SO COLD THE RIVERBY MICHAEL KORYTA - REVIEWED BY GARY CARDEN

So Cold the River by Michael Koryta
New York: Little, Brown and Company
$24.99 -503 pages 2010

“Michael Koryta’s West Baden Springs Hotel has joined Stephen King’s Overlook Hotel in the listing of five-star places to stay in Frommer’s, Fodor’s , and the Lonely Planet’s Guidebook to Hell. But if you stay there, please don’t drink the water!”
-Dan Simmons



Reading So Cold the River, may give many readers a weird sense of deja vu - a feeling that they have been here before. When the protagonist, Eric Shaw, travels to a remote part of southern Indiana to film a documentary about ... not one, but two spectacular hotels that are being restored to their legendary grandeur ... the name of another legendary hotel may come to mind: the Overlook in Stephen King’s The Shining.

For a time, the resemblance continues. Eric, like Jack Torrance in King’s spooky opus, is an aspiring writer (plus he is an unemployed filmmaker) and failed husband. Although Claire Shaw does not accompany her husband to the twin towns of French Lick and West Baden Springs, she is a tangible presence since Eric sees his film project as a way to salvage his marriage. Meanwhile, he talks/argues with her daily as he wanders through the spectacular hotel that once played host to millionaires, movie stars, mobsters and world travelers. He listens to stories of intrigue and mystery - especially those regarding the product that created this resort and all of this fabulous wealth: mineral springs and a patented medicine of dubious merit called Pluto Water.

Eric has been “commissioned” to make a film about the history of West Baden Springs by a wealthy woman named Alyssa Bradford who claims to be married to one of the descendants of the man who founded Baden Springs, the notorious Campbell Bradford. However, Eric soon discovers that nothing is what it seems. Suddenly, his employer (who had given him a bottle of the original Pluto Water) cannot be reached. Eric becomes increasingly frustrated, smashes his expensive camera and inexplicably opens his ancient bottle of Pluto Water and takes a healthy swig. At this point, Koryta’s novel veers off the track into a nightmare country that no longer holds a shred of resemblance to The Shining - unless you agree that both authors frequently present events that can best be defined as “inexplicable.”

Shaw begins to have hallucinations and/or visions.To complicate matters further, Shaw is blessed or cursed with a kind of “second sight” that enables him to perceive both past and future disasters. In addition, the water in the old bottle brings Eric face to face with Campbell Bradford who turns out to be “evil incarnate.” Since a local plant is still producing Pluto Water (now considered to be a mild purgative), Shaw soon discovers that the “boiled and purified” version allows him to observe past occurrences without participating in them. Confused? Yeah, me, too.

Koryta certainly believes in giving the reader a generous supply of terrifying images, sinister characters and undeveloped themes. Mysterious trains come chugging out of the night loaded with boxcars awash in Pluto Water; an embittered descendant of Campbell Bradford, named Josiah Bradford, becomes a hapless slave to the “spirit” of his fore-bearer and devises a scheme to destroy the Baden Springs Hotel (apparently Campbell resents the fact that he has been forgotten.) A nice, elderly lady named Anne McKinney who has a hobby involving tornado watches becomes a stalwart friend to Eric. She also collects old bottles of Pluto Water. Kellen Cage, an Afro-American history major is doing research on West Baden Springs and becomes Eric’s friend. He also provides an excessive amount of historic background regarding an old feud that developed between Campbell Bradford and his Afro-American counterpart, a man named Shadrack. Somebody killed Shadrack, but no one knows who did it. In fact, someone killed Campbell Bradford. Naturally, it looks like Eric will have to solve all of these mysteries by using a combination of “second sight” and Pluto Water. Oh, and I forgot. A private investigator from Chicago shows up only to be murdered by Josiah Bradford.

Eventually, it becomes apparent that Eric Shaw is addicted to Pluto Water. If he doesn’t get his daily dosage, he is plagued with headaches, dizziness and nausea.The most potent powers reside in the old bottle that Alyssa Bradford gave him - the one that has a red tint. In time, Eric belatedly discovers that the “red tint” is the blood of Campbell Bradford. By drinking the water, Eric has unwittingly provided Campbell with a means of returning to West Baden to wreck his revenge. In Eric’s first “vision” of Campbell Bradford, the ghostly specter tips his black bowler and thanks Eric for “bringing him home.” As So Cold the River progresses, Campbell becomes stronger and more tangible.

Koryta piles visions and images on top of each other until So Cold the River threatens to split at the seams. As this novel approaches its thunderous, bell-ringing and explosive climax, the story becomes increasingly unwieldily. Suffice it to say that the conclusion involves a truck load of dynamite, the arrival of four tornados that descend on West Baden and a frenzied search for the original Pluto Water spring that had been used by a local moonshiner in producing a legendary whiskey. In conjunction with all of these events, Shaw’s wife, Claire comes to West Baden to bring her husband home. Before that can happen, she is kidnapped, thrown from a speeding vehicle and run over (or was she?)

Inexplicably (there is that word again!), she escapes with a broken arm and collarbone to be reunited with Eric who has just been dragged from the Pluto spring and delivered to the West Badin hospital with no discernible heartbeat. Nothing to worry about though; Eric is a hearty lad.

As this reviewer drew near the conclusion of So Cold the River, I kept thinking about the final movement of Tchaykovsky’s 1812 Overture - the one that ends with a thunderous crescendo of bells ringing, drums, French horns and whistles. Tchaykosky’s conclusion sounds like a jubilant celebration. Koryta’s final “movement” sounds like a train wreck in a tornado. However, as bad as this novel is, it was a lot of fun to read.

THE ANGEL'S GAME by Carlos Ruiz Zafon - Review by Gary Carden

The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
New York: Doubleday Publishers - 2009
$26.95 - 470 pages

“Do you want to set fire to the whole world and burn with it?
Let’s do it together. You fix the price.”
- Andreas Corelli, p.128

A few days after completing The Shadow of the Wind, I discovered a copy of Carlos Zafon’s new novel, The Angel’s Game. When I sampled a few pages to see if it had the same extraordinary imagery and cadence of its predecessor, I found that its setting was the same: Barcelona in the 20’s, a visit to the “Cemetery of Forgotten Books,” treks through fog-shrouded graveyards, and the wonderful Sempere Bookstore, the place where star-crossed love, madness and murder converge.

However, The Angel's Game is not a sequel. Daniel Sempere, the protagonist in The Shadow of the Wind is regulated to the role of a minor character in this tale of unholy alliances, paranoia and obsession. It is as though while Daniel Sempere’s anguished tale of love and redemption was unfolding, another doomed protagonist, David Martin (who just happens to lives nearby) is also beginning his own dark journey through “the city of the damned.” Although the two men are friends, they have very little in common ... except a love of books.

Zafon, a master of provocative beginnings, lets David tell his own story which begins with a badly beaten child who enters the Sempere Bookstore clutching a blood-stained copy of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. The child (David Martin) begs Sempere Senior to keep the book safe since Martin’s abusive father intends to destroy it. Sempere not only hides the book; he also becomes David’s protector and advisor, assisting the boy in achieving his wish to become a writer.

In time David Martin becomes a journalist and a successful writer of a series of blood-and-thunder pot-boilers, The City of the Damned. Although the books are extremely popular, David feels that they are cheap melodramas and dreams of writing a work that will win the respect of the literary world. David confides his dream to his friend, Pedro Vidal, a highly successful journalist, and in time, he begins work on his great opus, The Steps of Heaven.When he meets Christina, the daughter of Vidal’s chauffeur, David feels that he has an established career. He decides to terminate his contract with the shady publishing firm that distributes The City of the Damned and devote himself to his new friends and his writing. It is at this point that something goes terribly wrong with David’s life.

Within a few short weeks, David discovers the following: he is entangled in a lawsuit with his former publishers, Barrido and Escobillas; he learns that Christina is involved with his best friend, Pedro Vidal and when his new novel is published, the critics judge it to be a hopeless, amateurish work. At the same time, Vidal publishes a novel (written by David) and it is declared a literary masterpiece. Finally, when recurring headaches and nausea forces David to consult a doctor, he is told that he has a brain tumor which will kill him in a few months.

When David Martin is at his lowest point, he meets Andreas Corelli, a mysterious publisher “of religious texts,” who offers to solve all of David’s problems if he will agree to write a book in accordance to Corelli’s dictates. Martin agrees and suddenly, miraculously, the deadly tumor is gone. Corelli gives David 100,000 francs “as a starter.” Shortly afterwards, David learns that the lives of Barrido and Escobillas have been snuffed out in a mysterious fire which had also destroyed all documents and contracts. David moves into an abandoned but luxurious mansion in the heart of Barcelona... a house that he has always coveted, and begins work on Corelli’s book.

Obviously, David Martin has made a Faustian bargain, and although there is much is Corelli’s demeanor to suggest the demonic (he appears to be ageless and his eyes are reptilian), the division between Good and Evil wavers and changes frequently. In time, Martin discovers that he is only the latest of Corelli’s “authors for hire,” and that each of his predecessors has died tragically - In fact, one of them lived in the same house that Martin now occupies. Nor are the authors the only victims. All that they love, including wives, lovers and children are doomed.

But what about the book? What is the subject? The strange mythical tale that David creates is a kind of religious fable; the kind of “folk tale” that can serve as the basis for a religious belief that has the power to capture the imagination of millions. As David writes, he often appears to be a conduit, a mere instrument for verbalizing a fiendish tale that is being dictated by Andreas Corelli. At other times, Zafon suggests that perhaps Corelli exists only as projection of David Martin’s own corrupt soul. Regardless, David senses that the book he is writing may have the power to plunge the world into an apocalyptic war.

Regardless of who is responsible, someone is definitely creating havoc in David Martin’s world. The Angel's Game is filled with hapless victims who are driven mad or die in random accidents. In addition, as the action of this novel accelerates, the narrative is littered with corpses: murdered policemen, mutilated lawyers, drowned paraplegics and lovers. As this Grand Guignol of a novel winds down, the reader is left with a singular suspicion. Is it possible that David Martin and Andreas Corelli are one and the same? If not, is it possible that the protagonist is “becoming” Corelli?

Without a doubt, The Angel's Game contains one of the most remarkable “poetic chapters” that I have encountered in recent literature. This one deals with the death of Sempere Senior, the bookstore owner who is a major character in both The Shadow of the Wind and The Angel's Game. As Sempere’s friends gather(mostly patrons of his bookstore), the funeral service turns into a kind of eulogy for all book lovers... those people who avoid churches and religious cant, but treat books with the kind of respect and awe that is normally expended in churches. Sempere is buried with David’s copy of Great Expectations beneath his clasped hands.

Although I liked this book tremendously, I was occasionally distressed by melodramatic passages characterized by a kind of hysterical rant that appears at odds with Zafon’s usually superb style. David Martin frequently shreds the scenery like a ham actor, posturing and proclaiming cliches. I was especially distressed by his constant use of the words “venomous” and “poisonous,” and the tremendous number of unpleasant waiters, desk clerks, and government officials that populate Barcelona. Given the remarkable quality of Zefon’s writing in The Shadow of the Wind, I can only conclude that the patches of bad writing in The Angel's Game is the result of a bad translation. I learned recently that The Angel's Game will be reissued with a new translation this year. I sincerely hope that is true.

THE MABINOGION TETRALOGY by Evangeline Walton

Some forty years ago, I went on a reading jag that proved to be the most exciting adventure in my life. I discovered Arthurian legends, the Holy Grail and all of the major literary works that use this mythical world as a vehicle for fantasy. I plowed through Mary Stewart, and White's The Once and Future King. I read Mallory, Tennyson and E. A. Robinson, and when I ran out of Arthurian material, I turned to Mervin Peake's Gornmagast, Tolkien and the whole Wagnerian cycle. At some point, I encountered Evangeline Walton (1907-1996) and her fantasy novels based on The Mabinogion.

I had only heard of the Mabinogion in graduate school where I had one instructor who referred to it as "an obscure collection of 14th century Welsh tales with ties to the Arthurian legends." That got my attention, but when I attempted to read them, I quickly became frustrated by obscure and archaic language and references. The proper names of the characters (Pwyll, Llyr, Annwn,Gwydion,Blodeuwedd) were enough to defeat me since I couldn't pronounce them or tell them apart.) The stories were tangled strands of magic, lost love, Celtic deities and horror. Then, I discovered Walton who had separated and translated the "eleven branches" into four magnificent novels. It is an astonishing accomplishment.

Walton sorted these bewildering strands into four distinct novels, and reconciled all of the problems with spellings and contradictions. Under her masterful hand, the stories not only made sense - they were fascinating, heartbreaking and inspiring.

I was mesmerized by this world of magic birds, mythical pigs, tragic lovers and heroes who venture into supernatural kingdoms (and lingered too long). Curses, prophecies, demons and love betrayed. Merlin's father is here, and a wonderful, heartless woman who was created from flowers (which is why she has no heart!)

I still have my battered paperbacks of Walton's four novels. However, last week I learned that the complete tetralogy has been reissued. It seems that the critics consider these novels to be a major achievement in fantasy literature. In evidence,Walton received a Lifetime Achievement Award in 1989 and was named "Grand Master of Fantasy" by the World Fantasy Convention. At present, it appears that Walton's accomplishments will enjoy a new audience since her novels are being reissued and a number of major critcs have acknowledged this tetralogy to be on a par with Tolkien. I intend to read them all again.

Note: the striking artwork on the cover of the tetralogy depicts the four children of Llyr who were converted into swans by an evil (but remorseful) stepmother for 900 years. On the day that the enchantment was lifted, they became human again, but as this painting illustrates, one child retained the wings of a swan and a fourth one in the background isn't making the "transition." Not yet, anyway. However, soon after the change, all four children grew old and died in a matter of hours. After all, they were over 900 years old!