FEC Weekday Morning

.

Greetings in the lobby mail room.

"Good morning, all," brightly chirped.

Chorus of:

"G'morning."

"Hi there."

"Wassup pussycat?"

"Hey."

"Dahling, how've you been?"

"Mornin' to you too!"

Oh good. There's Mr. Control Freak I mean Head of the Inmates' Committee. Opportunity for small talk. Ask a socially-acceptable seasonal question:

"Any date set yet for turning on the A/C?"

"Nothing to do with me! The city sets the date and it never deviates! About two weeks from now! We have no control over it here! Don't go phoning them, you'll just get us all in trouble! Not everyone appreciates it, you know!"

Bark, bark.

Firmly put in my place. Woof! Truly, I plan to have some adult conversations. Soon.

A morning in the feckless life.

Library Limelights 28

David Baldacci. Hell's Corner. New York: Grand Cemtral Publishing/Hachette Book Group, 2010.

Too many Baldacci books—or any popular author with a series, for that matter—in fairly rapid succession inevitably meets a sticking point; usually it's because the author had a bad day (year?) and the novel is not up to scratch. So you've guessed it. Hell's Corner, currently the last and perhaps final Camel Club book, ultimately failed me.

The very complicated plot is packed with Baldacci's mix of fast-developing action and intriguing characters. Is the case in point a terrorist attack or drug cartel revenge? I enjoyed every minute until the climax unrolled. And kept unrolling. Then my suspension of disbelief (not convinced I was suspending anything, so credibility is a better word) crashed and burned. Up till then it was all I expected of the prolific author. Oliver Stone was about to redeem himself in the self-serving eyes of the multiple clandestine agencies that more or less reluctantly demanded his services. His Camel Club friends troop valiantly behind him, although out-numbered by spies and double agents, finding ways around the roadblocks on every avenue.

Avoiding a spoiler alert I think it's OK to say I also suffered from automatic machine gun fatigue. Baldacci has developed other series with similar heroes of an ex-military or highly trained investigator nature. The man has a fertile brain for plots. I just don't want to think he's playing to Hollywood.

Mons Kallentoft. Summertime Death. London, Hodder & Stoughton, 2012. (Originally published in Sweden as Sommardöden in 2008.)

Ahhhh. Back to the Scandinavians, a new one for me. Just for fun, I'm showing the original book cover. This is the second in a series that features police inspector Malin Fors. Since I like to be chronological when series characters are involved, I lined up to borrow his first novel of the series, Pesetas. Imagine the consternation when it arrived after half a year of waiting, in Swedish—the sole copy in TPL's system; imagine one librarian and I pondering this information oversight on their website. Plus, Toronto is immensely multicultural, but I didn't know there were that many Swedes!

Summertime Death takes place during a scorching heat wave in a provincial town also experiencing forest fires. I needed adjusting to insertions of the characters' digressive thoughts; initially they felt stilted. Tracking a potential serial killer turns up multiple suspects but no evidence. Kallentoft wins an A+ for plot (largely based on how little I can solve myself before the climax) and the overtones of discrimination at all levels. Inspector Fors is one of those intuitive detectives we all admire because she/they have empathetic insight beyond prescribed procedures. In addition, we are privy to Malin's family life, a tactic not uncommon in detective novels to help the reader "bond." Repetitive images of burning and volcanic lava, among other things, reinforce a creeping evil in the enervating atmosphere, somewhat overdone to my mind.

No problem with Kallentoft's adept adoption of the female voice, so did I have a problem? Yes. The dead victims speak. And keep coming into the narrative to speak. The device has been used successfully by others but here I found their voices unnatural, awkward, forced. I'm on the fence whether to try another in the series. Not all Scandinavian authors are created "equal"—a statement heavily dependent on personal tastes and preferences―and mine crave Nesbo, Nesbo, Nesbo.

Victim speaks:

We're drifting somewhere below the ceiling of the arrivals hall, watching you and thinking that maybe it would be better if you were concentrating on us, on what has happened, instead of concentrating on your own nearest and dearest. 

At least that's what we'd like. 

Worrying about your own concerns doesn't disappear where we are. But it's different, it encompasses more, it's as if it encompasses everything that is or has been or will be. 

Worrying about your own concerns becomes consideration for everyone. ... We are all girls and all who have been girls. But we're boys as well. 

Does that sound odd? 

I can understand that, Malin. It's all very strange, actually. 

Where should you start? 

Start with your nearest and dearest. 

But who wouldn't choose love, if the choice were between it and violence? (340)

FEC Hall Walking

Dear Blanche was wandering the FEC* halls again the other night. It's not like she does hall-walking the way Trevor does. Trevor is 90 going on 91 and can still do a credible soft-shoe routine, probably because he obsessively walks the halls and climbs all the stairs. Not just walking, you understand. This is a brisk pace self-designed to get his heart up to cardio snuff and keep it there for another birthday. We love Trevor because he is cheerful and whistles and does Fred Astaire impersonations. Not three days ago I saw him practising a little buck-and-wing on his way to the post office.

Hall-walking, you see, is similar to mall-walking, albeit without the mall. 

Similar? Without the forced seniors' socializing; without blaring storefronts; without the eye-rolling of jostling crowds; without closing hours. 

FEC halls are just the thing amidst urban density for a bit of personal exercise. Lest you think of bleak, barren, cold expanses, FEC halls have visual pleasures as well. After all, entertainers are us. One might slow the pace to savour some vintage posters, personal art work, eye-catching doors, and the odd anarchist statement. Photos of grandchildren and 3-D butterflies are popular. Of course it's not quite as entertaining as it was before the fearsome contretemps with the Fire Department that put a stop to many hallway decorating practices―a story worth another day. 

Where was I? Well, dear unfortunate Blanche. Her hall-walking is of a different nature. She is not yet at the stage where next of kin have to be called in for an emergency removal. We know that, because Blanche is nothing like a hall-walking predecessor, the fragrant Lydia who once lived on the seventh floor. In those days it was not unusual to find Lydia in the depths of night on say the fourth floor or perhaps the lobby, wildly brandishing a wine bottle. Talking urgently, incoherently, to a poster on the wall. Or to the elevator buttons. Memorably minus her clothing. Luckily for us there were children slash relatives so the Inmates Committee did not have to intervene. 

  
Where was I again? Yes, dear Blanche. A sweet soul, a little hard of hearing, quietly making her way along the winding corridors, merely seeking her wayward cat. Must be the third time this week she lost him. 

We do have cats here. In my opinion it's nice to see they outnumber the dogs. The third floor—and possibly elsewhere not on my routine travels—holds a regular Cat Social Hour when several suite doors are opened and the feline occupants are free to mingle with their neighbours. Occasionally one of them decides screw this, let's head for the great outdoors. Or at least terrorize as many potted plants as we can along the way. So that requires a Cat Alert on the FEC intercom. Blanche being quite shy is not the type of person to make intercom requests.

Thing is, Blanche has not had a cat for the last three years.

Another feckless day in the life.

* Fading Entertainers' Centre (just say FEC)

Library Limelights 27

David Baldacci. Divine Justice. New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2008.

I am catching up with Washington DC's Camel Club. Oliver Stone is in even more trouble than he was in Stone Cold. Hunted by every federal law enforcement agency, his comfy hideaway occupation as a cemetery caretaker ends. Into Virginia's off-track mining country our Viet Nam hero goes on the run. To find himself in yet another precarious danger zone. The plot steadily boils. As usual, Baldacci's narrative switching works very well to increase the suspense. The Camel Club―Annabelle, Reuben, and Caleb, with some surprising additions―to the rescue!

Militaristic interrogation techniques are brutal but thankfully brief; not to imply this is simply macho-only reading. Oliver's life is overlaid with layers of lies and coverups and none of the authorities want to hear the truth. Despite non-stop action and story developments, the author weaves social comment into the story more successfully than, say, Grisham's rather abrupt insertions. The next adventure is already on order.

A tired cop:

"Prescription drug abuse is rampant around here. I spend a lot of my time with that crap. Black stain on what is otherwise a nice place to live. But you can't lock everybody up who's addicted. Hell, there wouldn't be any miners left to work. You try to rehab them, get their methadone pop every day, but it's not enough. Every cop up and down the Appalachian mining country knows we're fighting a losing battle. But we don't have enough resources. We're overwhelmed." (198)

A tired investigator:

Knox clicked off and dropped the phone on the bed. Now he felt worse than he did before he'd called. He knew he'd frightened his daughter and there was nothing he could do about it now. Maybe he wanted to scare her. Or at least prepare her for when he didn't come back home, or even for when she might have to come and ID his body.
He looked around the dismal interior of his room. How many crappy hole-in-the-walls, how many effed-up towns, how many shitty countries had he spent the majority of his life in? The answer was clear: way too many.
He lay back on the bed feeling lonelier than he ever had. (191)

 Scott Turow. Limitations. New York: Picador/Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006.

A choice little (197 pp) novella on a point of law and how it affects the judge (and his staff) in a case before the appeals court. George Mason is a repeat persona from one of Turow's many fine mystery dramas set in Kindle County, USA. Judge Mason also has a personal problem that delays his courtroom decision. Genealogists will appreciate the legal distinctions being made. Defined by their thoughts, words, and gestures, without excess verbiage, the characters are compelling. A quick read, but with all the flair and smooth style we expect of Turow.

Julia Keller. A Killing in the Hills. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2012.

This book, a first novel, was recommended somewhere in a review; it certainly raised mixed feelings. Talk about a segue from Divine Justice above ... West Virginia's mining country is portrayed as a hell-hole despite Keller's forced moments of soothing mountain scenery. Returning to her home town to become prosecuting attorney, Bell Elkins fights poverty and addiction in the surrounding communities when faced with some senseless killings. Or so they seem. We know the killer―a truly disgusting piece of trash―almost from the beginning, but we don't know who hired him. Bell tightly represses her own horrific past, alluded to repeatedly.

I did not find any of the characters particularly engaging, probably because we are told the same thing so many times about Bell's relationships. I stumbled on the repetitive, tiresome depiction of a sullen teenager. In creating a family unable to articulate, the author makes the reader privy to the individuals' thoughts in strained prose. Despite also reaching too hard for similes ("sweat-moussed hair"), there are well-written passages of social comment.

Good:

Driving back to the courthouse, she'd had to weave her exasperated way around the slow-moving, antenna-topped, wide-bodied white news vans from TV stations in Charleston and Huntingdon and Pittsburgh. The vans were cruising around the small downtown, just as they'd probably cruised through some other tragedy-stunned downtown the day before, drawn inexorably to the world's open wounds. Camera crews and reporters were eagerly prowling the smattering of streets in Acker's Gap, hunting for scared people to interview. (21-22)

Bad:

It was weird. She hated her mom but she loved her, too, and it was like the two emotions were locked in a kind of primitive combat in her heart, fatally bound up with each other, equally matched throughout eternity, like characters in a video game who fall off cliffs together in a single snarling unit because neither one will let go. Neither one could win outright, either. One couldn't get over the edge without the other. So on it went. (215)

Wordless Wednesday: Spring has Sprung

Camel Adventures: Hammamet, Tunisia 2012

The next in a series that has become chronological. Most posts have been published in my CAMELOGUE, available for a pittance at ShopMyBook.com.

In a beautiful Mediterranean resort near the UNESCO World Site (I had to add that, but it has nothing to do with this post :) of the Hammamet medina, I kept missing them. Kept missing the camels. On the beach. A beach that more than rivals any Caribbean destination. To me and my travel buddy, the ancient town medina was the big focal point in this location. Nevertheless, I was highly aware of our “free” time and the possibilities of camels. Arranging a ride through hotel services was discouraged by our trusty local guide who came through brilliantly ... later on.

The first free day was my time to slow the tempo and chill out. Travel buddy returned to our room as darkness fell with the news that she’d just had an experience that by rights was mine ... her words. Picture this. Strolling on the beach and waiting for an optimal photographic shot of the sunset, what to her wondering eyes should appear but the likes of a desert sheik or prince astride his camel. He beckoned. She went. Insisted she sit on the camel so he could photograph her. Felipe might have been his name. Have a ride, no charge. She urged come back for my friend tomorrow. All this, while I lay oblivious under a distant nook of palms.

Fellow travellers chattered about camels being on the beach every day. When? ... Right after lunch, they said. Or just before sunset. Or all the time. In between daily group or personal plans, my beach scouting uncovered nothing but unbelievably thick, soft sand. Not an animal in sight, no sign of the prince. Unseen forces were obviously working against me—the only committed camelophile in our little group.

 http://www.discover-interesting-places.com/dar-sebastian-hammamet-tunisia.html

Then! Our last day in this rather idyllic atmosphere we went our own way to visit a somewhat un-promoted but splendid 1920s seaside villa of classic minimalist design—close to architectural perfection, a comment attributed to Frank Lloyd Wright. Well, yes; what a gem of a find. Built by a wealthy Romanian who migrated to Tunisia, he is credited with putting Hammamet on the map for the rich and famous in the post-First World War period ... many European artistic worthies visited like Cocteau, Gide, Klee, Sitwell, and so on. What jolly times the guests must have had in the Roman-inspired communal bath! One also boggles at the juxtaposition of Rommel, having commandeered the villa for his Tunisian campaign headquarters, and Churchill (later, obviously) spending time here to write his memoirs.

But I digress. From the height of the villa overlooking the sea, our plan was to walk back to the hotel along the beach. The plan fell a bit short in our finding actual access to the beach because the villa is securely fenced. Some walking time in the town outskirts was involved and some discussion of whether a coffee in yet another sidewalk café full of vaguely disapproving men would reduce the creeping hunger pangs. However, a passing man on a bicycle genially led us to the public access path. His assistance entailed another discussion dillying over appropriate baksheesh and who had the appropriate coins. But finally, there was the beach and the distant prospect of our hotel. Quite distant, actually!

I return to Then! A camel and his handler popped up before us on the shoreline. As I was about to embrace this opportunity, travel buddy said No, Wait! And there came another. Her very prince leading his camel. She and he fell into excited dialogue like old friends (90% incomprehensible on both sides). Among the three of us and one camel, we negotiated a fair price for “voilà hotel ... montez ... d’accord ...” while the first man glowered.

My first camel ride on a beach was just as perfect as you can imagine (if you ever imagine any kind of camel ride :) in bare feet, the sea lapping quietly, and the air in that part of the world giving a clearer/cleaner hue to the world. To my immense satisfaction, it took a long time to reach our hotel front. The downside was travel buddy behind staggering along the entire way—unwilling to take the other guy’s camel—through the aforesaid incredibly thick, soft sand. That’s a kind of brand loyalty. And friendship. Her camera always ready, I treasure her photos. 

© 2013 Brenda Dougall Merriman             

Library Limelights 26

Worst case scenario: library notification for FIVE books all here at the same time. Trying to calculate the wait times and stagger the reading list arrivals is a lottery.

Linda Svendsen. Sussex Drive, a novel. Toronto: Random House Canada, 2012.

What a romp through the political streets and byways of twenty-first century Ottawa! Heady pleasure, something like eating your decadent way through a box of expensive chocolates or a gateau caramel. Svendsen has nailed recent (real) government hotspots in a story to satisfy mild mystery-lovers as well as anyone feeling humour-bereft these days. But ... you have to be a Canadian in touch with reality to appreciate the references! Behind the scenes at Rideau Hall and 24 Sussex Drive, Svendsen skewers the hapless co-habitants with devilish wit. And clearly did her research to gain insider knowledge.

Greg Leggat is the Conservative Prime Minister. Lise Lavoie is the black, foreign-born Governor General. Sound familiar already? Their backgrounds and personalities might make you think you are consuming non-stop backroom gossip. The PM composes a gospel rock opera in his spare time. The GG worries constantly about her half-Cree son. Their spouses manipulate. Minority governments, elections, coalitions, prorogation, speeches from the throne, staff security, Afghanistan (I almost said Afghanada :) and so on, all threaded into a tale you can't stop reading. More fun than four cats in a bathtub. If you live here, get it!

The PM:

He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. He kept interlacing his finger different ways, the way he did when he was awkwardly posed in an Asian preschool or gurdwara kindergarten. He looked uncomfortable, as if he were talking to the news anchor he most despised. Then he was faux friendly to her, a warning. "I sat down with our oldest child tonight. Asked if she'd like to perform in Temptations at the 2010 Beijing Olympics."
Adrenalin shot up Becky's stem and her arms were flooded. "And?"
"She fricking lost it."
"How so?"
"Said she didn't deserve to participate in a gospel rock opera." Greg stopped there. (128)

The GG:

Back in Margaret Lee's office, the windows were shuttered and one sole halogen light illuminated her desk, occupied only by a Mac laptop and a nineties phone. A whiteboard exposing Lise's present and future dominated the wall. "I may have located a constitutional advisor," Margaret Lee said. "You don't know him."
"That dog won't hunt," Lise said. "I want one I know."
"They're all in the Caribbean."
"Right, said Lise. "And last September they were all in Muskoka."
"They get around," said Margaret Lee. (244)

Michael Koryta. The Prophet. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2012.

The mystery entails a few shaky premises, un-pursued clues, some quantum leaps in logic, and rather boring characters. Otherwise it's thick with fraternal guilt and detailed descriptions of football games―for me, an endurance test. Absolutely everyone involved has an immediate family member in jail or prison. Around page 200 the long-anticipated tension heats up a little. Are two murders, years apart, connected? Is there a good brother and a bad brother? Will the local college team win the championship? Sorry, jaw-cracking yawns here; only pride made me finish the game book.

One shaky premise (a 17-year-old lives under a rock today's world?):

"He explained where he was living," she said. "I feel like I should have been able to find it myself, honestly. I tried on the Internet but I guess I don't know what I'm doing. Anyhow, I'd love it if you'd find the address. All I want to do is respond, right? To let him know that he doesn't need to be afraid of me. I'm not going to ask him to start being a dad." (13-14)

The football coach:

Kent could see the son of a bitch so clearly, the gap-toothed smile. I forgive you, Kent had told him. I want you to understand what you have taken from me, and so many others, but before we begin with that, I need you to understand that I forgive you, and I would also like to say a prayer. (189-190)