Catton graduated from Bill Manhire’s Creative Writing Course in 2007 and already has a string of successes to her name. Her latest achievement is a fellowship to study at the much esteemed Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Oh, and she’s younger than I am. Impressed? Yes. Jealous? Bitterly.

The Rehearsal entwines two interrelated storylines. The first haphazardly pokes around the aftermath of a high school sex scandal. Catton brilliantly captures the myriad of confusion, excitement and silent jealousy of the school community. What appears to be a familiar classroom moment or schoolyard encounter is, in fact, dense in subtext. Catton lets her characters do the talking. But there is a sense that every observance, every action, every utterance is deliberately layered with significance.

The second narrative relates a drama school’s theatrical production of the sex scandal. The Rehearsal infuses the two narratives so that the lines between reality and representation are often blurred and even irrelevant. On occasion, the reader is uncertain whether the scene is real, theatrical or imagined. The actors speak with foresight, the ‘real’ people with insight. Both are eloquent, poetic and not a breath is wasted on the banal.

Catton is a natural born writer. Her command of language—in diction, pace and structure—showcases her talent in evoking scenes with a poignancy rarely seen in modern writers. Even the most everyday setting is retold with a sort of cinematic vision: “Isolde is standing in the creamy lilac light of a late-afternoon school corridor with all the lockers hanging empty and open and the chip packets scudding across the floor like silver leaves.”

Catton’s lyrical prose echoes Mansfield, but without the prettiness. And while Mansfield quietly stains her quaint Edwardian world with shadowed dangers, Catton’s world is smudged and dirty, languishing in its own debauchery. Emily Perkins accurately describes The Rehearsal as “a daring book, full of velvety pleasures … [that’s] never afraid to show its claws.”

What’s more, The Rehearsal reveals a clarity of vision so that, when filtered through Catton’s authorial voice, those little universal snippets of life suddenly make sense. For example, Catton captures the essence of the older-younger sister relationship in just a few sentences: “As the elder, Victoria’s perspective on her little sister’s life is always that of a recent veteran, knowing and qualified and unshockable. It is as if, at each new stage, Isolde merely picks up another hand-me-down costume that Victoria has grown out of…”

Beautifully crafted and insightful, The Rehearsal is a delicious read. It leaves the reader’s senses and intellect utterly sated. But at the same time, silently craving more.

Before you pigeon hole this book to the IQ-lowering chick-lit genre, it is worth knowing Mr McCall-Smith is a professor in Law, has received two special Booker citations, and his novels do not centre around a young single girl’s quest for Mr Perfect.

Friends, Lovers, Chocolate is the follow up novel of McCall Smith’s popular The Sunday Philosophy Club. Isabel Dalhousie, quirky intellectual and social philosopher, returns as the leading lady. While working in her niece’s delicatessen, Isabel meets Ian, a recent recipient of a heart transplant. Since the operation, Ian sees visions that do not belong to him, but to his donor. Unable to find a rational explanation, Ian accepts Isabel’s help to discover the meaning of his visions.

Isabel’s amateur sleuthing drives the story and has caused some critics to subscribe the novel as ‘detective fiction’.

But Friends, Lovers, Chocolate is not such a simple tale. The sideline relationships: Isabel’s jealously guarded friendship with a much younger musician, the appearance of a smooth Italian and her housekeeper’s love for a married man, really spark the readers’ interest. It’s these background events that prompt Isabel’s philosophical musings on friendship and love, which counterpoint her own relationships. These minor subplots are rarely resolved. But this only adds a touch of realism to the otherwise transparent and highly conventional ‘mystery’ plot line. The story is told from Isabel’s perspective.

Some readers have expressed agitation in the random wanderings of her stream of consciousness. However, this point of view truly exposes Isabel’s character, whose outward composure hides the continuous spiralling of her philosophical mind. McCall Smith does not portray a particularly loveable cast. Isabel largely resists emotional intimacy and possesses all the snobbery of an upper-class erudite. Her voice blends with the third person narration, so that both are precise, formal and a little too controlled to really evoke a human feel. As a result, I couldn’t help feeling McCall Smith was forgetting his audience and using his university lecturer voice.

Overall, Friends, Lovers, Chocolate is calm, poised and neatly constructed. It is a pleasant enough read, but generally lacklustre and severely undernourished the much promised chocolate.

ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
RRP $27.00

It’s customary for hard-up travellers to book a night-time flight in order to save precious pennies on a free night’s sleep, which is how I ended up here. London’s Luton airport. 1am. Cold, tired and destined to spend the next twenty year in a back brace. Airports on a whole are an incongruous mix of heaven and hell. Rather fitting given the sort of timeless limbo they represent. On one hand, they are a hive of excited fervour and electric anticipation. If I learnt anything from Love Actually it’s that inside the wired barricades of an airport, raw human love emanates in a flood of tears, kisses and manly thumps on the back. Airports are also home to cheap liquor and enormous, life time supplies of Marlboro cigarettes (which consequently don’t need to be that big).

On the other hand, you’re a prisoner to your bulging pack. Quick dashes to the bathrooms are near impossible. Loo breaks essentially turn into ten minute expeditions as you negotiate your twentyfive kilogram hump through the hordes of stressed tourists. From these experiences I scientifically deduced that camels’ ability to store vast quantities of water is precisely an evolutionary feature to avoid such awkward scenarios. Lucky camels.

The usual assortment of chain stores provided some time-wasting relief. But I discovered you’ve only got half an hour maximum of flicking through magazines before the sales assistant’s subtle sidelong glares become not so subtle. I also established that airport terminals provide two distinct forms of edibles: congealed and plastic wrapped. Both will cost the approximate GNP of a small African country and both will taste like socks, which probably have more nutritional value anyway. No matter what country you are visiting, McDonalds always offers an alternative. But I personally do not credit the golden arches as suppliers of actual food.

My greatest challenge was the upkeep of personal hygiene. My first response was to step into the nearest duty free perfume outlet. A few squirts of Yves Saint Laurent, oh and hell, why not? A dash of Chanel for good measure, and voila! I emerged smelling like a new person. But this quick fire method thinly disguised my mankiness. The greasy hair, shiny skin and crumpled clothes still gave away my true hobo status. Plan B required an actual shower, meths and a chisel. None of which were readily available, thus leading to Plan C: washing my hair with stolen hotel soap, splashing water on my face and turning my t-shirt inside out. All in the privacy of the public toilets. Needless to say I did not seductively tousle my hair as I stepped out of the Ladies’, but I sincerely believed such schemes promoted me from hobo to hippy.

My dreams of riding the luggage carousel were promptly curtailed by a ruddy-cheeked security guard. The boredom soon set in. Postcards were posted; my travel diary was up to date. There was only one thing left to do: (dramatic pause) entertain myself. It’s fine if you have a travelling buddy. Oh the possibilities are endless. Hangman! Noughts and crosses! The ‘would you rather sleep with Robin Williams or Billy Crystal’ game and other such delights (…you’re thinking about it aren’t ya? Robin or Billy?…). But for the solo nomad, entertainment is in rather short supply. I was reduced to making up my own ‘games’. The most successful was trying to remember all fifty-two states of the United States of America. Which really just goes to show how bored I was and how truly geeky I am.

I explored every crevice of Luton in hope of finding a group of equally bored and astonishingly good looking men. In one such curious wandering, I discovered that once you ride the escalator down to Gate 18, there is no way of getting back up to the main terminal. You either join the passengers as they were shepherded onto the tarmac, bound for Lithuania, or wait for a gap in the traffic and sprint up the escalator, dejectedly returning to your rightful departure lounge. I wasn’t so keen on Lithuania at the time, so opted for the latter.

Now I’ve had my fair share of sleeping around European airports, but this was back in the day when baby bottles weren’t considered terrorist weapons, so I really can’t complain too much. In fact, I may just look back on my night at Luton airport with a nostalgic sigh. And remember not the long, tiresome night, but a simple innocence of a lost golden age; a time when my greatest distress was not the fear of a hijacked plane. Or even snakes on a plane. But trying to remember the name of that funny little state above Kentucky.

And so began my three day stopover in Singapore. My previous experience with Eastern culture was severely limited to the numbers 14, 22 and 23 at my local Chinese restaurant. But lucky for me, older and wiser sis could explain the basics. Rule number one: littering, spitting and jaywalking are criminal offences (and I do NOT want to offend the criminals). Rule number two: steer clear of the frog ovary soup. Rule number three: ‘democracy square’ sits next to the police station and is perhaps not the best forum for free speech.

Over three days I discovered a few gems. The ‘no trespassing’ sign that graphically depicted a stick figure trespasser riddled with bullets was particularly amusing/ terrifying. Also, Chinese opera is not for the faint-hearted or hearing-abled as it would seem.

The great thing about the Lion City is its cultural diversity. Singapore has long attracted foreign attention from China, Britain, Malaysia, India and Japan. It belies a colourful, if not turbulent, history that stretches back to the 14th Century. Which is all very nice, but more importantly has today resulted in a myriad of culinary delights. This is particularly true if you explore the less-touristy food courts. That is, the ones with concrete floors, potent aromas and which lack both English menus and air conditioning. At such eateries a massive dorsai (Indian pancake) may set you back $2 or sugar cane juice all of $3. Hence the need for expandable pants. You have been warned.

The city’s architecture likewise encapsulates Singapore’s multifaceted history. Temples of Chinatown contrast to Little India’s mosques, while colonial buildings stand against the super-sized, squeaky-clean, fluorescent malls of Orchard Road. Given its recent economic surge, Singapore also hosts its share of slick high rise towers and quirky modern buildings to pronounce its rising prominence on the global stage.

In between meals, big sis and I meandered around various parts of the city. In Chinatown we held up the Asian sized jeans and cursed our Kiwi thighs. As compensation we each bought more rip-off t-shirts than we had friends to pawn them off to. And possibly more that what the Air New Zealand baggage Nazis would allow. But they were so cheap!” we reasoned. Besides, I follow the ‘why buy one when you can buy ten and save a dollar’ ethos when it comes to shopping.

In Little India we chanced upon the Deepavali festival. Negotiating our way through the markets was an experience itself. The heady aromas of incense and spices coalesced in the tropical heat and intensified with the sheer volume of human bodies. Indian pop music rang out from a loud speaker and the crowds jostled in a psychedelic rainbow of saris. I couldn’t have been further removed from a wintry Lambton Quay if I’d tried.

Gorging and rubbing my Buddha-belly left little time for touristy things. My parents had encouraged a visit to Sentosa Island for its theme parks, butterfly sanctuary and other such tourist traps, but we chose more random wanderings for a slightly more local experience. We stumbled across amazing temples, met a particularly uncharming snake charmer, had our hands henna-d and sampled yet more local cuisine. This time a dessert of shaved ice, flavoured with corn, red beans and jelly, yes, together…in the same bowl. We also visited one of the many game arcades and posed for our very own personalised trading card. We didn’t stay too long. Everything was neon, blinking, beeping and I was on the verge of suffering an epileptic fit. Just imagine Time Zone on speed and you’re about halfway there.

On the morning of day three we were struck by a short burst of torrential rain. My first monsoon! This completed my brief Singaporean experience. The city was hot, humid, shiny, clean, bustling, intense and an arena for competing smells, sounds, tastes and views. It was an absolute delight (said my belly). And not once in three whole days had I thought of home.

Helpful hint numero uno: learn Spanish.

Surviving this experience, Barcelona was next on the hit list. My Grandpa had visited Barcelona sometime in the 1960s and considered himself a bit of a wizened guru on the city. Through narrowed eyes and in a lowered voice he had earlier advised to keep a tight grip on your bags as the city was full of dirty, long-haired gypsies. Unfortunately I did not encounter any such fierce, calculating, kumbaya bandits that no doubt ruled the city from a criminal underground with flowers in their hair. But it didn’t stop me from eyeing up potential bag-snatchers and silently daring them to ‘just try me’.

The main boulevard of Barcelona, La Rambla stretches for a kilometre and hosts quirky twentieth century sculptures, sky-scraping palm trees and a myriad of sights, smells and sounds. At all hours, tourists meander through fruit stalls, aviaries, florists, alfresco diners, buskers of all descriptions and even the odd local. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed I was in awe of La Rambla’s architectural flamboyance as neoclassicism, mixed with gothic that was mixed with modernism. For this naïve eighteen year old traveller, the sheer vibrance of the place was overloading the senses. I needed a lie down before I fell over and hurt myself.

Helpful hint numero dos: ditch the 25kg pack. Breathe.

La Rambla on a Friday night could easily have passed for Courtenay Place during the Lion’s tour. It seemed that every tourist, local and their perro were frolicking in the street. Instead of joining the boozing mayhem, some backpackers and I indulged in late night hot chocolates (that were so thick they needed to be eaten with a spoon) and churros (deep fried dough sprinkled with sugar). Despite the sugar rioting through my veins my bunk bed enticed me to sleep while the whole of Barcelona partied outside my hostel window.

Helpful hint numero tres: when in Rome do as the Romans. When in Barcelona, scull cheap wine and shake your booty.

Spaniards, bless them, like their afternoon naps. This sounds idyllic in theory, but for the tourist trying to get places before dark, the siesta can lodge a mighty spanner in the works. At 10am Sarah and I had managed to catch the last bus to Calella de Palafrugell (think a Spanish Bay of Islands) causing relieved smiles and a round of self-congratulatory high fives. The bus stopped on the outskirts of the town. Yet with our powers combined, Sarah and I decided to stay seated until the bus took us further into the township to save our wearied feet. A stroke of genius we thought. Somehow, the fact that we were now the only remaining passengers escaped our attention. The next thing we know the bus was hurtling down the road just travelled and before we could muster the courage to alert the driver to our plight, we were back where we started. The driver was not impressed. For five minutes he shook his fists and stamped his feet as we stifled giggles under bowed heads. The hilarity/ stupidity of the situation soon dissipated as we realised in the interim, the locals had drawn their blinds to snuggle down for their afternoon nap. Dejected, Sarah and I had no choice; we sat outside the bus station waiting for the lazy-good-for-nothingmumble- mumble Spaniards to rouse from their snoozing.

Handy hint numero quarto: always carry a book.

After a few days lounging on the golden sand beaches, Sarah and I mustered the energy to do a spot of exploring. Apparently a walking track followed the rugged Costa Brava coastline and offered spectacular views. There was a distinct lack of signage, but like troopers we persevered, and improvised if you will. Half and hour later we were gripping desperately onto foliage as the dirt cliffs crumbled under our feet. Either we were literally off the beaten path or this was some extreme form of bush walking. After a few too many cactus bites and close encounters with crumbling rocks we eventually conceded defeat and scurried back to the safety of our beach towels and gelato parlours.

Handy hint numero cinco: there is only one Action Man.

I could most certainly offer more helpful hints to survive backpacking around Spain. Run faster than the bulls for example. But Spanish culture is not about rules and safety nets. Just grab a vino, pull out your best Macarena moves and follow the groove of the gypsies. Ole!

The greasy, balding middle-aged Pom didn’t raise his single eyebrow as he took my hostel dorm key and turned back to his daytime soap. He obviously did not share my excitement. He obviously did not notice that it had been raining in London for oh, say, the last three months or so. Nor did he fully understand the dire state of ‘English cuisine’. (Curry’n’chips anyone?) It is quite possible that this charming hostel manager had not recently feared for his life, as I had, by wearing the wrong football club scarf in the wrong part of London. I was quick to learn that the lovely crowbar-wielding Brixton locals did not find my Chelsea scarf as cute as I did.

Aah, feck it. I didn’t need his support. I was heading to the Continent! The anticipation of which had me craning my head out of the taxi window, tongue hanging out and hair a-blowing. Despite appearances I did not possess the nonchalance of the well seasoned traveller. Oh, no sir! Rather, I was the epitome of the unseasoned (ready salted if you will) variety of backpacker: wild eyed, and pathetically eager.

It was in this rabid state that I flew into Charles de Gaulle airport. Ooh, everything looked so…so…French! My first sighting of a thin black moustache had me nearly swooning.

By the time I found a train heading to the city, I was falsely self-assured in my ability to navigate around a foreign city. Never mind speaking French, I was armed with my best orienteering skills (care of Form Two camp) and the finest survival education Girl Guides can offer. So when I prematurely disembarked the train and found myself ‘Not Where I Was Supposed To Be’, I didn’t panic. I didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Rather, I calmly strolled through the streets, positively oozing a cool confidence one might expect from Danny Zuko in Grease (without the colossal grippers of course).

An hour later my confidence started to wane. Two hours later I was reduced to a snivelling wreck. Luckily for me, two very large French lads took pity on me and kindly offered to take me back to their apartment. I politely declined. Instead they escorted me to the Metro, which would safely deliver me to the door stop of the tourist information centre (cue chorus of angels and blinding white lights).

The rest of my weekend was a croissant-filled blur. I partook in all the usual Parisian delights.

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I stared blatantly at the extremely camp Parisian men who were far too well groomed and skinny-legged for my liking.
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Trekked up and down the dog poopéd streets
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Narrowly escaped death-by-maniacal-drivers who drove on the right (wrong) side of the road
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Attempted a line or two in appalling French only to be answered in snappy, but perfect English.
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Queued for the queues to queue at the Louvre
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Unintentionally purchased multiple mini Eiffel Towers to be later pawned off to unsuspecting relatives.
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Endeavoured to squeeze my non-French bottom into French trousers (God loves a try-er)
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Stood outside Dior whimpering and pressing my nose up to the shop window.

Of all the Parisian tourist traps it was the Louvre Museum that meant the most. At this point I must make it clear that I know nothing of art, or French history, or anything remotely useful for a museum visit. Hell, I couldn’t even pronounce ‘Louvre’ without sounding half drunk, and slightly retarded. Nevertheless, studying the gargantuan foldout map I tried to work out the best plan of attack. Visiting all three levels of all three wings was out of the question (and beyond my attention span). So embracing my inner Philistine, I set myself the challenge to view something from Donatello, Michaelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo. And yes, I do realise that the Ninja Turtles were not the true artists. Obviously. Turtles don’t have opposable thumbs. It may not have been the most conventional mode of viewing the definitive artistic impressions of human creativity. But running through endless corridors of 10 foot paintings and armless sculptures had a nice Bande a Part feel to it.

Monday rolled around far too quickly, as all Mondays tend to do. And before I knew it, I was bumbling my way through Heathrow. The rain continued to depress London. The stench of curry and chips pervaded my senses. But inside I felt a warm afterglow. For internally I was rehearsing my best “Darling, I’ve just been so extraordinarily busy lately. Just popped over to Paris for the weekend, don’t
you know.”

Although the blurb may read as a mystery-suspense novel, Departure Lounge avoids traditional narrative conventions. The story follows the life of small-time thief, Mark Chamberlain. Things appear to be running smoothly for Mark; ‘business’ is going well, he has a steady girlfriend, he’s one step ahead of the law. Yet the memory of Caroline May won’t leave him. Twenty years earlier, schoolgirl Caroline disappeared from her nice suburban home. Her disappearance stunned the community and the mystery has quietly haunted Mark ever since.

When one night out stealing, Mark chances upon her photograph, his life once more obsessively circles the loss, unanswered questions and pain of Caroline’s disappearance. Reports of the 1979 Mount Erebus crash sporadically intersect the narrative. Was Caroline May a passenger on the ill-fated flight as rumours suggest? Or was she similarly lost in a vacant landscape – like the Erebus victims, nameless, lost and unreachable?

Throughout the novel, relationships are not fully explained and the uncertainties of the past are not neatly unravelled. And herein lies the magnetism of Departure Lounge. It’s not a novel with answers. Rather than presenting a readily consumable narrative (the sort of Heat-And-Eat of the literary world), Taylor’s novel requires a bit of thought on the readers’ part. At only 218 pages, Departure Lounge can be read in a day. But the inconclusive plot will force the reader to decipher metaphoric links and ponder over themes long after the cover is closed.

Taylor is careful not to give away too much information. The characters’ motives, thoughts and emotions are never overtly discussed. Instead, like L.A. Confidential, scenes are constructed in a conglomeration of succinct observations in the smallest detail: “The kitchen counter was serving chips and fritters. The barman was pulling beers on a fake woodgrain handle.” And so it goes on for a paragraph or two. As a result, the novel exudes a cool, detached tone. While some may find the unfeeling noir style a little tedious, it neatly echoes Mark Chamberlain’s own estranged psychological state.

Departure Lounge has rightfully received impressive reviews abroad, earning a spot in Esquire magazine’s ‘Cult Book of the Month’ column. Its stark, clinical style and dark themes may not be everyone’s cup of tea. But for those who enjoy the bleakness of Maurice Gee or simply crave a thinking-man’s book, then Departure Lounge is for you.

Chad taylor
Random House NZ, RRP $34.99