Tag Archives: Let Us Be True

Books of the Year 2017: Part Four

Cover imageFor anyone wondering if these posts are ever going to end, we’re nearly there. Patrick McGrath’s The Wardrobe Mistress was the highlight of September’s reading for me. Set against the background of East End fascism in 1947, still bubbling away despite the suppression of the Blackshirts, McGrath’s novel explores the anguish of grief through Joan, widow of the late lamented Charlie Grice, star of the West End. McGrath is a master storyteller, unfolding his tale of grief and madness against the vividly evoked background of a frozen London struggling with the continuing depredations of post-war austerity.

October saw novels from two of my favourite writers, the first by Jane Harris eight years after the wonderful Gillespie and I. Based loosely on true events, Sugar Money tells the story of an attempt to bring a group of slaves back from Grenada to Martinique in 1765, restoring them from British to French hands. The star of the show is the novel’s twelve-year-old narrator, Lucien, a bumptious sardonic smart Alec in counterpoint to his quietly resourceful brother charged with what he knows is a foolish and dangerous task. A rattling good yarn which manages to entertain while never losing sight of its subject’s horrors.

Alice McDermott’s The Ninth Hour couldn’t be more different. McDermott is one of those quietlyCover image brilliant authors whose work often seems underrated to me. Set in early twentieth-century Brooklyn, her new novel is the story of Annie, rescued from poverty by the Little Nursing Sisters of the Sick Poor when her husband commits suicide leaving her pregnant and bereft. It bears all the hallmarks I’ve come to expect from a McDermott novel: understated yet lyrical writing; empathy in spades; astutely drawn characters, all gathered together to form a quietly glorious whole infused with gentle humour. A treat to savour.

My third October choice is Alex Christofi’s Let Us Be True. I was a little lukewarm about this book when it arrived but it turned out to be absorbing, insightful and beautifully written. Largely set in Paris during the middle of the twentieth century, it’s the story of Ralf who becomes smitten with Elsa and remains so for decades after their brief affair ends. With a light touch, Christofi explores the way political events can shape ordinary lives through the framework of Ralf and Elsa’s relationship, a vivid backdrop to their stories told from each of their perspectives. A smart, thought-provoking novel which ends, I’m pleased to say, on a hopeful; note.

Cover imageNovember’s star was also a surprise. The Invisible Life of Euridice Gusmao spans twenty or so years in a Brazilian housewife’s life, beginning in the 1940s. Euridice is a clever girl who excels at everything. Her older sister Guida is the worldly one, beautiful and flirtatious. Left with parents who pin all their hopes on her when Guida disappears, Euridice marries a respectable banker who fails to understand her brilliance. One day, out of the blue, Guida knocks on Euridice’s door. Euridice’s story is expertly told, liberally laced with a smart, playful humour sharp enough to flag the serious side of this salutary tale about the dangers of becoming a good girl. An absolute treat which rounds 2017’s favourite reads off nicely.

And if I had to choose? Usually it’s a struggle but this year there’s no contest: Jon McGregor’s beautiful Reservoir 13,  a gorgeous book that will stay with me for some time.

If you’d like to catch up with the previous three 2017 books of the year posts they’re here, here, and here. A click on any of the titles above will take you to my review. Time to look forward to what’s on offer in January next…

Let Us Be True by Alex Christofi: A story about love

Cover imageAlex Christofi’s Let Us Be True is one of those books I’m delighted was sent my way. I’m not sure I would have happened upon it otherwise but it turned out to be absorbing, insightful and beautifully written. Largely set in Paris during the middle of the twentieth century, it’s the story of Ralf who becomes smitten with Elsa and remains so for decades after their brief affair ends.

In 1958, Ralf spends his evenings drinking at Jacques’ bar and shooting the political breeze with his Algerian friend Fouad. He and his mother fled Germany for London in 1933 after the death of Ralf’s Jewish geneticist father. His mother still lives in London but Ralf left to study in Paris, distracted by easy ways to make money tutoring language students. One evening, rifling through an apparently abandoned handbag, trying to find details of its owner, he’s punched in the face by a woman. This seemingly unpromising meeting marks the start of Ralf and Elsa’s affair in which she apparently blows hot and cold, rarely telling him anything about herself until Ralf decides to find out who she is. What he discovers is hardly a surprise but it’s far from the entire story. When Elsa leaves Paris, Ralf stays, occasionally involving himself in the Algerians’ protests against French oppression alongside Fouad and later becoming caught up in the student protests of ’68 before moving back to London. Ralf’s is a life lived alone, continually buffeted by the events that marked both the century and the countries in which he lives, adopted or otherwise.

Christofi explores the way political events can shape ordinary lives through the framework of Ralf and Elsa’s love affair: both are Germans who survived the war which ripped apart their childhoods; Fouad fought for the French but finds himself without rights as an Algerian; Ralf’s dulling of his pain leads him into the student protest against French political stalemate in 1968. All this is done with a light touch, a vivid background to Ralf and Elsa’s stories, told from both perspectives before and after they knew each other. The striking opening sentence sets the tone for the rest of the novel which is pleasingly uncluttered, letting its characters and their histories speak for themselves. It’s an engrossing, thoughtful novel with important things to say exemplified by Ralf’s reflections on his solitary life after the death of his mother: ‘How easily one might neglect those one loved by chasing the big story, the big lie that history was a matter of ideals and not compassion’. It ends, I’m pleased to say, on a hopeful note.