It’s all in the climax: Mercy by Jussi Adler-Olsen

 Detective fiction isn’t for everybody… to write that is. Agatha Christie had the ability to make her readers feel trapped, gasping for air while fighting to reason out the identity of the culprit. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, well not so much. But he’s a rare exception where the period between crime committed and crime solved tends to be more exciting than the first and last chapters put together.

Christie and Conan Doyle are my favourite authors from the genre. But having devoured their tales long ago, I haven’t read any good detective fiction in quite some time. I thus decided to give Mercy by Jussi Adler-Olsen a chance because the synopses were so damn intriguing.

Merete Lynggaard, a charismatic politician is kidnapped and tortured like a prisoner of war in a mysterious room. Her only task: to answer why her perpetrators are doing this to her. Five years later, Carl Mørck, a police detective no one wants to work with, is made head of the “elite” Department Q. With a pile of old, unsolved crimes to work on, Lynggaard’s is the first cold case he picks up. Being the “best detective on the force”, he soon chances upon some blaring inconsistencies left behind by the original detective who worked on the case. Armed with his vast experience on the force, disdain for his fellow human beings and a dubious, but sharp middle-eastern assistant, he must uncover the truth before it’s too late.

The appeal of detective fiction lies in the climax. A spine chilling beginning and a heart racing middle amount to nothing if the end doesn’t leave the little hairs on the back of your neck tingling for days to come. Mercy comes close, more so because we uncover the truth 100 pages before it ends. What’s left is thus a riveting chase to catch the bad guys before they get away with it.

Mystery stories these days need to go beyond detectives with attitudes and sidekicks they love and hate in equal measure. What works for Mercy is that once you step over the threshold it’s impossible to put it down. The plots, sub-plots and the various characters we’re introduced to, not to mention Mørck’s investigative cunning, are completely fascinating.

But at the end of it, Jussi Adler-Olsen is just, erm, all right. This isn’t to criticise the author’s storytelling ability. I just believe that we have actually read and watched that many detective novels and movies.

You might buy this one, having chanced upon it the minute you walk into a store… that is, after all, where all the Bestsellers are handsomely stacked. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t leave you thrilled enough to track the author’s bibliography with as much interest as you might others.

Verdict: Best borrowed

Afsha’s Message: Ping me if you want to borrow my copy. We can talk in more detail then. Cheerio. 

Mariette in Ecstasy - Catholic Literature

"Waterdrops from the night's dew haltingly creep down green reeds.

A rabbit skitters forward in the priest's garden and twitches a radish leaf with its nose before tearing it loose. Ears tilt as it hastily chews and settles over its paws."

We are instantly transported to a cold early morning in 1906 where The Sisters of the Crucifixion are getting ready to welcome their new postulant - Mariette Baptiste, into their sisterhood. From then on the story unravels like yarn off a knitted scarf as the sisters are torn apart by Mariette's love for Jesus and the resulting physical and mental manifestations of what seems like, at times an affliction and other times, ecstasy. The first chapter contains an invitation to the marriage of Jesus, Our lord and redeemer to Mariette Baptiste. To write anything more on the story would be giving it away. However those expecting a catholic version of Emanuelle, this is not that. While the title in itself might have a sexual overtone, ecstasy originally described the body in rapture or frenzy while the soul contemplated divine thoughts. Only later, in the 17th century, did Ecstasy take on a sexual meaning.

Ecstasy however seems to take the backseat to love as Ron Hansen draws you into their lives and your hours and days are guided by the invocation of their saints and songs. The 21st of October is to them the Mass of Saint Teresa of Avila, Virgin. Characters are drawn with cinematic precision. The prioress reminds you of the reverend mother in The Sound of Music. Suddenly you find yourself humming Climb Every Mountain. Mother Saint Raphael, a taskmaster that watches over a gaggle of five novices- sisters in training, and stares them into submission. For those of us who grew up with the movie, you cannot but imagine Maria as Mariette and wonder how the movie would have been if infused with nostalgia for a life lost and tension as they all compete for the love of one man.

Ron Hansen, said in an interview, that he wanted to give us an intimate glimpse into the secret life of sisters and their rhythmic existence that serves only one purpose, the worship of their lord. There are obvious complications that would rise from thirty women loving the same man. Somewhat similar to what Big Love - the HBO production, tried to achieve. He could have made it a soap opera with a large ending and I would have still loved it. But what got me was the restraint, almost as a mark of respect to the story and his characters. While miraculous events are showcased, they never become vulgar in their exhibition. This is possibly why the movie, made in 1996 to a screenplay also written by Hansen, was never released in the US. Any successful Hollywood version would have to be a parody of the book.

Mariette in Ecstasy begs to be read aloud. The delicious prose needs to coat your tongue. As I finished it I started reading selected passages again just to feel the words swirl around my mouth. A gem of a book.

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Poem | My lazy blue hills

They look lazy, asleep almost

having their daily siesta.

My presence seems to disturb them,

as if I was that significant.

They breathe in harmony with all that is.

The white blanket that envelops them

melts as they wake from an afternoon slumber

and come alive as the sun starts to set in

colours of blood orange and gold.

I, in spite of my Tom fords and French beret

seem at peace too, despite myself for

I am in comparison, new.

Like a shiny buckle on a withered, worn, yet priceless belt.

Amid this most exquisite picture,

never has my being been more felt.

Or have I had the chance to know for one instant,

what I would have seen through those eyes that seventh day

when all was said to have become what it is now.

One may feel that Spinoza speaks the truth

As it feels all god is embodied here

Not in churches, temples, or synagogues

Where we spill blood over the arbitrary and often untrue.

Here is my temple, my sanctuary and my soul

My prayers, my song, my truth.

- Reshma Krishnan

Flight of the SatNav lady

No matter how many times I travel, I can’t rid myself of these bouts of paranoia. It's become a ritual for me to chew my nails, or the nearest person’s brains from the moment I wake up to the minute I receive my boarding pass.

Sometimes I go so far as to make a list of all the things that could delay my departure – traffic, taxis, breakdowns, cows – usually, this actually helps me strengthen my backup plan in case these calamities strike.

But on a recent trip to Germany, I didn’t quite anticipate the most terrifying catastrophe of them all – the SatNav lady. Let me just point out that if Google Maps is a dog, eager to please in any way possible, the SatNav lady is a cat. Go figure.

Anyway, we were to drive from Dilligen, an hour and a half from Munich, to Frans Josef Strauss airport. We got as comfortable as we could -- four adults with four large suitcases, two small carry on bags, not to mention backpacks -- when the following happened:

Please turn right and then take a right again.

Fair enough.

Please turn right (again) in 100 meters.

Are you sure?

Please turn right.

If you say so.

Please take a U-Turn if possible.

But you just said…

Please take a U-Turn if possible.

Well, you are the expert and I don't really have a choice, so...

Please turn left.

But that’s taking us back to the hotel.

Now, turn right onto the A8 to Munich.

But we haven’t even gotten out of Dilligen yet. We're not from around here but even we know that’s not for a couple of miles.

Please take a U-Turn if possible.

I don’t think she knows where she’s going. Somebody summon Google Maps… NOW!

Prepare to reach a dead end.

But.. I'll miss my flight! I need to sign into work tomorrow morning… I’ll loose my job! What did I ever do to you? *bawling inside my head*

In that case, drive on for a 100 miles and THEN turn right onto the A8 to Munich.

 Thank you. Thank you so much. How can I ever repay you for doing the job for which you were invented?

150 Miles Later

You have reached your destination.

Wait! This isn’t the airport. It’s the autobahn and no one seems to be going anywhere below 200 kmph. Damn you SatNav lady!!!!

(Some of the above might have happened inside my head)

The Blind Watchmaker

(For all the lovers of fantasy and Sci-fi fiction)

A blind watchmaker sits at the seam

Weaving time from every dream

Making sure that seconds do not go to waste

as every clock is running out of steam.

The wheels of time are turning around

The monks wail that things are upside down

Because the sweeper has got a golden eye

And time stops when the sweeper dies.

And when time stops the world it weeps

Because sadness of death, it starts to creep

Life is slow dying, it’s a matter of time

When time starts dying, so will mankind.

So to save all mankind, the blind watchmaker wakes

Sitting at the seams of time, he takes

Every wasted second from every dream

Until every clock gets back its steam.

Reshma Krishnan

“life is slow dying” - borrowed from “nothing to be said” by Philip Larkin.