After the Circus

Hello Gentle Reader

The eternal city is often attributed to Rome. Rome is the kind of city that inhabits the mind of an individual, who has yet to go there as a summer day dream. It’s a city where the cobble stone streets waving beneath the oppressive scorching eye of the Mediterranean sun. Yet pocketed throughout the city in plazas/piazzas, courtyards and streets are fountains of artistic, historical merit and value. Rome in fact houses the most fountains in the entire world; fifty of these fountains are monumental (such as: the Trevi Fountain) but also hundreds upon hundreds of small fountains, as well as decorative fountains (such as: Fontana dell Obelisco and Fountain of Neptune). In total, there are over two-thousand fountains in Rome. They offer solace and sanctuary from the burning judgement of the sun. In their shallow depths lie coins, possessing wishes, hopes and dreams. Yet no fountain is obliged; and they remain unanswered, at least on the fountains accord. Rome much like the rest of city retains its airy summer haze of a dream like quality throughout all desiring travelers and wanders. Rome calls to mind a place of romance; of history; of art, intelligence and ingenuity. It’s riddled with castles and churches. It’s a place in which Pope’s have called home; Leonardo Da Vinci has called it home, as has Alberto Moravia; Maria Luisa Spazianiand, a refined poet of Italian letters, would die in Rome just a few years ago; and Rome has inspired many writers, such as: Henry James and Edgar Allan Poe. Yet for me the eternal city is blinding white, and sparkling in gold, and shimmering in the soft sounds of water. Rome always brings to mind the film: “The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.” My mind still brings the images of Karen Stones luxury apartment to life. A place fit enough to belong to an aristocrat. Despite the sun, the brightness of the city, its eternal swooning and soiree’s; Mrs. Stone is always afflicted with a slight sense of melancholy, which only begins to become even more devastating when a certain Paolo comes into her life. Paolo as a character had soured; to a degree the idea or the ideal of Italian men; their bronze golden bodies, displayed in their speedos, in which they give the impression of Greek gods in physical appearance, but apparently are equally as capricious as the mythical beings; as Paolo, himself, embodies a certain contrite conceited nature, only enhanced by his lust for personal gain; which of course drains dear Karen Stone to completely give up on life it were to seem. Tennessee William’s melancholic and fateful tale of false love, still strikes me as a desire to contrast the bright beauty of Rome with a tale of devastation and false declaration of love. Yet Rome pushes on in the mind as the ideal city of art, history, intellectual stimulation; but also for its food, its culture, and the possibility of love. Italy (or Rome) is a place of liberal leanings with regards to liberty in alcohol, its shameless display of the human body (topless women, and of course men in varying stages of age and body types, who’ve squeezed themselves into speedos, for better and for worst). Italy (or Rome) is the place of eternal ideals and tenacious ideas of perfection; a place where one is a connoisseur of art and fashion; a gastronaut with the most refined palates for fine food; but also a place where intellectual desires, curiosities and capacities are stimulated, encouraged, and provoked. Rome maybe attributed as the Eternal City; but it must be the: Eternal City of Dreams.

Rome is both dream and tangible reality in “After the Circus,” by Patrick Modiano. The narrator often day dreams and speculates about the city bathed in bright light, with summer shadows of green leaves. Deep within those dreams about Rome; there rings church bells of sanctuary and solace, for both Jean (the narrator) and his new acquaintance, a young troubled female by the name of Gisele. For both Jean and Gisele, Rome offers a new chance; an opportunity to turn a new leaf in their lives. Rome will allow them to escape the autumnal sepia tones of Paris; a place haunted with their pasts tinged with the poignant tints of guilt and grief. For Jean, Rome allows him to escape the ambiguous clutches of his father and his dubious business transactions, which have most certainly forced him to not only leave Paris but also France, and take refuge in Switzerland. Rome also will allow him to escape the corrupted in-lieu of parental guardian: Grabbley; who is best defined as Jean’s fathers ‘oldest friend,’ and more or less businesses partner of an equally unsavory flavor and character. Gisele – though it should be noted; that names and identities are not always as they are made up to be; is forever in a perpetual state of perennial movement in an attempt to escape her past. However, in typical Modiano fashion, Gisele’s past is never fully elucidated upon, as to what exactly she is running from; though she has found herself in cahoots with a band of cohorts, whose pasts are equally as dubious as hers, but offer assistance on a quid pro quo basis. Through Gisele Jean in his naivety and youth, finds himself entering a world in which he is neither fully enveloped nor submerged in, but is well acquainted with.  In Modiano’s hallmark style though, Jean, as the narrator, is only ankle deep in the conspiracy of those surrounding him; from his father, to Gisele and her associates: Jacques de Bavière and Ansart.

“After the Circus,” follows typical tropes by Nobel Laureate in Literature, Patrick Modiano, in style, language and themes. Margaret Atwood once famously gave general advice to an interviewer with regards to writing; especially in the case of mysteries – specifically murder mysteries; in that you must identity the murderer by the end of the novel, while before revealing the identity of the guilty party, allowing the narrator to attempt to unmask them. If one were to neglect this crucial aspect of the story, the readers would feel cheated, and outrage would be sure to follow. Thankfully for Patrick Modiano, these readers must not read his work; as they would most certainly be outraged by the lack of their just desserts. Modiano is not however a typical mystery writer. Or rather: Patrick Modiano, is not a mystery writer at all. The form is worn loosely; and is at best described as shabby and threadbare, with the left sleeve most certainly missing, a hole in trousers; and numerous stains which could keep CSI busy for ages to discover both the contents of the stain and where it originated from. For Modiano the tropes of a mystery novel are merely an enhancement of atmosphere, while also being to a degree a form of organization for the novel. There can be no denying Modiano inhabits a world painted in varying shades of grey, with a sense of morality equally as uncertain and unclear. His characters are a drift, both in the present and in the past. They sail their memories, without realizing they have yet to lift anchor.

Memory is one of Patrick Modiano’s most perennial themes and preoccupations with his novels. The absences, the abrupt departures, unanswered questions – these are the hallmarks of Patrick Modiano. As much as his characters dig, do their best to remember excavate research and hunt; they are chasing ghosts and shadows. The worlds they once inhabited no longer exist. Buildings demolished, streets take on a new life, a renewed life, a more vigorous persona then they once possessed previously. For Modiano and his characters, Paris’s change – as well as its willful amnesia; often fight against those willing to try and disturb old bones. Their attempts, their missions, their dreams, their desires – all futile, and yet they continue, to seek resolution, from their youth, seek answers their own inquires; fight off the self-conscious doubts, which are grounded in an ever more earthly present.   

Plot and story may not be his forte, or even his preference. Yet Patrick Modiano is not pretentious in subject matter, language, theme or even length of this novel. His novels are quiet, somber, and unsettling to a degree. Yet Modiano’s novels of memory are fragmented, saturated in perfumes of another time, perhaps more famous in an actress’s dressing room, in which she would apply before she went on stage. They are coloured in the sepia tones of autumn and the uncertain light of spring. The scenes are always populated by passing shadows, absent parents, naked light bulbs, and scantily clad apartments, which would not give a hint of resident or life, if it weren’t for the crumbs and unwashed dishes. To call Patrick Modiano a minimalist would be a misleading and incorrect assessment. Minimalist, have flayed their work down to its most crucial elements allowing context to dictate meaning. Modiano however, has not bleached or boiled his novels. Rather, his novels are centered, around memories which have been sanded down or blown away. With a few notes, a few photographs, and a melancholic poignant air for reliving the past, Modiano’s characters are haunted by their pasts, and attempt to make pace with it, by concluding the missing gaps and fragments. In this sense, Patrick Modiano is an amnesiac clinging to the few fragments of candle light memory in which he possesses.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary