Fiction Chronicle by Joseph Salvatore

Fiction Chronicle by Joseph Salvatore

SOMETIMES WE’RE ALWAYS REAL SAME-SAME
By Mattox Roesch.
Unbridled, paper, $15.95.

When Roesch’s thoughtful first novel opens, Cesar Stone, a 17-year-old Los Angeles gang member whose brother is serving life for murder, is living alone with his financially struggling mother. Determined to make a better life, she moves the two of them back to her hometown — Unalakleet, Alaska, a small fishing village where much of her quirky and eccentric family still lives. (Imagine the protagonist discovering he has a relative named “Aunty Striptease.”) But the most colorful family member is Go-boy, a cousin a few years older and several inches taller than Cesar, whose “black hair stood on end, messy, like a cloud of smoke.” Largehearted and enchanted by life’s mysteries, Go endeavors to make Cesar feel at home, showing him around and getting him a job. Nevertheless, Cesar, homesick, plans his escape — until he meets Go-boy’s beautiful stepsister. But when Go’s enchanted ways darken into something more dangerous, it is Cesar who must help his cousin. Particularly in the middle stretch it feels as though Roesch, who started his career as a story writer, is still learning how to work the stick shift on a long-distance trip, lingering too long in second gear. But he deftly portrays Unalakleet, where “every yard is littered with skeletons of four-wheelers and snow machines and fishing boats,” and once he gets the hang of it, he delivers the narrative soundly to its climactic destination.

THE DEATH OF BUNNY MUNRO
By Nick Cave.
Faber & Faber, $25.

Cave’s raunchy second novel gives much away in its title. Bunny Munro, an unapologetic philanderer, lives in England with his wife and son, selling skin lotion door-to-door — a profession that grants him access to the homes and dry hands of many interested women. His commitment to having sex exceeds his commitment to his wife, Libby; and when the novel opens, his extramarital appetites have driven her to suicide, an act that leaves Bunny alone to raise their 9-year-old, Bunny Jr. Denying his role in Libby’s suicide and feeling haunted by her ghost, Bunny flees with Junior, putatively to go on the road and make some sales, a father and son road trip cum vocational tutelage; but it quickly becomes obvious that having sex with as many customers as possible (while his son waits in the car, with a nasty eye infection) is the only thing Bunny believes will drive away both Libby’s specter and that pesky guilt. What ensues is a downward spiral that won’t surprise anyone who knows Cave primarily as the songwriter and frontman for the longtime band the Bad Seeds. Cave’s project here seems to be to expose the depravity of men; but Bunny’s debased behavior never does more than merely confirm that claim, over and over again. As for the credibility-­straining Bunny Junior, in the end, he still loves his dad, and Bunny — surprise — is still depraved. While it’s true that Bunny finally sees the error of his ways, that doesn’t happen until after his death. And by then, what does it really matter, for Bunny or for anyone else?

HOME BOY
By H. M. Naqvi.
Shaye Areheart, $23.

Naqvi’s smart and sorrowful debut is at once immigrant narrative, bildungs­roman and New York City novel, with a dash of the picaresque. Immigrant stories are often appealing not only because they dramatize the longing to trade oppression for freedom and prosperity, but also because they have the perfect antagonist: America itself. Set in Manhattan just after Sept. 11, 2001, this novel follows three bright and likable college-­age Pakistani men — AC, Jimbo and Chuck. Before 9/11, they fancy themselves “boulevardiers, raconteurs, renaissance men,” delighting in the self-invention that New York permits. After 9/11, everything changes. They abandon their “Metrostani” lifestyle to watch CNN all day, feeling “anxious and low and getting cabin fever.” Finally, they decide action is called for: “There was something heroic in persisting, carrying on.” They plan a road trip to find a mysterious Gatsby­esque friend (the novel is filled with allusions to Fitzgerald), and discover the same thing Gatsby did — there are limits to self-invention in America. Naqvi is a former slam poet, and his exuberant sentences burst with the rhythms and driving power of that form while steering clear of bombast. “Home Boy” is a remarkably engaging novel that delights as it disturbs.

THE CRY OF THE SLOTH
The Mostly Tragic Story of Andrew Whittaker, Being His Collected, Final, and Absolutely Complete Writings.
By Sam Savage.
Coffee House Press, paper, $14.95.

Savage’s offbeat second novel (his 2006 debut, “Firmin,” was told from the point of view of a rat) is an epistolary collage: letters, grocery lists, classified ads, press releases, submission guidelines for a literary magazine, rough drafts of novel passages, journal entries, posted warnings from slumlords — all written by the protagonist, Andrew Whittaker, a lethargic failure in nearly everything he turns his hand to. Set over the course of four months in Rapid Falls, U.S.A., during the Nixon administration, the novel charts Whittaker’s downfall in letters that discuss the breakup of his marriage, his literary journal, the illness of his mother, his childhood neglect, threats by the bank to foreclose on his properties, threats by his tenants to withhold rent until he makes much-needed repairs, and threats by a former lover demanding that Whittaker cease sending letters. In addition, we are treated to smart sendups of a small-town art scene, à la “Waiting for Guffman.” Savage’s satire is in many places spot on and funny in a way that will make other writers squirm. Despite the lack of local support, Whittaker’s one goal is to organize a huge weeklong avant-garde literary festival, to include floats and elephants. The press release states: “We want to increase the dialogue between contemporary cutting-edge writers and the general public, to try and bring an end to the hostility and suspicion prevalent on both sides.” Unfortunately, as rich as the humor is, such satire finally does not sustain the novel. By locking us in the head of an unreliable narrator whose only real action, ultimately, is writing these letters, Savage traps the reader in a narrative Möbius strip. Just when we think we’re turning toward some greater sense of the character and the story, we find ourselves in an increasingly paranoid bit of prose that leads us back, yet again, to where we’ve already been.

Joseph Salvatore teaches writing and literature at the New School.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/08/books/review/Salvatore-t.html?nl=books&emc=booksupdateema3