Europa Editions

The Woman with the Bouquet

brittany — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson

Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt was been described as one of Europe’s most beloved authors and just a few pages into the first of the five short stories that comprise The Woman with the Bouquet, I began to seriously doubt that claim. Initially, “The Dreamer from Ostend” seemed heavy-handed and awkward in its formality, so much in fact that I found it difficult to focus on the story. However, I trudged forward, and I’m happy that I did. I blame the jerky translation, but once you get past that you’ll be drawn into the secretive world of Emma Von A, an old, “invalid” inn-keeper who shares her deepest secret and most severe heartbreak with a young writer who’s staying at her inn hoping to recover from his own love-related sadness. Family members, such as her niece, tell the writer that Emma Van A has essentially led a lonely, suicide-inducing life; a life spent dreaming and staring out windows. What they don’t know is that Emma has a burning secret, so pure and true that it’s sustained her through years of sickness and sadness.

Emma’s tale sets the tone for each story featured in The Woman with the Bouquet, a book solely comprised of emotionally stunted, brokenhearted, dejected, and insecure loners who, despite their age, don’t seem capable of detaching themselves from the difficulties associated with adulthood. With unflinching honesty, Schmitt reveals just enough about each person to shed light on their inner workings and what makes them tick.

In “Perfect Crime,” we become acquainted with Gabrielle de Sarlat, a wife and mother who’s convinced herself that her husband is doing something deeply dishonest and for a lack of a better word, shady. It’s common knowledge that he has a hiding spot in his office where he keeps a number of small chests under lock and key, the contents of which he will not share with his wife. This is a source of great unease for Gabrielle and it’s only made worse by the types of everyday annoyances that grate on your nerves after years of being married to the same person. For example, Gabrielle’s husband often refers to her as “old girl;” he believes this to be a term of endearment, while hearing it makes Gabrielle’s blood boil. When it feels as if marital bliss has flown south, many women would seek refuge in their friends or in the warm embrace of a cocktail, but Gabrielle murders her husband in a particularly cruel way. Well after his death, Gabrielle finally gets to investigate the contents of the chests in her husband’s office and what she finds are poems, letters, and other tokens of his love that he hid not out of guilt for wrongdoing, but out of embarrassment for his own sentimentality.

Each character and story in The Woman with the Bouquet brought to mind a quote from Janet Fitch’s White Oleander, in which Astrid’s imprisoned mother Ingrid tells her, “Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space... If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself...”

Now, those are depressing, unsettling words (for Schmitt’s characters) to live by.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, December 13th 2010

Broken Glass Park

caitlin — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Alina Bronsky

Europa Editions

Broken Glass Park is the tough story of a young girl whose upbringing and current life situation is hard, to say the least. After a former abusive boyfriend murders her mother, Sascha has to take care of her younger siblings with the help of a guardian she doesn’t particularly respect. From her point of view, we’re taken through her grieving, her distrust and hatred of men, her failing schoolwork, and her experience as an immigrant. There is a lot going on in this novel, and sometimes I did wish that it would focus a bit more. Then again, this is also what made it such a fascinating read.

Sascha finds herself in strange situations, and many would probably categorize her as self-destructive. She befriends a newspaper editor who feels bad enough about her mother’s death that he offers to help in any way he can. Suddenly, she’s staying with him and his son, and caught up in her own weird love triangle.

Even though this serves as the main plot, there are other things that happen to her throughout that are also strange and somewhat unbelievable. I don’t want to give too much away, but I will say that some of these are created by her rather than things that simply happen around her. In that way, I understand why some people feel that her character is unsympathetic, but I think they don’t fully appreciate how deeply she is affected by everything going on around her that she doesn’t have control over.

The story is surprisingly violent, and there is one scene in particular where it almost feels gratuitous. But the violence works because it is authentic and symbolizes the turmoil that Sascha is going through. In some ways, the story reminded me a bit of Stieg Larsson’s Millenium series. It is not nearly as violent and doesn't tell the same story, but the female protagonist in both struggles with issues of trust, violence against women, and being an outcast. In that sense, I came away from Broken Glass Park with the same feeling of sympathy and empowerment that I felt after reading The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.

The story may not be completely original, but it still captivated me and held my attention so closely that I read it in a day. As is often the sign of how much I enjoy a book, my biggest complaint was that it was too short. Just as I was hoping that Sascha’s life would take a turn for the better and that she would reclaim it for herself, the book was over. I can only hope that the author revisits this girl’s story so that I can get wrapped up in it all over again.

Written by: frau sally benz, September 28th 2010

A Kind of Intimacy

admin — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Jenn Ashworth

Europa Editions

In Jenn Ashworth’s debut novel, A Kind of Intimacy, the reader follows a few weeks of Annie's life. Annie is not exactly a well person. She doesn’t have much going for her either. Her father was abusive and she married early partly to leave home and partly because she doesn’t have anything better to do. She was lucky, more or less, to have met someone who could support her, who wanted to do so, who was kind, and whose worst faults were tending toward the cheap side of thrifty and wanting to have children.

Eventually the demands of family life get to Annie. She kills her husband and their baby and moves into a new house across town with little more than her cat (to whom she is attached), a trove of self-help books, and a "File" into which she organizes the wisdom from the books into an elaborate system of cross-references she can apply to daily situations. For example, how to get her neighbor’s live-in girlfriend, Lucy, out of the way so that they can realize their destined Great Love. Obviously, this doesn’t go over very well.

The fact that Annie’s perspective on, well, everything is terribly and tragically wrong slips by most of the characters until it is nearly too late. The reader, however, is permitted access to Annie’s mind. At her housewarming party, Lucy, who is young and occasionally manifests the snobbery of youth, opens a bottle of wine, pours it into a glass, swirls it around, sniffs it and then drinks. Annie sees this and wonders, scornfully, “Did she think I was going to poison her or something?” I think, for me, that was when it clicked, when I got my first jolting sense of what it was like to be Annie. The world, for her, is a somewhat bewildering place where everyone but her seems to have attended some secret meeting where they learned all the rituals and understandings that would mark them off as normal, lovable, sane and special. Annie has missed this meeting but believes she knows enough about it to resent it. Annie also doesn’t doubt her grasp on reality and trusts herself to assess the world accurately.

This is an impressive first novel. There are a few editorial errors: a dress (one important to the plot) turns into a pair of jeans and a minor character’s name changes over the course of a few pages. These are insignificant oversights. Ashworth successfully puts her reader in Annie’s place and, amazingly, the reader is able to see the plausibility—from Annie’s perspective—of Annie’s thoughts and judgments. The reader also sees just how wrong Annie gets it, cringes at and for her. I admit, I found the novel a bit stressful sometimes. There was no flaw or shortcoming in the story or its presentation; noting the chasm between Annie’s perspective and my own induced an intense sense of vertigo.

Written by: kristina grob, August 7th 2010

Gourmet Rhapsody

admin — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 01:00:00 +0000

By Muriel Barbery

Europa Editions

Food has become a very controversial subject, many arguing that education levels, income, and race unfairly dictate the availability of fresh foods and vegetables in low-income American neighborhoods. Though Muriel Barbery (The Elegance of the Hedgehog) does not focus specifically on these issues in her recent novel Gourmet Rhapsody, the division between the working class and the wealthy as it pertains to food and quality of life is often glaringly apparent in the story.

The premise of the novel is simple: The world’s greatest fictional food critic, Pierre Arthens, is dying and wants one last bite, but what that bite is, he does not know. Barbery uses beautiful, sumptuous language to describe the critic’s most fond food memories as he attempts to pinpoint a single flavor that constitutes “the first and ultimate truth” of his life.

Gourmet Rhapsody mostly takes place in Arthens’ bed, where he’s been confined since receiving word that he is dying. Every other chapter is narrated by the food critic and focuses on a specific food from his past such as tomatoes, mayonnaise, and bread. Be warned: Arthens is not a likable character; he is self-important, condescending, and rude. Think Vogue/New York Times food writer Jeffrey Steingarten, but with more clout, French flair, and venom. Arthens is a man who repeatedly cheats on his wife, drives countless chef’s aspirations to hell with glee, and who refers to his children as “monstrous excrescences.”

Thankfully, the chapters of Barbery’s book that aren’t focused on Arthens' quest for the mystery flavor are narrated by others who have known the critic in some capacity. Here the concierge, who has spent his life dutifully tending to Arthens' children and guests and catering to his every whim gets to weigh in, as does the housekeeper who’s looked over the critic’s home for the past thirty years. It is with these characters that the class divisions are perfectly illustrated; they are simple, hard-working people who don’t understand their boss’ cruelty or his quest for one more bite, despite a life filled with the best food imaginable. To them, it seems a hell of a lot like gluttony and in many ways, it is.

We also hear from Arthens' family members, such as his daughter Laura, who has grown cold and hateful of the father who's been more concerned with stuffing his face and chasing after women than with being a loving parental figure. We also hear from his wife, who is aware of his indiscretions but who’s stayed by his side for whatever reasons women in similar situations do. She is pained and frantic, desperate to keep her husband alive and eager to help him find that last, elusive taste.

It would be incredibly easy to hate Arthens, but what saves him from being completely unlikeable is his overwhelming love and passion for food. I have to believe that a man who can describe a rustic meal as “two thin slices of raw, smoked ham, silky and supple along languid folds, some salted butter, and a hunk of bread” has to have some redeeming qualities.

In the end, Arthens does get his last bite and it’s quite unexpected, though fitting. At one time or another, all of us come to long for the simple things of our youth, things we thought we’d forgotten until one day we get a whiff of them or a glance at them while walking down the street. This unique form of human longing and emotion is what ties us together, despite wealth, class, or race, and Barbery does a beautiful job of making this apparent through the use of food, all the way down to the last page.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, February 12th 2010