While on vacation in western Ireland -- after too many years since my
last visit – I’m taking the opportunity to read some mystery novels by Irish
authors I haven’t read before. It’s been
a joy. And recording the blog “on
location” makes me think I should focus my reading list on thriller writers
from prime holiday spots, just to have an excuse to visit. Here we’re on the beautiful and rugged Burren
in County Clare, and I’ll steal some time from the blog to have a look around
with you.
But first we’ll talk about A Death
in Summer, by Benjamin Black, the pen name of famed author John
Banville. Banville won the Booker Prize
for his novel The Sea, and he is a
master of lyrical prose and sharply defined imagery. Here we’ll look at how his descriptions help
to underline the emotions and situation of his protagonist.
This is the first post in which I’ve read directly from the page, and
unfortunately the wind gusting off the sea likes to interrupt me. It’s Murphy’s Law (Murphy being an Irish
name, of course…) So I’ve included the text of Black’s scene below, so that you may read along with me and enjoy
his words for yourself.
From
Benjamin Black’s A DEATH IN SUMMER, read in LiG Episode 3:
She came forward until she was standing before him. She was not small for her age, yet the top of
her head barely reached the level of his diaphragm. He caught her child’s smell; it was like the
smell of day-old bread. Her hair was a
deep gleaming black, like her mother’s.
“Would you like to see my room?” she asked.
“Your room?”
“Yes. You said you came in to see the house, so you
should see the upstairs, too.” He tried
to think of a way of declining this invitation but could not. She was a strangely compelling
personage. She put her right hand in his
left. “Come along,” she said briskly,
“this way.”
She led him across the room and
opened the door. She had to use both
hands to turn the great brass doorknob.
In the hall she took him by the hand again and together they climbed the
stairs. Yes, that was what he felt like:
the misunderstood ogre, monstrous and lumbering but harmless at heart.
“How did you know who I was?” she
asked. “Have you seen me before?”
“No, no. But your mother told me your name and I
thought you could not be anyone else.”
“So you know maman quite well, then?”
He thought about this for a moment
before answering; somehow she compelled serious consideration. “No, not very well,” he said. “We had lunch
together.”
“Oh, did you,” she said, without
emphasis. “I suppose you met her when
Daddy died, since you’re a doctor. Did
you try to save his life?”
Her hand was dry and cool and bony,
and he thought of a fledgling fallen from the nest, but this was a fallen
fledgling that would no doubt survive.
“No,” he said, “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“What other kinds of doctor are
there?”
She was leading him now across a
broad landing spread with a Turkish rug in various shades of red from rust to
blood-bright.
“Oh, all sorts,” he said.
This answer she seemed to find
sufficient.
Her room was absurdly large, a great
square space painted white all over, with a white ceiling and a spotless white
carpet and even a white cover on the small narrow bed. It was alarmingly tidy not a toy or an
article of clothing in sight, and not a single picture on the walls. It might have been the cell of a deeply
devotional but incongruously well-to-do anchorite. It made Quirke shiver. The only splash of color was in the single
tall sash window opposite the door that gave onto Iveagh Gardens, a rectangle
of blue and gold and lavish greens suspended in the midst of all that blank
whiteness like a painting by Douanier Rousseau.
“I spend a lot of time here,” the child said. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” said Quirke, lying. “Very
much.”
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