The poodles
Trying to write about The Broken Shore by Peter Temple
frustrates me. The Australian mystery drove me crazy at the end, with too many
names, too many pile-ups of events and revealed tales of past horror. And
throughout, some of the Australian lingo interrupted the flow of reading,
despite a glossary at the back.
Still,
still…the writing about place is lyrical. Listen, for instance to this passage:
Rain suited Cromarty. In the old town, it
turned the cobbled gutters to silver streams, darkened the bricks and stones
and tiles, gave the leaves of the evergreen oaks a deep lustre.
And
the man can write about dogs. Not the easiest thing to do without getting
bogged down into sentimentality or cuteness. Joe Cashin, the cop on temporary
Sabbatical recovering from a life-threatening injury, is battling pain and
anomie. What helps, what structures his days are his standard black poodles.
That’s right, you heard me: poodles. But Joe’s dogs aren’t fussy, overly
groomed show dogs—they are intelligent, athletic, eager to chase bunnies, and a
deep comfort to this man who has frayed connections to the humans in his
life. Here, Temple describes the
dogs’ eagerness to reach the kitchen for their evening chow after a vigorous
walk in the hills:
He walked the last stretch as briskly as he
could, and, as he put his hand out to the gate they reached him. Their curly
black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong black
legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in,
nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first
again, stood with furry tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door
jam.
Temple gets the doggie impatience
and pushiness just right. Interestingly, he doesn’t name the dogs and never
describes them individually. They are just “the dogs” or “the poodles.” Like a
species or a tribe of their own.
No comments:
Post a Comment