Reading matters

'The Draining Lake' by Arnaldur Indriðason

Fiction - paperback; Harvill Secker; 312  pages; 2007. (Translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder.)

Icelandic journalist turned crime writer Arnaldur Indriðason became a firm favourite of mine when I read his brilliant novel Tainted Blood (also known as Jar City) back in 2006. The book was a refreshing change to the normal formulaic crime books I'd read in the past, and the setting -- the Icelandic capital Reykjavik -- added an "exotic" touch.

Of course there has been somewhat of an explosion in Scandinavian crime fiction since then, but it is Indriðason to whom I feel most loyal. Indeed, I have made a point of buying each new novel as it has been released, and The Draining Lake was no exception, although it did languish in my reading queue for about six months.

This is the fourth Reykjavik murder mystery -- starring the grumpy but troubled detective Erlunder -- to be translated into English. It is typical Indriðason fare but for some reason I didn't find the story as gripping as the others that preceded it.

'First Love' by Ivan Turgenev

Fiction - paperback; Penguin Classics; 102 pages; 2007. (Translated from the Russian by Isaiah Berlin.)

First Love is Russian writer Ivan Turgenev’s most famous novella. First published in 1860, it has been beautifully repackaged and republished as part of Penguin’s Great Love series.

At just over 100 pages, this is a book that can quickly be read in one sitting (I achieved it via two 20-minute train journeys), although its brevity should not be mistaken for shallowness. First Love is exactly what the title suggests: a man looks back on his first love. “I was sixteen at the time,” he writes. “It happened in the summer of 1833.”

'Prime Time' by Liza Marklund

Fiction - paperback; Pocket Books; 432 pages; 2006. (Translated from the Swedish by Ingrid Eng-Rundlow.)

One of my pet hates is the trite "sells" or subtitles that endorse book covers for no other reason than someone in a marketing department thinks they might hook a potential reader. Prime Time by Liza Marklund is a good case in point. In my opinion, adding the words "Thirteen people. One Murder. Twelve Suspects" underneath the title simply detracts from the book's credibility rather than boosting it.

Which is a shame, because Prime Time is quite a good thriller that doesn't need to be cheapened by marketing hype. The novel stars a gutsy heroine, the crime reporter Annika Bengtzon, who has appeared in three previous novels -- The Bomber, Studio 69 and Paradise -- none of which I have read. According to the author's wikipedia entry the books haven't been written in chronological order, so it probably doesn't matter. As it was, I felt the book was a good, stand alone read but as someone who enjoys exploring an author's back catalogue from the beginning there's always the nagging feeling that I might have missed out on something...

'In the Wake' by Per Petterson

Fiction - paperback; Vintage; 202 pages; 2007. (Translated from the Norwegian by Anne Born.)

Judging by the amount of Scandinavian crime fiction hitting our shelves these days, anyone would be forgiven for thinking that this was the only genre Scandinavian writers were capable of creating. Thank goodness, then, for Per Petterson. This Norwegian writer has penned one short-story collection and six novels, although only two have been translated into English (a third, In Siberia, is due out at the end of the year) and they are as far from crime thrillers as you can imagine.

The beautiful, introspective Out Stealing Horses was published to critical acclaim in its native Norway in 2003, but it didn't hit the big time until it was translated into English and scooped the Independent Foreign Prize for Fiction in 2006. Suddenly Norway's best kept literary secret was out of the bag and English-language readers like me clamoured for more. Cue the translation of In the Wake, a novel that predates Out Stealing Horses by three years, but which feels more accomplished and -- if it is possible -- more touching, more painful and more despondent.

'Strangers' by Taichi Yamada

Fiction - paperback; Faber and Faber; 208  pages; 2005. (Translated from the Japanese by W.P. Lammers.)

Sometimes you pick up a book and find yourself so lost in the story that whenever you put it down -- if you can put it down -- that you find yourself thinking about it, and counting the hours, minutes, until you can resume reading it again.

When I initially picked up Taichi Yamada's Strangers, a slim volume with slightly too-large print, I had no idea what to expect from it. Little did I know the stranglehold it would have over me for the three days it took me to read. Every time I had to close the book, owing to my deep and abiding need for sleep during a hectic working week, I did so reluctantly. And every morning I'd wake up, a little knot of excitement in my tummy, knowing that this magical, haunting, little book was awaiting my eager eyes.

Paradoxically, as much as I could not wait to reach the final, chilling conclusion, I also did not want the story to end, and I admittedly dragged it out for at least a day longer than was truly necessary.

Strangers is one of those beguiling tales told in simple, hypnotic prose. The first person narrative by 48-year-old Harada, a depressed and slightly jaded TV scriptwriter living in Tokyo, is strangely addictive despite the sometimes clunky sentence structure and the not-quite-right dialogue littered with American slang (perhaps a fault of the translator rather than the author?)

'Voices' by Arnaldur Indriðason

Fiction - paperback; Vintage; 344  pages; 2007. (Translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder.)

Voices is the third Arnaldur Indriðason book to be translated into English featuring the troubled detective Erlunder. Set in the Icelandic capital, Reykjavik, it's a powerful police procedural that pulls no punches in its depiction of a sordid crime and its aftermath.

The story opens with the murder of a hotel doorman in the room in which he has lived for the past 20 years.

The man was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall. He was wearing a bright red Santa suit and still had the Santa cap on his head, but it had slipped down over his eyes. A large artificial Santa beard hid his face. He had undone the thick belt around his waist and unbuttoned his jacket. Beneath it he was wearing only a white vest. There was a fatal wound to his heart. Although there were other wounds on the body, the stabbing through the heart had finished him off. His hands had slash marks on them, as if he had tried to fight off the assailant. His trousers were down round his ankles. A condom hung from his penis.

'School's Out' by Christophe Dufosse

Fiction - paperback; Vintage; 400 pages; 2007. (Translated from the French by Shaun Whiteside.)

I'm not sure what it is with modern French novels, because I never really seem to enjoy them despite the fact that the blurb makes them sound fantastic. The cover of School's Out boasted all kinds of glowing reviews from "cool, sexy and sinister" to "forcibly reminds one of Donna Tart's A Secret History". And the note about the author on the first page said it had been translated into 10 languages and was the winner of the Prix Premier Roman, which is a French prize for first novels (I think?), so how could I go wrong?

The story opens with the death of a young teacher at a secondary school. He has killed himself by leaping out of a classroom window and it is largely thought that his class of unruly 13-year-old students are to blame. But when Pierre Hoffman takes over the class for the rest of the school year he finds the students incredibly well-behaved, quiet and submissive. But he soon learns that there is something slightly abnormal about them, as if they are "existing only as a whole, in a group". Cue spooky music here...

'I'm Not Scared' by Niccolo Ammaniti

Fiction - paperback; Canongate; 225 pages; 2003. (Translated from the Italian by Jonathan Hunt.)

Books about childhood that truly get inside the mind of a child are difficult feats to accomplish. How do you recapture the innocence, that naive sense of wonder, that wide-eyed outlook on life untouched by greater human experience without talking down to your reader or coming across as if you're trying too hard?

Whatever the trick, Italian author Niccolo Ammaniti has achieved it. In spades.

The somewhat ludicrously titled I'm Not Scared is a delicious treat, one that transports the reader back to that time when the adult world was incomprehensible and the best thing about life was riding your bicycle throughout the long, hot school holidays that lay ahead every summer.

'Soldiers of Salamis' by Javier Cercas

Fiction - paperback; Bloomsbury Publishing; 224 pages; 2004. (Translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean.)

Soldiers of Salamis is one of those strange novels which blurs fact and fiction, so that the reader is never quite sure what is true and what is not. Such confusion is compounded by the author placing himself in the story as one of the major characters.

The book revolves around an incident that occurred in 1939 during the Spanish Civil War in which a prominent writer and fascist, Rafael Sanchez Mazas, escaped execution by firing squad. While on the run in the forest, Sanchez Mazas stumbles upon a soldier, who should have killed him but decides to turn and walk away instead. Who was this soldier and why did he make this decision?

Some 60 years later, these questions -- and the botched execution -- haunt a Spanish journalist, Javier Cercas, who decides to find out what really happened.

The first part of Soldiers of Salamis tells of Cercas's investigation of the event; the second is the resultant biography of Rafael Sanchez Mazas based on the anecdotal evidence he has acquired; and the third is the journalist's quest to track down the soldier, so that he can ask him why he chose to spare Sanchez Mazas' life that fateful day.

'The Colombian Mule' by Massimo Carlotto

Fiction - paperback; Orion (an Imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd ) - New Ed edition; 184  pages; 2004.

"Somehow the Colombian knew he was fucked the moment he met the cop's gaze."

So begins Massimo Carlotto's hardboiled Italian noir novel The Colombian Mule, which opens with Arias Cuevas being detained at Venice airport with a belly full of cocaine. When Cuevas describes his drug-smuggling contact -- "about fifty, medium-height, a bit fat, with light brown hair" -- the Italian police arrest the wrong man. Is it a case of mistaken identity, or are the police bending the law for their own means?