I recently read London under Snow for my Borderless Book Group, by Jordi Llavina, published by the Fum de Estampa press (named for the sooty blow of ink created by the old printing presses), and translated by Douglas Suttle.
It’s a book of short stories, all of which take place in the winter (the author’s favorite holiday season). In terms of structure, most of the stories end with an unexpected plot twist, revelation or transformation. One story takes place in London, but most are located in Catalonia.
One noteworthy aspect is the way the stories play with light and shadow, dirt and snow, cleanliness and dirt, the soil of ancestry and displacement vs the muddled modernity of city slush. At some points the threats of shadows transform into thoughtful, evocative chiaroscuro effect, at other points dirty fingerprints are disappointingly discovered after a guest’s departure on clean linen.
I read most of the stories as redemption of dirt and destruction – whether the vagabond seeking his ancestral lands becomes seen as an angel, a damaged cap becomes a treasured conversation piece, a mental breakdown is followed by a fresh snow. Along with this, the layers of modernity are peeled back to the bare land and a more ancestral identity and tradition rooted in family relationships.
Problematically, most of the stories contained disappointingly misogynistic lines of thought, and this was never really redeemed although there was one toss-away line of ownership, about how a love betrayal had left one character increasingly embittered about women.
My knowledge of Catalan/Spanish literature is not nearly as robust as I wish it were beyond Cervantes and a smattering of short stories that I read in Spanish long ago. My parents actually met in Madrid and I had visited Spain once during a Eurail trip before studying abroad in London. I never got to Madrid, but I visited Barcelona, seeking out the Gaudi architecture and catching a wonderful Chagall exhibit. I additionally visited the Montserrat monastery in the Pyrenees (having recently read The Name of the Rose), where I went hiking. In the autumn, the country was still warm and vibrant, though the tourists had begun to dissipate. Later, while teaching English in Germany, I’d hear about some of my students taking off to vacation in Ibiza or other Spanish beaches, but never did so myself.
So in connection with the reading for the week I pointed my bicycle trainer, which is connected to the Rouvy app (augmented reality bicycle riding), to Spain. The first ride I did was a hill called La Lancha, which is located smack in the middle of the Iberian peninsula, just a bit northwest of Madrid. Once one pedals out of the village, the sage-like scrub and pale rocks on either side of the road do little to shade one from the sunshine bearing down on the arid landscape. A horse passes in the opposite direction on the right. Near the crest of the hill, a line of spinning wind turbines comes into view. There aren’t really a lot of switchbacks; the ascent is gentle and straightforward. The next four rides I did were all on Mallorca. I had had no idea that Mallorca has so many steep hills. Most of the rides start out ascending steeply through small villages and then switchback even more steeply up to the tops of the passes, or Colls. Sometimes along the way there are cliffside or even ocean views, but very often the tops of the climbs are just a flat stretch of shady road. Would I visit in real life? Probably, yes. Those rides were a lot more scenically appetizing than the prior week’s hill climbs around Frankfurt, Germany.
The rides in the sun, filled with the light brown, sage and blue-skied tones of the landscape provided a great contrast to the monochrome palettes of the book, which really brought the work of the author into clear view.
Would I recommend the book? Maybe. Personally, I was really turned off by the misogyny – I just don’t think one can or should get away with that stuff in this day and age – but it did have its interesting moments of humor and humanity.