The Last Hundred Days, or Bad Places in Modern Times

I accidentally began a literary tour of countries undergoing--um, let's call them "growing pains"--in the modern era. For my purpose, I'm considering modern times to mean, roughly, my lifetime. It all started with the excellent The Cellist of Sarajevo which reminded me that I'd been distant witness to the Serbian nightmare in the early 90s while also pointing out how little I knew about the conflict. Then I moved on to Lisa See's book Dreams of Joy which gave me more insight than I'd needed into China's Great Leap Forward. (okay, I'm pushing the boundary definitions of "my lifetime" with that one).

Fiction is a powerful and usually pleasant way to learn about world hot spots, and generally the protagonist is just as much an outsider as the armchair voyager. But occasionally, non-fiction can be just as entertaining a way to learn about the world, as I discovered with Douglas Rogers' excellent memoir, The Last Resort. A Memoir of Mischief and Mayhem on a Family Farm in Africa. Rogers is the son of white farmers in Zimbabwe and while he emigrates to England and then NYC, his parents try to tough it out during Mugabe's land reforms (which mostly involve re-allocating white-owned farmland to black ownership--farmer or not). This memoir manages to be funny while still leaving me figuratively shaking my head alongside Rogers about how an African country that seemed to more or less have its act together could fall into such chaos in such a relatively short period (and yes, I know this is a one-sided view, but it is a memoir, after all).

Next stop on my tour came Romania, in the form of Patrick McGuinness' The Last Hundred Days. This is a novel about the waning days of Ceausescu's iron-fisted reign (side note: I learned to pronounce the dictator's name by watching Seinfeld) and is narrated by a lost soul young British man who finds himself posted to a university there without ever having applied for the position. His job really isn't the focus of the book--in fact, he immediately falls in with characters more interesting then himself and we never even learn our protagonist's name as he ricochet Zelig-like from one historical Romanian event to another. He becomes involved with a well-meaning British black market dealer, the daughter of a high-ranking political figure, some possibly idealistic and possibly self-serving person smugglers, and a sly old-school communist who despises what has become of his country. These friendships are not contradictory at all to the odd experience of living in a communist country so oppressive that escaping to Hungary was seen as a step up.

The Bucharest described here is one in which the past is being torn down literally overnight and replaced with cheap, modern (and very Eastern-bloc) style housing. Bucharest's modern parks were flat, planted with dwarfish shrubs and benches arranged to give the sitter maximum exposure and maximum discomfort. You never stayed long anywhere, harried on all sides by an invisible watchfulness. This is a country in which everyone is watching everyone else, with no privacy, and being caught at something, anything could result in a slow and unpleasant death, so people are naturally wary and rather worn down. At one point, a character looks around the room to determine who is the most likely government plant, but once he realizes that it is he, he's able to relax a bit. When things really hit the fan and uprisings begin, there comes a point when the army, the police, and the Securitate (secret police) are so busy watching each other during a "minutely planned display of spontaneous celebration" that no one has time to realize that the workers are out to get their dear leader, rather than to celebrate him.

This book isn't necessarily fun--there's no way to romp through such an oppressed country full of secret torture chambers and starving general masses--but The Last Hundred Days paints a pretty complete picture of life in the not-so-distant past, before the fall of the Berlin Wall. It is a reminder of the conflict between the idealism of communism and the reality of life under it, a reminder that there are always those who profit when all are supposed to be equal. In the end, there are those drawn to hot spots, and not just in literary form.

Next stop? North Korea. There's a new book out called The Orphan Master's Son and it seems just the place to visit after Ceausescu's fall.

someday this pain will be useful to you

Peter Cameron's excellent modern version of The Catcher in the Rye, called someday this pain will be useful to you, is one of those cross-over books that everyone keeps chasing (Twilight, Hunger Games...). I assume the lower case letters of the title are both to appeal to The Youth and also indicative of how the protagonist James Sveck, feels about himself. The title comes from the motto of a camp where James once spent a couple of ill-advised weeks. Riveted myself, I kept trying to picture the high school student who would enjoy this story of a hyper-verbally precocious 18 year old, trying to sort his way in the world.

James Sveck's life is not one of deprivation--his divorced parents obviously both have plenty of money, even for NYC living--but the angst is real. There is nothing particularly unusual that has led James to his indecision about looming college and future life, and I was grateful that Cameron did not tie all of his protagonist's problems to 9/11, in spite of the location and age of the character. We are led to believe that the event has marked James, given that his school faced the destruction, but even he refuses to be defined by it and is irritated that everyone feels they own the event, the location, or even the date. He's particularly resistant when his therapist tries to draw him out:

"Well," she said, "how would you like to refer to September 11?"

"I'd prefer not to refer to it."

"Why is that?"

"It seems unfair that I have to explain why I don't want to refer to something you brought up that I have just said I don't want to refer to."

This verbal jousting is par for the course for James, throughout the book, whether with his father, who thinks he isn't manly to have ordered salad for lunch; with his older sister who has decided to change the pronunciation of her name because her family's pronunciation of it is "a subtle and insidious form of child abuse."; or with his mother, just back from a failed attempt at a new marriage in the city she hates most in the world: Las Vegas. She had claimed it would be "fun," but as James observes,

Whenever my mother said anything was, or would be, "fun" you could take it as a warning that said thing was not nor would be at all fun, and when I remind my mother of this--I use the example of her telling me that the sailing camp she had forced me to attend the summer I was twelve would be "fun"--she admitted that sailing camp had not been fun for me but that was no reason why a honeymoon in Las Vegas would not be fun for her. Such is the ability adults--well, my mother, at least--have to deceive themselves.

And yet, his mother returns to New York, early and unmarried.

James' best sparring partner is his beloved grandmother who encourages and advises him in life and love, although not in an annoying or cloying way, but simply by accepting his rather old-fashioned ideas of the good life. For example, James wants to buy an arts and crafts style house in the middle of the country somewhere. Obviously, this sets him off from his peers (who are non-existent in this summer-before-college setting), nor does it particularly bring him closer to his unrequited crush on the man who runs his mother's art gallery. This crush and James' attempt to connect with another human being whom he thinks means the world to him, leads to sad and painful grown-up lessons. Still, this is a YA novel, not a study in existentialism. James will survive intact and grow stronger. As his grandmother puts it: "Having bad experiences sometimes helps; it makes it clearer what it is you should be doing...the difficult thing is to not be overwhelmed by the bad patches. You mustn't let them defeat you, You must see them as a gift--a cruel gift, but a gift nonetheless."

This book is much funnier than The Catcher in the Rye ever tried to be, and therefore perhaps better-suited to our times. James Sveck is likable and not prone to sarcasm or heavy-handed irony. He'd simply like everyone to speak correctly, say what they mean, and let him buy a house in Ohio if that's what he decides he wants.

Still Alice

Imagine that you have the kind of intelligence it takes not just to attend Harvard University, but to teach there as a tenured professor. Imagine now that yours is not just any field, but linguistics, the minutia of how language works. Oh, and you're also really, really good at it. This is the case for Alice Howland in Lisa Genova's novel, Still Alice. Alice is turning 50, she's at the top of her game--so much so that her marriage and the troubles and successes of her grown children are less important to her than her ability to shine at a conference. That's not to say that family is not important to Alice, it's just that she thrives on the intellect of her career.

Now, imagine your life beginning to blur around the edges just a bit. You forget the meaning of some of the cryptic notes on your to do list; you lose a word or two during a lecture. No problem, though. You're tired, over-stressed, jet-lagged, worried about your actress daughter with no college education. Alice barely registers these blips, and then eventually, almost casually, blames menopause, quietly mourning her youth. But one day, she goes for a run and gets lost just a few blocks from home, in Harvard Square no less, a place she knows as intimately as her front steps.

The diagnosis is grim:early on-set Alzheimers. Terrible for anyone, incomprehensible for someone like Alice who has always lived inside a brilliant, inquisitive mind. Alice is so freaked, she's almost in denial, which is understandable, but she also doesn't share the news with her family, not even her husband. There's a weird moment at a cocktail party during which I thought her husband had already guessed, but that turned out to be a red herring. Alice's choices and behavior are sometimes hard to fathom, but most of her reactions are believable. It's hard to imagine how one would or should react to learning such a diagnosis. Who am I to question Alice's reactions. Occasionally, I wondered if Lisa Genova meant to portray an unreliable narrator--after all, Alice does have Alzheimer's disease, and that does add an interesting discussion point. Still, when I read the "guide for book groups" at the end of this book (always a little amusing). was left wondering if some of the questions are so open-ended because the author herself left too many fuzzy questions for the good of the book. I do like that there's no pat ending because, how could there be?

When I cracked open this book--in a mad rush to read it for a book group--I immediately bogged down in despair. How would I get through a book about a woman descending into dementia? There was no positive outcome possible. Still, I read on, and am so glad I did. It was like my resistance to watching the James Cameron movie, Titanic. I knew the end and it wasn't good, so why would I want to watch the movie? But stories like these are all about the characters. There is also, I suppose, a certain amount of voyeurism, or even a "there-by-the-grace-of-God..." mentality. Lisa Genova's book was moving and affirming in the power of the mind and the power of family and love. Like Titanic, there is an inevitable end, but it's the journey there, and the details of the stories of those left behind that make it worth a read.