The Artist of Disappearance

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

A triptych of beautifully crafted novellas make up Anita Desai's exquisite new book. Set in modern India, but where history still casts a long shadow, the stories move beyond the cities to places still haunted by the past, and to characters who are, each in their own way, masters of self-effacement.

Rich and evocative, remarkable in their clarity and sensuous in their telling, these stories remind us of the extraordinary yet delicate power of this pre-eminent writer.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

We had driven for never-ending miles along what seemed to be more a mudbank than a road between fields of viru lent green - jute? rice? what was it this benighted hinter - land produced? I ought to have known, but my head was pounded into too much of a daze by the heat and the sun and the fatigue to take in what my driver was telling me in answer to my listless questions.   The sun was setting into a sullen murk of ashes and embers along the horizon when he turned the jeep into the circular driveway in front of a low, white bungalow. This was the circuit house where I was to stay until I had found a place of my own. As a very junior officer, a mere subdivisional officer in the august government service, it was all I could expect, a temporary place for one of its minor servants. There was nothing around but fields and dirt roads and dust, no lights or signs of a town to be seen. Noting my disappointment and hesitation at the first sight of my new residence - where had we come to? - the driver climbed out first, lifted my bags from the back of the jeep and led the way up the broad steps to a long veranda which had doors fitted with wire screens one could not see through. He clapped his hands and shouted, 'Koi hai?' I had not imagined anyone still used that imperious announcement from the days of the Raj: Anyone there? But perhaps, in this setting, itself a leftover from the empire, not so incongruous at all. Besides, there was no bell and one cannot knock on a screen door.   I didn't think anyone had heard. Certainly no light went on and no footsteps were to be heard, but in a bit someone came around the house from the back where there must have been huts or quarters for servants.   'I've brought the new officer-sahib,' the driver announced officiously (he wore a uniform of sorts, khaki, with lettering in red over the shirt pocket that gave him the right). 'Open a room for him. And switch on some lights, will you?'   'No lights,' the man replied with dignity. He wore no uniform, only some loose clothing, and his feet were bare, but he held his back straight and somehow established his authority. 'Power cut.'   'Get a lantern then,' the driver barked. He clearly enjoyed giving orders.   I didn't, and was relieved when the chowkidar - for clearly he was the watchman for all his lack of a uniform - took over my bags and the driver turned to leave. It was night now, and when I saw the headlights of the jeep sweep over the dark foliage that crowded against the house and lined the driveway, then turn around so that the tail lights could be seen to dwindle and disappear, I felt my heart sinking. I did not want to stay in this desolate place, I wanted to run after the jeep, throw myself in and return to a familiar scene. I was used to city life, to the cacophony of traffic, the clamour and din and discordancy of human voices, the pushing and shoving of humanity, all that was absent here.   While I stood waiting on the veranda for a lamp to be lit so I could be shown to my room, I listened to the dry, grating crackle of palm leaves over the roof, the voices of frogs issuing low warnings from some invisible pond or swamp nearby, and these sounds were even more disquieting than the silence.   A lighted lantern was finally brought out and I followed its ghostly glow in, past large, looming pieces of furniture, to the room the chowkidar opened for me. It released a dank odour of mildew as of a trunk opened after a long stretch of time and a death or two, and I thought this was surely not a chapter of my life; it was only a chapter in one of those novels I used to read in my student days, something by Robert Louis Stevenson or Arthur Conan Doyle or Wilkie Collins (I had been a great reader then and secretly hoped to become a writer). I remembered, too, the hated voice of the gym master at school shouting 'Stiffen up now, boys, stiffen up!' and I nearly laughed - a bitter laugh.   All the actions that one performs automatically and habitually in the real world, the lighted world - of bathing, dressing, eating a meal - here had to be performed in a state of almost gelid slow motion. I carried the lantern into the bathroom with me - it created grotesquely hovering shadows rather than light, and made the slimy walls and floor glisten dangerously - and made do with a rudimentary bucket of water and a tin mug. To put on a clean set of clothes when I could scarcely make out what I had picked from my suitcase (packed with an idiotic lack of good sense: a tie? when would I ever wear a tie in this pit?) and then to find my way to the dining room and sit down to a meal placed before me that I could scarcely identify - was it lentils, or a mush of vegetables, and was this whitish puddle rice or what? - all were manoeuvres to be carried out with slow deliberation, so much so that they seemed barely worthwhile, just habits belonging to another world and time carried on weakly. The high-pitched whining of mosquitoes sounded all around me and I slapped angrily at their invisible presences.   Then, with a small explosion, the electricity came on and lights flared with an intensity that made me flinch. An abrupt shift took place. The circuit house dining room, the metal bowls and dishes set on the table, the heavy pieces of furniture, the yellow curry stains on the tablecloth all revealed themselves with painful clarity while the whine of mosquitoes faded with disappointment. Now large, winged ants insinuated their way through the wire screens and hurled themselves at the electric bulb suspended over my head; some floated down into my plate where they drowned in the gravy, wings detaching themselves from the small, floundering worms of their bodies.   I pushed back my chair and rose so precipitately, the chowkidar came forward to see what was wrong. I saw no point in telling him that everything was. Instructing him abruptly to bring me tea at six next morning, I returned to my room. It felt like a mercy to turn off the impudent light dangling on a cord over my bed and prepare to throw myself into it for the night.   I had not taken the mosquito net that swaddled the bed into account. First I had to fumble around for an opening to crawl in, then tuck it back to keep out the mosquitoes. At this I failed, and those that found themselves trapped in the netting with me, furiously bit at every exposed surface they could find. What was more, the netting prevented any breath of air reaching me from the sluggishly revolving fan overhead.   Throughout the night voices rang back and forth in my head: would I be able to go through with this training in a remote outpost that was supposed to prepare me for great deeds in public service? Should I quit now before I became known as a failure and a disgrace? Could I appeal to anyone for help, some mentor, or possibly my father, retired now from this very service, his honour and his pride intact like an iron rod he had swallowed?   Across the jungle, or the swamp or whatever it was that surrounded this isolated house, pai dogs in hamlets and homesteads scattered far apart echoed the voices in my head, some questioning and plaintive, others fierce and challenging.   If I had not been 'stiffened up' in school and by my father, I might have shed a tear or two into my flat grey pillow. I came close to it but morning rescued me. Excerpted from The Artist of Disappearance by Anita Desai All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

These three novellas by internationally acclaimed author Desai (The Zigzag Way) powerfully explore the despair that comes from unfulfilled dreams. In The Museum of Final Journeys, a young government officer is posted to a remote village, where he finds only stultifying work in depressing conditions. When he is asked to take care of the luxurious and bizarre treasures of a decaying estate, he is forever haunted by his decision. In Translator Translated, English teacher Prema rises out of her torpid life to translate a book of stories written in a little-known language. Her desperation to find fulfillment in the author's work leads her to confuse her role and results in unfortunate consequences. In the title story, Ravi lives a hermetic life in the burnt ruin of his childhood home, creating art out of nature, until a film crew discovers his masterpiece and Ravi is faced with the desecration of his art. VERDICT These stories are heart-wrenching in their portrayal of desperate people clinging to the fragility of hope. Beautifully written, this book will appeal especially to lovers of Indian literature. [See Prepub Alert, 6/13/11.]-Joy Humphrey, Pepperdine Univ. Law Lib., Malibu, CA (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

Desai's unsettling collection of novellas explores the slow, threatening creep of outside influence into closed communities. In "The Museum of Final Journeys," an isolated bureaucrat is confronted with a "chamber of death," a remote, bizarre museum full of embalmed, stuffed animals. "Translator Translated" obliquely explores colonial politics when Prema, a professor specializing in Suvarna Devi, an obscure writer writing in Oriya, Prema's native language, befriends a glamorous former classmate by offering to translate Devi's work into English. But by doing so, she comes under fire for not only bringing the text into the language of the colonizers but also for crippling the writer's work. The elliptical titular story explores the origins of a hermetic man, the last of an unhappy family. The man wants nothing to do with the outside world, but has an ornate garden a trio of students want to film. As the landscape resists them, so the students come to resent each other's demands and wish to forget the disrespect they've visited upon the reclusive inhabitants. Desai (Village by the Sea) treads lightly, at times too lightly, but at its best this collection leaves an indelible impression of the conflicts and ambitions found in a region riddled with conflict. (Dec. 6) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

*Starred Review* In three ensnaring novellas of consummate artistry and profoundly disquieting perceptions, master storyteller Desai (The Zigzag Way, 2004) reflects on the transforming power and devastating limitations of art. In The Museum of Final Journeys, an Anglo magistrate in a district deep in the impoverished flatlands of India accepts an elderly caretaker's beseeching invitation to visit the vast estate his employer has abandoned. In the dilapidated mansion, he finds a treasury of exquisite objects collected the world over, now forgotten artifacts in exile, their luster and stories lost. In Translator Translated, a tale of brilliantly refined suspense, Prema, an English teacher dulled by routine and loneliness, seizes the opportunity to translate the work of an author writing in her little-known mother tongue and is soon in way over her head. As Desai charts Prema's cruel exposure, she considers the plight of indigenous languages, the ethics of translation, and the heartbreak of those seeking affirmation in the creations of others. In The Artist of Disappearance, Ravi, the unloved adopted son of frivolous wealthy parents, finally returns to his beloved Himalayan home to live simply and creatively, immersed in the glory of nature, only to witness its destruction. Desai's provocative and mysterious tales of displacement trace the reverberations when the dream of art collides with crushing reality.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2010 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

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