want to give
away too much of the plot here, however I will let you know that Jorgen’s
relationship with his wife is far from ordinary:
She was standing in front of him.
He couldn’t back off, the washing machine was behind him. He could make out the
individual pores in her face, the black of her mascara. Maybe she was right,
maybe he had been disgusted by her. But disgust was no grounds for divorce,
disgust was the zenith of intimacy. The conclusion of intimacy. Its logical
conclusion. The familiarity of disgust, the immutability of it, the wistfulness
it elicited. The desire to be disgusted by the other person, just one last
time. And, with that, to always be a little disgusted by yourself as well.
This novel turns stereotypes on their heads, and no subject
seems taboo. We have Jorgen witnessing his eldest daughter having sex with the
upstairs tenant, we have Jorgen in intimate liaisons with Tirza’s classmates,
we have sexual game playing, domestic
violence and once we move from the party to Africa (where Tirza is to travel
with her boyfriend) we have locals turning a blind eye to the tourist sex
trade.
And throughout, we have an underlying sexual tension, a
creepy distasteful feeling that all is not above board with Jorgen and his
relationship with his youngest daughter Tirza, yes, there is an undercurrent of
incest. Whilst not explicit, the implication is always there:
He presses her against him and he
understands – never before has he understood so clearly, so overwhelmingly, so
undeniably – that he wants to have no reason to live without Tirza. Without her,
life is no longer conceivable, and what is inconceivable in undesired. She is
his right to exist. What he is pressing against him now provides him with both
the privilege and the obligation to live. Without her there is no more
obligation, but also no more right. He can barely remember how he lived before
she was around. Waiting, that’s what it was. That’s how he lived all those
years, waiting for Tirza. Of course, he didn’t know then that it was Tirza he
was waiting for.
This story is one emotional roller coaster and it is one
that will disturb you. The ability to evoke feelings throughout and push you
into shame simply by the structure of the language or the subjects being
discussed in such an off handed manner is wonderful.
Hofmeester’s mouth is dry. For
the first time, he thinks he is able to distinguish between pain and despair.
Despair is dull and a bit crippling, alos numbing. Despair is not feeling, it’s
the opposite; the awareness that you are no longer feeling, that feelings are
in the process of slipping away, of leaving you behind on your own.
This may not be a comfortable journey, in the slightest, but
it is a journey into a world of taboo that I’ve taken. One I won’t forget for
quite some time.
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