American allegory
In young American Jesse Ball’s latest — and strange — novel, a widower surgeon discovers he has not long to live. He signs up as a census-taker and, together with his Down syndrome son, embarks on one last journey — into America’s Rust Belt. It could, in actual fact, be any time and any place. The setting seems contemporary but there is nothing specific to indicate the period. Likewise, the towns through which the pair pass are only referred to from A to
Z, and only identified through their industry — farming, rope-making or chemical manufacture.
Some are surviving, some are ghost towns. Some of the townspeople greet the pair fondly, others coldly. There is fear and loathing to be found in attitudes towards the pair, particularly the son. But the census-taker leaves his tattooed mark, too.
There is a surreal feel to each encounter; the vignettes have the quality of mystical folk stories. As the duo travel further into the physical and allegorical “heart of darkness”, the narrator recalls his dead wife (a clown, nonetheless!) and muses on issues both philosophical and existential.
Much about this road-trip/Pilgrim’s Progress novel seems symbolic. A cormorant (or commentary about one by what appears to be a fictional German ornithologist) stalks the pages like Ted Hughes’ crow — a possible harbinger of death, entrapment or good-luck talisman, according to which mythology you choose.
Such a wealth of symbolism makes the book fun to analyse but I found it frustrating as it bogged down what I felt could have been a poignant and powerful personal story about life and love, death and difference.
Indeed, the author explains in the preface he wanted to write a story about his own family’s experience of having a Down syndrome son and brother. His short, simple, heartfelt writing about this, coupled with surprise black and white photos at the end of the book (real-life family snapshots of incidents referred to in the fictional story), had by far the most impact on me.
Ball has crafted a tale about love, loss and loneliness, and shown how the journey we all must take can be unsettling and uncertain. Does any of us know where we’re going and how we will get there?
However, after being initially intrigued by the premise, and deeply moved by the preface, I found myself increasingly wishing Ball had chosen to tell his tale in memoir form. For the Kurtzian “horror” of this book is how distancing the story is and how hollow the reader feels at the finish. Of course, maybe that’s the point.