THE DAYS OF THE KING by Filip Florian
Book Quote:
“Having burnt their
lips and their peace of mind on a soup of Brussels sprouts, the four – General
Nicolae Golescu, minister of the interior and of foreign affairs under Bibescu
Voda, member of the 1848 revolutionary committee, the provisional government,
and the first Princely Lieutenancy; Lascar Catargiu, with his wolflike senses,
honed until then only in appointments as prefect and en famille; Colonel
Nicolae Haralamb, landowner, son of a court victualler from Craiova; and Ion
Ghika, bizarre Turkophile revolutionary of 1848, longtime Bey of Samos – were
now so prudent that they would have blown even on a bowl of yoghurt before
tasting it.”
It’s 1886, and the
dentist Joseph Strauss follows Karl Ludwig of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen from
Prussia to Bucharest, where the latter is crowned King Carol I of Romania.
Carol’s relationship with Joseph strays beyond the dental boundaries and they
develop a certain camaraderie, particularly when Joseph arranges for the
services of a blind prostitute to be made available (in strictest secret) to
the politically beleaguered king. It is precisely the intimate nature of the
knowledge Joseph carries which eventually leads to the king’s deliberate
distancing of himself from the dentist. However, when the three-year-old
Princess Maria dies of scarlet fever, and no further heirs seem forthcoming,
Joseph wonders whether the King ought to be informed that the blind whore now
has a son with a suspiciously aristocratic nose.
Filip Florian is a
highly regarded Romanian author, and his first novel, Little Fingers won numerous awards.
Now, how can I put
this. I have an off-hand familiarity with the Continental predilection for
convoluted language in both fiction and non-fiction. The ability to twist
thirteen sentences into one contortionist-like knot and still somehow come out
grammatically on top is often regarded as a sign of intellectual and linguistic
brilliance. It’s little wonder in that case that Florian’s work has won high
regard.
Sentences in this
novel are frequently one and a half pages long (well, on Kindle at least).
Subject is violently sundered from object, blown apart by sub-structures and
interjections to make the reader’s mind dark with confusion. Why use one
adjective when you could use twenty three, interspersed with thirteen
sub-clauses and twelve asides? There is certainly nothing wrong with the
translator’s (and I suspect Florian’s) grammar or vocabulary. After parsing the
first two sentences out, though, I found it far too wearisome to follow the
exact meaning of the text, and had to rely on intuition and guessing to
struggle on, or risk going mad.
One advantage to
these verbal acrobatics was, admittedly, the revival of several
infrequently-used adjectives. It was refreshing to see some of the recesses of
the rich English language being taken out and dusted off: I hadn’t used
“nacreous” in quite a while and as for “canicular,” never. (“Having the quality
of mother-of-pearl” and, in this application, “referring to the dog-days”
respectively, in case you were wondering.)
The off-putting
garb of tortured sentence structure which Florian of necessity wears is,
however, doubly unfortunate because there is a highly talented writer lurking
under there. Somewhere. It’s noticeable when the narrative narrows down to a
point of excitement, or when rapid action takes place. He can’t help allowing
sentences out in short breaths, and suddenly the scene springs to life. The
characters start gasping for breath, their gags and restraints momentarily loosened.
Unfortunately the action inevitably comes to an end. Then it’s time for either
narrative, or asides, or observations and descriptions – all of which would be
interesting and vivid were they cut up and served decently rather than being
thrown at one’s face like a giant custard tart. Techniques of delivering
backstory through dialogue or implication are obviously frowned on in Romania.
Much as I’d like
to, I can’t say I would recommend this book to anyone who doesn’t know the sort
of things Continental writing can get up to in its spare time. I am left
wondering whether Florian will consider aiming his writing more at an
English-speaking audience, but I’d guess that’s (sadly) unlikely. It’s a bit
much to ask a nation to change its accepted linguistic style so that we can
enjoy a few more decent translations. In the meantime poor Mr Florian might be
doomed to languish in the obscure corners of the English translation pond.
(First published in
Mostly Fiction Book Reviews, 2011)
