The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Monique Roffey

First published in the UK in 2009; US edition published by Penguin on April 26, 2011

The White Woman on the Green Bicycle tells a story in four parts. The first takes place in 2006. Written in the third person, it introduces the reader to a married couple, George and Sabine Harwood, both age 75. Originally from the UK, they have lived in Trinidad for fifty years. Their maid's son, Talbot, has been beaten by the local police for complaining about an officer's theft of his cell phone. George, a feature writer for a Trinidadian newspaper, resolves to help Talbot. The three parts of the novel that follow are written in the first person from Sabine's perspective. The first begins in 1956 when George and Sabine are fresh off the boat, George having accepted a three year employment contract. Like the European architecture the colonialists have imported to the island, Sabine is "hopelessly at odds with her environment." She resolves to stick it out and soon attains fame as the white woman who rides everywhere on her green bicycle. The novel continues to tell Sabine's story in a section that begins in 1963, when Trinidad is on the verge of independence. The final section takes place in 1970, when dissatisfaction with the island's governance has produced an empowerment movement that expresses itself in violence.

Sabine is a contradictory character. She loves her husband (sometimes) and hates him (sometimes); her animosity toward him oddly increases her passion for him. Sabine is jealous of Trinidad; she fears (probably correctly) that George loves the country more than he loves her. She feels empathy for the plight of Trinidadians living in squalor but at the same time is often frightened of them. She always feels like an outsider, a feeling that is encouraged by Trinidadian resentment of white colonialism. She bonds with her black servants while encouraging them to feel oppressed. Drawn to his political charisma, Sabine begins writing letters to Eric Williams (Trinidad's first prime minister and also a character in the novel) but never mails them (except for the last one, written after her second meeting with him). She writes the letters for company, describing them as "a record of my loneliness and despair." She loves her children (one of whom she sends to boarding school in England) but we read little about them; they don't appear to be a focus of her life. In fact, her life seems to lack focus. As her husband tells her, she's full of complaints. Many of those are justified: George is unfaithful, he drinks too much, and he doesn't consult her before making life-altering decisions. Still, Sabine does little to change her life until the book's last section. She supports political empowerment of Trinidadians but fails to empower herself.

I found the gap between 1970 (when the novel ends) and 2006 (when it begins) to be frustrating; I wanted to know more about what happened in those years so I could better understand the first section. I thought the novel's first section (particularly George's efforts to help Talbot) was its best, yet the story drops Talbot as a character; we never learn what happens to him, making much of the first section seem superfluous. That section is written in a lighthearted tone; once the novel delves into the past it becomes more serious but also less interesting. I admire Monique Roffey's desire to address important questions -- racism, colonial exploitation of the island's resources and inhabitants, ongoing corruption and the failure of political reform after independence -- but we see these issues through Sabine's hazy eyes and her appreciation of them comes across as genuine but superficial.

Roffey's prose is clear but her narrative voice is not distinctive (although she occasionally produces a gem like "This was a nation of sin-loving people who made a point of praying for forgiveness"). On the other hand, her phonetic rendering of the local dialect is masterful; it brings life to the Trinidadian characters. If those characters had been at the novel's heart rather than Sabine, I would likely have enjoyed it more; it's Sabine's story but she's the least interesting character.

As I read The White Woman on the Green Bicycle, my response alternated between mild pleasure and indifference. I didn't dislike the book but I'm not sufficiently enthusiastic about it to give it a strong recommendation.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

The Burning Lake by Brent Ghelfi

Published by Poisoned Pen Press on May 3, 2011

The Burning Lake is the fourth in Brent Ghelfi's series of novels featuring Volk, a Russian colonel who dabbles in crime when he isn't doing assignments for "the General" or engaging in personal quests for revenge (which is one of his primary occupations). Revenge drives the plot of The Burning Lake, as Volk investigates the death of a journalist (and former lover) named Kato. Her body is found buried with those of some missing students near the site of a Russian nuclear weapons design facility. It quickly becomes evident that someone killed Kato to prevent a story from breaking. Volk's efforts to track down the story (and thus Kato's killer) take him to Las Vegas (where he reunites with Brock Matthews, a CIA agent who has appeared in each of the previous novels) and to Tijuana, where he meets a former intelligence officer named Stone who now runs a private security firm.

Ghelfi's first Volk novel (Volk's Game) remains my favorite, followed closely by the third (The Venona Cable). The Burning Lake is more tightly plotted than the second novel (Shadow of the Wolf) but fails to develop Volk's character as fully as the first three. In each novel, Volk is filled with internal anguish.  In the first two particularly, Volk questions the beliefs that drove his rather ugly past; in the third, he questions his father's loyalty to Russia. I was disappointed that the storyline in The Burning Lake is more conventional. We still see some of Volk's inner turmoil but the focus is almost entirely on external events rather than Volk's ongoing struggle to confront his past and change his present. Volk does find himself regretting actions that further harmed his troubled relationship with his girlfriend, Valya, but that storyline was less interesting than Volk's remorse over his role in the suppression of Chechen dissent (a primary focus of the first two novels).

Still, the engaging, action-filled story unfolds at a swift pace, the point of view rapidly shifting between Volk and Stone. There is considerably less of the violence and brutality that characterized the first two novels, but no Volk novel would be complete without a certain amount of bloodshed. This novel works well as a stand-alone; Ghelfi presents enough information about Volk's past to help the reader understand his history without slowing the pace with needless exposition. While The Burning Lake isn't my favorite Volk novel (and, in fact, is probably my least favorite), I enjoyed breezing through it. I recommend it to Volk fans and I recommend the series to thriller readers. If you want to understand what makes Volk such an intriguing character, however, it's best to start at the beginning and read them all.

RECOMMENDED

Theories of Flight by Simon Morden

Published by Orbit on April 26, 2011

Samuil Petrovich, the unlikely hero of Equations of Life, begins this novel by creating artificial gravity.  At some point between Equations of Life and Theories of Flight, Petrovich married Madeleine who, when we last saw her, was a gun-toting nun.  Madeleine apparently had a crisis of faith; she’s now a gun-toting sergeant in the militia that is guarding the Metrozone from Outzone intruders -- including, evidently, Madeleine’s own mother, who shoots Madeleine early on in the novel.  Other key players who survived Equations (including Marchenkho, Sonja, and Chain) return in this one, although in lesser roles, and a couple of interesting new characters are introduced.  The New Machine Jihad is also back, albeit in a somewhat different form.  The plot involves Petrovich’s more-or-less single-handed effort to prevent the “Outies” from invading the Metrozone.

Theories of Flight fleshes out the post-Armageddon world of Simon Morden’s creation.  The Metrozone (what’s left of London, also called the Inzone) is shrinking; its residents are in danger of losing their relatively privileged lifestyles to the uncouth Outies who seek a share of the pie, or perhaps just want to stomp on the pie (sounds like class warfare, doesn’t it?).  The Outzone is expanding, encroaching on the Inzone; the Outies have devolved during the two decades since Armageddon, losing their culture and their language skills.  Across the Atlantic, in Reconstruction America, cultural conservatism prevails:  “you can’t book even a twin room without a copy of your marriage certificate.”  (I’ve gotten used to the ever-so-sophisticated British portraying us Yanks as a bunch of hicks, and perhaps we deserve it, but the notion that Armageddon will cause Americans to forego premarital pleasure seems a bit farfetched.)  Speaking of America's demons, let’s not forget the CIA, which in Morden’s future is still playing dirty tricks on the rest of the world.

In some respects the second novel is better than the first; in others it is not as good.  I like that Morden seemed to be taking the story a bit more seriously; Theories of Flight isn’t as outlandishly tongue-in-cheek as the first novel (losing the fighting nun concept was, I think, a good move).  On the other hand, Theories seems less focused, less driven, than Equations.  There’s a lot going on in Equations (perhaps a bit too much), while an extended section of Theories feels like the literary equivalent of a movie chase scene -- or perhaps an intelligent version of the movie 300.  It isn’t boring; on the other hand, it doesn’t keep the brain buzzing like Equations did. 

A second complaint is that the AI advising Petrovich is intent on debating Petrovich’s love life with him (does he love Madeleine or doesn’t he?) -- an ongoing conversation that just doesn’t work.  A third is that Madeleine's near-fatal encounter with her mother seems like a significant plot point, but it isn't developed.  Maybe Morden will tell us the rest of the story in the next book.  Finally, while I like Petrovich’s opinionated, sarcastic, antagonistic nature, there were times when the action came to a halt so that he could deliver one of his passionate lectures.  Inspiring as they may be, a bit less of that would have helped the story maintain its momentum.

The concluding chapters wrap up the main story nicely but the short last chapter is an information dump.  The world undergoes dramatic change in this novel.  I hope the next one gives us a closer look at the messy political situation Petrovich manages to create.

If you enjoyed Equations, I think you'll like Theories, even if it lacks some of the first novel's virtues.  Theories starts well, the middle is action-filled but light on substance, and the ending carries enough promise that I'm looking forward to reading the trilogy’s conclusion.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

The Sea and the Silence by Peter Cunningham

First published in 2008; republished by GemmaMedia on February 1, 2010

The Sea and the Silence tells a bleak story of lost hope, a story that is tragic but rich with emotion. The story is set in Ireland.  Much of it takes place during World War II when (according to one of the characters) an independent Ireland was young "and time is all that is needed for it to come of age." By confronting her grief (over deaths and lost love), Ismay ("Iz") too comes of age; she must decide whether to base choices about her future on practicality or love -- only to find that some choices are out of her hands.

The Sea and the Silence begins quietly and ends dramatically. The novel is oddly structured -- at least it seems odd until the end, when it all makes sense. In a prologue, a solicitor is reading Iz's will; an epilog returns to the will and its impact on one of the characters. The bulk of the story is told in two parts, each written by Iz and delivered to the solicitor after her death. The first describes Iz's life from 1945 to 1963; the second begins in 1943 and ends in 1945. The first section is dominated by Iz's troubled marriage to Ronnie, their financial and marital problems, and her relationship with her son Hector. The second section addresses her family's financial woes, her uncertainty about whether their farmland will be taken and redistributed by the Land Commission, her strained relationship with her sister, the love she feels (to her sister's horror) for a dock worker, and the difficult choices she makes about her life (and those that are made for her) that lead her to marry Ronnie.

The novel explores a number of themes, including long-standing class prejudices and resentment of Irish landowners. Iz comes to wonder whether "the wedge driven by centuries between ... different classes could be removed by something as insubstantial as love." The story doesn't follow the classic pattern of American fiction: poor girl falls in love with rich boy, love triumphs over differences in financial status. The Sea and the Silence is more complex than that, a deeper exploration of the forces (including class, including love) that shape lives.

There are some wonderfully written, deeply moving scenes in The Sea and the Silence. The characters are created in full, carefully detailed and completely believable. The sea -- "resolute and unceasing" -- is a constant presence in the novel. Iz feels drawn to the sea yet learns to prefer the silence and anonymity of her small Dublin garden. I was lulled by Peter Cunningham's elegant prose, believing for most of the book that I was reading a quiet, uneventful story, until events in the final chapters turned it upside down and made me appreciate its structure.  This novel is the work of a skilled craftsman.

RECOMMENDED

The Sweetness of Tears by Nafisa Haji

Published by William Morrow on May 17, 2011

It may be inevitable that The Sweetness of Tears will be compared to The Kite Runner (indeed, the advertising on the back cover of my review copy invites that comparison) but the two novels have little in common. While The Kite Runner is a plot-driven novel that has strong characters, The Sweetness of Tears is a character-driven novel that is structured as a series of interwoven life-stories. They are, for the most part, stories of sacrifice and broken families, interesting and sometimes touching but not quite compelling.

Raised as an evangelical Christian, Jo March has little use for Darwin, but her study of Mendel opens her eyes -- the brown eyes she could not have inherited from her blue-eyed parents. Two years later she meets her biological father: Sadiq Mubarak. Point of view shifts to Mubarak as he recalls his childhood in Karachi, where his mother taught him that tears are sweet when they are born of love and shed for others, but "bitter when we cry selfishly for ourselves," when sorrow turns to anger. While still young, Sadiq is taken from his mother and learns to live a privileged life with his wealthy grandfather -- a spoiled existence that leads to trouble and, at the age of fifteen, exile to America. The story shifts again and again: from his mother's point of view, we again see Sadiq being taken from his mother; from the point of view of Jo's mother Angela, we learn the unhappy circumstances that followed Jo's conception. Other storylines take us to Guantanamo after 9/11 (where Jo is an interpreter) and to Iraq, where Jo makes a pilgrimage after her brother returns home, damaged by his American military service there.

The Sweetness of Tears tries to be a tear-jerker. At least to me, the story seemed too contrived to work on an emotional level. The 9/11 connection is forced; it could have made a fine story in its own right but Nafisa Haji doesn't make it feel real, and it's ultimately overshadowed by tragedies that befall other characters. Jo's visit to Iraq, and what she hoped to accomplish there, seemed particularly artificial. The most effective story is that of Sadiq's separation from his mother. Although Jo is more central to the novel, her experiences didn't resonate with me. Finally, all the storylines tie together a little too neatly at the end.

While the novel is reasonably well-written, Haji is addicted to sentence fragments. Some readers might appreciate the resulting "punchy" style; I found if a little annoying. Moreover, the characters all speak in the same voice and their dialog, too, is heavily laden with sentence fragments.

On a positive note, Haji uses her characters to illustrate worthwhile concepts: the contrast between open-minded faith and closed-minded belief; the need to confess ignorance of other cultures in order to learn from them; the difficulties of women whose rights are suppressed by men wielding religious law. At times, Haji becomes a bit preachy, resorting to lectures via dialog that don't necessarily advance the story. Haji nonetheless teaches useful lessons, particularly about the need to bridge differences: between cultures, between religious beliefs (Sunni and Shia, Christian and Muslim), between rich and poor, between genders.

The Sweetness of Tears is a flawed novel, but it's a quick read and it has something to say, and at the end I liked it despite its flaws. I guardedly recommend it for those reasons.

RECOMMENDED