I must be losing more of my brain cells than I realize. I seem to be having more and more trouble logging into this blog. The attribution of a causal mechanism to physiological deterioration may be faulty, however, in this instance. If I were to be truthful, I would have to state that I am losing the urge to continue with this blog.
Recently I finished reading Martin Cruz's Smith's novel, Wolves Eat Dogs. It details the further exploits of his iconic Eastern European police detective, Arkady Renko, who first came to the fore in the novel from the 80s, Gorky Park.
He may conceivably have appeared in other books, but I first encountered him in that one. It was a novelty at the time, to have a detective/crime fiction narrative set in the Soviet Union. Back then, our perception was that the country was a police state, and that lurid crimes did not provide the convenient narrative fodder that we associated with much more disorderly countries such as those of the West. After all, if Big Brother was watching over you constantly, what could escape the notice of the watchers?
It was a satisfying thriller, as I remember, being a teen back then. Now, all these years later, we have the latest exploits of a detective who, seemingly, would be in his sixties, but would more accurately be assigned an age in the forties. Arkady will always be that age. He will go through live growing wearier and wearier, but he will also never become completely frail. He is world-weary, as all detectives should be.
In this instance, he investigates a crime which involves the murder of a Russian oligarch, that species of predatory capitalist that arose out of the ashes of the Soviet Union. What is detailed is a world filled with bewildering change, where the New Russians of the post-Collapse are engages in an orgy of consumption, given full scope for the expression of their predatory instincts. That they have plundered the economy and accumulated immense wealth is not to be denied. That there may conceivable be a deep backlash is also a prospect that seems worrying.
In this ecosystem we are transported as well to the dead zone around the Ukrainian site of the Chernobyl accident of the 80s. I remember that accident, and it seems as if it took place only yesterday. We had always believed that the Soviets were insufficiently careful with their industrial pollution, but this was a mishap of a scale that was breathtaking. There were expressions of panic throughout Europe over winds that might spread radioactive waste throught the continent. It was a moment of terror and, given that the country was still a closed society, we may never really know the full scope of the damage caused by this disaster.
Well, it turns out that there is a connection between this zone and the murder of the oligarch. Arkady is sent to investigate, and he comes into contact with the band of survivors and returnees who have chosen to make a life in this zone. There is still life in this area, and the region is not a dreadful husk of its former self. There is live in the detective as well.
He enters into relationships, and seems to be seeking a sort of absolution or, at times, an excuse to give in to his self-destructive nature. It is a stereotype that we hold about the Russian mind, the one that is burdened by the sheer scale and relentless struggle visited upon him by his surroundings and his history. We have no nostalgic schmaltz surrounding the memories of a past age of greatness, such as we have with the Portuguese "saudade". We have bitterness, and a deep sense of loss over what is perceived at times to be an idealized rural past. Did this Russian mentality, distorted as it may be by the Western imagination, really exist in the past as well? What happens to countries that are shaped by this sense of loss?
There is action, there are dangerous encounters, and there are fascinating, fictionalized details about this area. In the end, the mystery seems to be resolved rather messily and, to my mind, in a formulaic way. While it could have been anticipated that the culprit would be revealed to be an unlikely suspect (in this case, the scion of the famous Gerasimov clan, a researcher who promotes ecological restoration even if the radiation from the dangerous isotopes will persists for thousands of years), what I disliked was the fact that we had scenes in which, once again, the villain delays executing the protagonist and seems to gloat, spending just enough time to ensure that salvation comes to the detective. It seems almost like a failure of the imagination to give in to these plot devices.
I relish this character, and can certainly identify with him. I am now approximately his age, and feel at times the spiritual weight of my own years. However, I didn't find this novel particularly satisfying. And yet, I will return to him as long as Martin Cruz Smith continues with this series.
Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013
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