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BOOK REVIEW

The real emotional force of the novel is a kind of fiction within fiction, a diary kept by a woman named Zinaida during the two summers Chekhov spent with her family in their country estate. Somehow this diary has found its way into the hands of a small literary publisher, Polyana Press in London, run by an Englishman, Peter Kendall and his wife, Katya, a Russian woman raised in the Soviet era (a circumstance that is a subject of some bitterness on the part of Katya. She admits that the commissars were oppressive – but were they worse than Western banks?) The press is now bankrupt, without the consolations of producing deathless art. “I think I lost my inspiration when I came to the West,” Katya muses. In these desperate straits, the press hopes to publish the diary regardless, hoping it will help turn the publisher’s fortunes. Even more tantalizing is a hint that the diary will reveal the whereabouts of a lost Chekhov novel – a true bonanza.

Ana is chosen by Katya to translate the diary. The Summer Guest then takes the form of long excerpts from the diary, consisting of conversations between Chekhov and Zinaida. Both celebrate the smell and sounds of the country, and idyllic pastimes such as a fishing expedition on a rowboat, or a concert held at home by talented members of the hosts’ and the guests’ family.

The notes of tragedy are also heard in this Eden — one of the Chekhov brothers is an alcoholic, another is wasting away from consumption. But the most tragic personage is Zinaida herself, a doctor who is evidently suffering from a brain tumour. This affliction leaves her with constant headaches, total loss of vision and a drastically limited time in which to live. Anton admires her stoic courage, and the two have long, intimate conversations literally about life and death.

The portrayal of a great writer is a difficult feat for any novelist to pull off, but Alison Anderson succeeds. Her Chekhov is warm, engaging, possessed of a good sense of humour and a down-to-earth perspective. He is self-deprecating about his talent, but knows very well it is a gift that he possesses. He is kind and betrays no relish for tragedy as material for fiction. “I prefer to err on the side of comedy,” he proclaims.

This is the Chekhov beloved of Afrikaners as well as British and Russians alike, a Chekhov who can render a sad tale capable of moving the heart. It is a world where human malignancy — except with reference to the body — is sparingly depicted. The reader can concentrate on pure nuances of feeling, especially as conveyed by Zinaida — so limited and yet so sensitive a human medium of communication. In this respect she is faithful to her mentor, Chekhov, who admonishes her to “Never let a moment escape that hasn’t been turned over in your hands, inspected for honesty and fullness and awareness.”

The outer frames of the story, meanwhile, provide contrast and help to energize the narrative. The lost Chekhov novel also adds a degree of suspense and serves as a delicately rendered presence – Anderson is careful enough to give it proper weight in the narrative scheme of things. In the end, the house itself serves as an arena not unworthy of Chekhov, where deeply human characters come to life.

All stories begin, at some level, with a simple question: what if ? Whether it is a conscious aspect of a writer’s approach or not, the process of creativity is, at its root, a deviation from reality, from the factual: what if this happened? What if this person did this? What if things were different? In Dan Vyleta’s new novel Smoke, such a question is apparent to readers from the start: what if sin were visible? What if we couldn’t hide the darker aspects of ourselves, our lies, our avarice, our internal violence? What if, instead of hiding our inner shames, they were manifest for all to see, in the form of smoke?

“The laws of Smoke,” Vyleta writes, early in the novel, “are complex. Not every lie will trigger it. A fleeting thought of evil may pass unseen… At other times, the Smoke is conjured by transgressions so trifling, you are hardly aware of them at all.”

Vyleta creates a Victorian-era world that is at once comfortably familiar and eerily alien. The story follows Charlie and Thomas, friends who meet at boarding school. Charlie is the scion of a well-positioned family, titled and “very grand. There are pictures of Father going hunting with the Queen’s sons.” Despite his pedigree, though, Charlie is sensitive and caring – selfless in his support of his friend Thomas, who has arrived at school late in the term at age 16, previously homeschooled, coming from a family beset by rumours of violence and madness.

Through the friends’ experiences, their interactions with cruel classmates and mysterious masters, readers begin to get a sense of the world of the Smoke. The manifestation of sin has created, or cemented, a class divide (along traditional English class lines, of course). “Smoke is tolerated to the eleventh year: the Holy Book itself suggests the threshold before which grace is only achieved by saints.” After age 11, though, Smoke is the subject of stern social control and purging. The clothes of the students, for example, are subject to examination every laundry day: “Every transgression leaves behind its own type of Soot,” Vyleta writes, “and those versed in such matters can determine the severity of your crime just by studying the stain’s density and grit.” Lists of those found guilty of “Unclean Thoughts and Actions” are publicly posted, with punishments levied according to their crimes.

By the time the students graduate, they are able to join the ranks of the purified gentry, with unstained clothes and teeth, who rule the BOOK REVIEW