Perfect Structure, the Journey, Intimacy and Home: A review of Gabriela Cabezón Cámara’s The Adventures of China Iron
“Among those perfumed sheets I felt Liz’s breath, smooth and spiced, and I just wanted to stay there, immerse myself in her breath, though I didn’t quite know how. I slept, peaceful and happy, snug amongst the perfumes, bedclothes, dog hair, red hair and the shotgun.”
The Adventures of China Iron, by Gabriela Cabezón Cámara (translated by Fiona Mackintosh and Iona Macintyre) takes place in Argentina in 1872. The country is young, on the slow path to economic and social maturity. The place is enamoured with myths about its own destiny, as well as false narratives about the British, the gauchos and the indigenous peoples. It is a parchment upon which the story of a new nation is being written by those living though the age. The book is a satirical and subversive retelling of the narrative of the Argentine classic, Martin Fierro, by Jose Hernandez (who also makes an unflattering appearance as a character in the story). Rather that following the classic character of Fierro through his adventures on the Argentine frontier, Cábazon’s story follows his wife, the self-named China Josefina Star Iron, as she hitches her fortunes to the Scottish settler Liz, who is on a journey to find her new land and her missing husband. The two women begin an intimate relationship of education, maturity and sexual discovery.
In the book China is ethnically ambiguous. Blond, with European features, enough to pass as Liz’s brother at points in the story; but also mixed, possibly with Spanish or ‘Indian’ heritage. She often uses the term, ‘my people’ but it is hard to place exactly who she is referring to at different times. Like the maturing nation, there is a restlessness to her, sense of home, her heritage and identity. It is uncertain who she identifies with more, the old world of pre-colonial Argentina or the new Europeanised nation. In the end, though she ends up staying with the ‘Indians’ and takes part in their customs and lifestyle, the final chapters deliver a feeling of contentment with her individual identity. Considering that the final group of companions we part with at the end of the novel consist of Europeans, Argentinians, Gauchos and ‘Indians’, it almost feels that the subject of identity by heritage is being resolved by a focus on the present individuals and groups. What is important is who they are together now, less so than where they came from. It's an interesting take on contemporary and classical ideas of individual vs hereditary identity, especially challenging the traditions and restrictions that can come with the latter.
I loved this book. As a student of writing, and someone who obsesses over the nuances of effective story structure, this one absolutely blew my mind. Here’s why. Every chapter is named, and structurally contained to a degree, like an episode. This made each new chapter/episode land as a story in itself, and they all felt worth individual consideration for the ideas and images that were explored. What’s more, the intimate short form scope of Cábazon’s writing makes each line and event of the story feel desperately important. I was encouraged by the style to take a fascinated look at each section of minutely crafted prose, rather than just to stand back and have an awed but ultimately less understanding view of a narrative too full of detail to comprehend in its entirety. I think this is the quality of a classic, because when I think of certain other books that hold that status in my mind, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel by Susanna Clarke, The Vorrh by Brian Catling, and Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zorah Neale Hurston, those authors were able to create a similar experience within their respective texts’ genre’s and linguistic styles. Seeing each episode of the text this way made each one a more immersive and memorable experience, and it was the slow accumulation of all of those moments of intimate interest that formed the novel as a whole in my understanding. This was so refreshing to read. You find many authors who write exciting sentences that are journeys in themselves, fewer who can write brilliant books that pay off every plot and symbolic element in a way that satisfies the reader. But as far as I have experienced, it is very rare to find a literary voice who can create utterly fulfilling narrative structure on every level of a text’s composition; from sentence, to paragraph, to chapter, to act, to book as a whole. I think that this is what made The Adventures of China Iron a reading experience that earnt a lasting place in my memory. It’s important to acknowledge the place that the two translators from Edinburgh University played in bringing this English version into existence in the captivating form that we are able to read. Such a perfectly structured pyramid of narrative, from word choice all the way up to the arc of the book’s concepts, could only exist this well after being translated by some truly talented people.
From the first page when her mother presses thumbs hard onto Jes’s eyelids, to the drawing pin stuck in her belly button, to the very end of the book, which I will not spoil, every single breach of boundaries and the body felt as if it were happening directly to me. When I spoke to a friend, who also read the book this week as a part of our book club, their responses were so similar. They spoke about the deep unease they felt, the way their body responded to the text, and the nostalgia of childhood sexuality in all its confusion. This book upset us both, in the most physical and emotional senses. That is the power of Rijneveld’s authorial perspective and voice, and the direct result of this skilled translation by Michele Hutchison.
I’m realising as I write this that I may not be enticing others to read this book. Make no mistake, this is not a feel-good read. It is certainly not a book to curl up with and relax on a breezy summer night. However, I will emphatically tell any prospective reader that this book is brilliant. The story of a family falling apart, all told so genuinely from the perspective of a child, is flawless and full of unique nuance. The depictions of grief, mental illness and pain, feel word perfect. Every element is so honest and resonates so powerfully with me that I think The Discomfort of Evening is one of my favourite books I have read this summer. I recommend it highly, and I can see why it has earnt its place on the 2020 International Booker Prize Shortlist. There are similarities with The Enlightenment of The Greengage Tree, which I read last week. Both books have made me question family bonds and the perseverance of communities, although I think that The Discomfort of Evening paints a bleaker picture. Each is a beautiful text, and I can’t wait to see how they compare to Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor, which I will be reading over the next few days.
by Jasper Evans