This polished and strange novel abounds in odd images and magical dislocations of time: pterosaurs and a professor of aerial perpective combine with McDonalds and that ubiquitous South African creature, the security guard. In many instances the wonderful oil painting, Holiday Time in Cape Town in the Twentieth Century, which hangs in the Iziko South African National Gallery in Cape Town and is reproduced at the front of the book, has its counterpart in Ken Barris’s descriptions of Cape Town. The painting shows an idealised but recognisable city bowl, with a rainbow and golden light hanging over humanity shown in surreal dreamlike detail.
In this richly peopled novel the three main characters live in today’s Cape Town: an elderly tattooist — denizen of the Bo-Kaap and Long Street, a beautiful young coloured journalist and a street child. Underlying the accidental intersections of these lives is a question posed by JM Coetzee in Disgrace and quoted at the outset: “What kind of child can seed like that give life to, seed driven into the woman not in love but in hatred … ” This applies directly to the journalist, the street child and the tattoo artist and is also connected with rape, but in his case his 500-year-old “memories” of Cortez and the colonisation of Mexico posit a different kind of rape and conquest.
The first hundred pages or so are full of the sexual conquests of Luke, the journalist — tediously unpleasant reading, but it is all part of the general scheme of things and gradually Barris begins to extend the airy construction of this novel into a more contemplative zone. At times it is a wildly strange read, combining as it does, an extraordinary vision of an unreal “holiday destination” Cape Town, with the finely written account of street child Malibongwe’s life. The complete dislocation of reality that exists between the poorest fringes of society and the wealth of tourists and travellers, finds a symbol in the pterosaurs that hang over the city.
But Barris does not preach, and he has a compassionate touch in his creation of character. It can be seen in a snippet from Malibongwe’s first ever meal at a McDonald’s, paid for by a friend with a job: “Malibongwe cannot believe the sumptuousness, the generosity, of this feast. He has never eaten such magnificent food. There are 75 flavours in the hamburger patty alone. The pickles and tomato sauce sing in his mouth … His soul swims in the Coke; he has an enormous paper cup of the dark cooldrink, with little cubes of ice floating inside … This is the first time in his life that he has tasted ice.”
Texas
by Tom Eaton
(Penguin)
Jane Rosenthal
It should come as no surprise to readers of Tom Eaton’s regular column in the Mail & Guardian, Viva Gazania, that beneath the chaff, the swift manic flow, the relentless winding up, he tackles some serious issues. How about “righteousness”, for example? How serious is that? And who can lay claim to it — whose “righteousness”?
In Texas, the protagonist of this modern day, inner-city tale is George — a good name for a pudding of a bloke whose girlfriend is not answering his phone calls, and who just manages to drag himself through each excruciating day at the ad agency where he works. In this small world Eaton effortlessly creates a cast of characters, just everyday ad agency folk, among whom to spread the word. The cleaning woman, the visual artists and the boss who we first meet in the lift lobby where his irrepressible good cheer and thorough grounding in motivational upspeak are manifested in the subject of Lydia and her mop …
“Hey guess what?”
“What,” said George, making sure not to let it sound like a question.
“I think our Lydia is a hot shit human being. Hot shit. Did you see the integrity of her mop? It was almost … analytical.”
Here we have the nub of the issue for Eaton — or one of them — the corruption of language. In fact the corruption of righteousness. He is particularly adept at catching the exact cadences and malappropriations of subcultures’ dialects, down to the age and gender variations within ad speak. (So, cringe or brace yourselves, julle.)
It is within this smugly urbane context that George witnesses an impressive display of righteous anger from the angel, Madadoel, who has appeared, uninvited, in his life. After various traumatic disturbances to his daily existence caused by this unbelievable presence, he and the angel agree to work together through the ad agency. A shortlived plan. Madadoel is outraged, not to say inflamed, by the little manipulations and deceptions practised in the making of an ad. He calls George’s co-workers “Truthwhores!” and the like before employing his flaming sword.
Poor George. Despite his name, he is a very likeable fellow — a little dour and pathetic, but somehow credible. (After the mop, dare I say he has integrity?)
The supporting cast are amusing and well done, especially Miranda who is George’s real friend. She is one feisty Muslim woman who gives the angel as good as she gets — but in view of Madadoel’s rather Calibanish appearance, and embarassing behaviour, does not succumb to his magic.
And Madadoel? Read this and decide for yourself. He is not nearly as scary as he likes to make out, nor even as all-seeing and all-knowing. In the final twist to the story Madadoel departs — to George’s huge relief — and the title of the novel is finally explained. A delicious and clever spoof.
Texas is one of the 51 titles in this year’s Publishers’ Choice list. See www.exclusivebooks.com for more details