Washington Post Book Reviews
For You
Sunday April 3, 2011
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MY FATHER'S FORTUNE
Michael Frayn
Metropolitan
ISBN 978-0805093773
273 pages
$25
Reviewed by Jonathan Yardley
Now in his late 70s, Michael Frayn, the accomplished British novelist ("A Landing on the Sun") and playwright ("Noises Off"), turns his hand for the first time to nonfiction, a memoir of his childhood and the maddening, endearing father who played so large a role in it. "My Father's Fortune" is funny when it needs to be, touching when it needs to be, and for the most part is cast in smooth, beguiling prose with the exception of one rather bizarre grammatical tic, about which more later.
For many years the Reader's Digest ran a popular feature called "My Most Unforgettable Character." Thomas Frayn was precisely that so far as his only son was -- and is -- concerned. He was born, in January 1901, into a poor London family of which "every single member except for the two-month-old Thomas" was "deaf and dumb" (and in time it caught up with Tommy too), or so they were described in that year's census, though in fact they could speak. Frayn writes:
"What they were all suffering from was presumably, as I have discovered from the Internet, late-onset hereditary deafness, for which apparently the gene has now been discovered, though I'm not quite sure what's happened to it in the three generations since then. A puzzle remains, though. If it's hereditary it's not surprising that one of the parents was also deaf. But both of them! Was this pure coincidence? Or had they been drawn to each other in the first place because of their deafness?"
Tommy's education was limited, indeed. "At the local central school he was given personal tuition in French by a master who perched on the desk in front of him and brought a book down on his head each time he made a mistake. As a teaching technique this was remarkably effective - it knocked every single word of French out of him." Never mind. Tommy was smart, and soon he was "leaving school at the age of fourteen and just starting out in the world to help support his family." In time, he worked his way up to a job as sales representative for Turners Asbestos Cement, which manufactured and sold roofing and was a particularly important government supplier during World War II.
When he was 18, he met Violet Alice Lawson -- she "was still only fourteen" -- and fell in love with her immediately. They waited until 1931 to marry however, because in the meantime, with the death of his father in 1920, Tommy had become his family's principal means of support, a burden he shouldered without complaint, just as he declined to complain when, at his marriage, Vi's querulous mother moved in with them and remained with them for the next 18 years.
Michael, their first child, was born in September 1933, followed four years later by a sister, Gillian Mary, known to all as Jill. "So there we all finally are," Frayn writes. "Mother and father, a boy and a girl (and Nanny (grandmother) to fuss over them). At 3 Hillside Road, East Ewell, twelve miles out of the smoky heart of London -- a detached house at last ... with no one quarreling and banging about on the other side of the wall, no one overhead, no one underneath. In a trim green cul-de-sac where no trams clatter and no drunks sing and vomit." They had crawled into the lower regions of the middle class, where they remained -- at times somewhat precariously -- until Tommy's death at the age of 69.
Shockingly, and heartbreakingly, Vi preceded him by fully 35 years, succumbing to a sudden heart attack in November 1945, leaving her little family totally bereft and bewildered. For a time Tommy hired a housekeeper to care for the children and the house, but that didn't work out, so the responsibility fell to Nanny, 73 years old and "decidedly frail." Times were hard:
"What those bleak years after my mother's death were like for my father is perhaps indicated by the state of his health. I don't know what the original symptoms were, but he was diagnosed as 'run down,' that vague metaphor of an overtaxed car battery, and was prescribed a daily dose of burgundy -- Australian burgundy, which at the time was probably rather like topping him up with battery acid. ... He was often confined to bed. His flu one winter turned into double pneumonia. ... Later he slipped a disc in his back and could scarcely get in and out of his car. For months or years he was in constant pain and undergoing continually changing treatments."
Yet through all that, he "kept things going for my sister and me." While both of his children went through boilerplate adolescent self-absorption and rebellion -- Michael, by his ready admission, was an especially vexing case -- Tommy soldiered on, carrying out his parental duties as best he could and giving more love than he seems to have received, though he expressed it tacitly. Now Frayn reflects: "The same strange thought recurs, and it's one that it's taken me all these years to think: the realization that he loved my sister and me and that we brought him happiness." What seems to have provoked this understanding is "the joy that my (own) children have given me," but then it often takes people many years and much experience to understand their parents, and even then that understanding inevitably is incomplete.
Reading about this traveling salesman of asbestos roofing -- and, yes, that particular chicken eventually came home to roost -- one can't help thinking of Willy Loman in "Death of a Salesman" and of all the maudlin lines Arthur Miller managed to conjure up to describe him: "I don't say he's a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper." But Tommy Frayn is a much better character, full of "sharpness and cheek," not to mention a much better man. He had a smile that really could light up a room -- "It's what everyone always remembered about him. It emerged from the depths of him. When he smiled the smile became him; he became the smile" -- but what he gave his son ran deeper than that:
"To me personally he left a fortune -- an intangible and unrecorded legacy more precious than money or anything he might ever have written down. The humor he used to deal with his customers and circumvent his deafness, his indifference to all systems of belief, the smile on his face that I sometimes find so disconcertingly on mine. My very existence, in the first place, of course -- and the beginnings of a life that turned out to be so much easier than his. I didn't have to share two rooms with six other people or a kitchen and lavatory with four more. I didn't have to leave school at fourteen, or go out and sell things, or support feckless parents and in-laws. He loved me, saw to it that I was fed and clothed and educated, and left me reasonably free to get on with things in my own way. What more can anyone want from a father?"
What indeed, and what a lovely tribute. What a pity it is, therefore, that from beginning to end "My Father's Fortune" is marred by Frayn's apparent inability to distinguish between subject and object, or, as grammarians have it, between the nominative and objective cases. To wit: "John, ten years older than me ... ," "with as much aplomb as Lane and me," "she's thirty years younger than him." Really, what are they teaching at Cambridge these days? Are editorial pencils no longer used at Faber & Faber, Frayn's British publisher, or Metropolitan, his American one? This may seem mere nitpicking, but it's not. These are basic, rudimentary grammatical errors, and the ones I've cited are merely three among many. For a writer of Frayn's reputation and accomplishment, they are inexcusable.
Jonahan Yardley can be reached at yardleyj(at symbol)washpost.com.
Copyright 2011 Washington Post Writers Group
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THE FEAR: Robert Mugabe and the Martyrdom of Zimbabwe
Peter Godwin
Little, Brown
ISBN 978-0316051736
371 pages
$26.99
Reviewed by Martin Meredith
The list of African dictators determined to cling to power is a long one. This year popular uprisings in North Africa have triumphed over two of them: Ben Ali's 23-year-long regime in Tunisia and Mubarak's 30-year-long grip in Egypt. In Libya, Col. Gaddafi is battling popular resistance and U.S. and allied air strikes to maintain his 41-year-long lock on power. But many other dictators remain in place. Robert Mugabe is unusual among them in that he has always been blunt about his ambition. "No matter what force you have," he declared in 2001, "this is my territory and that which is mine I cling (to) until death."
Peter Godwin, the author of two best-selling memoirs set in Zimbabwe, where he was born, is a veteran observer of Mugabe. In "The Fear," he describes Mugabe as an "African Robespierre" -- highly educated and utterly ruthless. He cautions agaist viewing him as a case of a good leader who turned bad. "His reaction to opposition has invariably been a violent one," Godwin writes.
Now another Zimbabwe election is coming, and it is an event viewed with dread rather than hope. The violence has already started. For anyone wanting to know how bad it can get, Godwin's eyewitness account of the last election, in 2008, provides graphic detail of the terrorism that Mugabe habitually uses to keep himself in power. No one doubts that he will employ the same methods of murder, torture, rape and arson once again.
Using violence to win elections has become Mugabe's trademark. He first set out his views on electoral democracy in a radio broadcast in 1976 during the guerrilla war against white minority rule in Rhodesia, as Zimbabwe was previously called. "Our votes must go together with our guns," he declared. "After all, any vote we shall have, shall have been the product of the gun." Since coming to power in 1980, he has held fast to this creed, readily resorting to the gun to deal with whatever challenge his regime has faced. He even has boasted of having "a degree in violence." What propels Mugabe is his obsession with holding power.
His overriding ambition, he once admitted, was to achieve total control, and he has pursued that objective with relentless single-mindedness, crushing opponents and critics at will, violating the courts, suppressing the independent press, trampling over property rights and subjecting every arm of government to his whim. His campaign to eliminate opposition in the southern province of Matabeleland in the 1980s culminated in mass murder. As many as 20,000 civilians are estimated to have died. Despite the risks, since 2000 popular resistance to his corrupt and incompetent regime has continued to grow. At each successive election, Mugabe has managed to maintain his position only by resorting to violence and intimidation and by rigging the results. In 2008, however, it seemed for a few brief days of euphoria that the long night of his rule was ending. In the first round of presidential elections, he came in second and lost control of parliament.
It was at this point that Godwin, now based in New York, returned to Harare fully expecting "to dance on Robert Mugabe's political grave." His account of how Mugabe unleashed the army, police, security agencies and party militias to beat the electorate into submission in time for the second round of presidential elections is not for the faint-hearted. Among the electorate it was known simply as "chidudu" -- The Fear. Villagers were beaten en masse and told to "vote Mugabe next time or you will die." Relief supplies for millions of needy Zimbabweans were used as a weapon to coerce their votes. Scores of opposition organizers were murdered by death squads; hundreds were abducted and tortured. Rape, arson attacks and false arrests were commonplace.
Mugabe was open about his intentions. "We are not going to give up our country because of a mere 'X'," he told supporters at one election rally. "How can a ballpoint fight with a gun?"
Traveling around Zimbabwe, Godwin interviewed opposition activists, churchmen, diplomats and beleaguered white farmers and spent much time recording the ordeals of Mugabe's victims. On one occasion, he accompanied the U.S. ambassador, James McGee, a hard-nosed black Vietnam veteran, to a hospital flooded with victims of the violence. Armed police tried to prevent McGee's convoy from leaving by shutting the gates, but he ignored their threats. "What you gonna do? Shoot me?" McGee demanded. "Go ahead." Then he pulled the gate open and waved the convoy through.
Five days before voting was due to start, the opposition candidate, Morgan Tsvangirai, decided to pull out of the election to avert further savagery. He said he could not "ask his supporters to come out and vote for him 'when that vote would cost them their lives,'" Godwin writes. So once again, Mugabe's terror triumphed. "Zimbabwe is mine," he said afterwards. "I will never, never, never, never surrender."
What stands out from Godwin's gripping narrative is not just the scale of death and destruction that Mugabe is willing to inflict on his country for the sake of staying in power, but the extraordinary courage of Zimbabweans who defy his tyranny, knowing full well the consequences of doing so. In one remarkable passage, Godwin describes the "insane bravery" of an opposition candidate who continued to taunt his attackers even while they were beating him and who then, defying doctors' orders, turned up in plaster casts to take his place at the swearing-in ceremony at a local council, confounding Mugabe's supporters there, who assumed he was dead. If there is any hope for the future of this benighted land, it lies in such remarkable resilience.
Martin Meredith is the author of "Mugabe: Power, Plunder and the Struggle for Zimbabwe." His latest book, "Born in Africa: The Quest for the Origins of Human Life," will be published by in May.
Copyright 2011 Washington Post Writers Group
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