A Preview of “Devlin,” a Novel
James Raymond Fisher, Jr., Ph.D.
© November 5, 2016
A number of you have written asking me about all this business of the "Devlin" novel. Your humble servant long in the tooth has had a tendency to write quickly and published equally quickly without so much as a pause to proofread. Those who follow me are well of aware of this predilection.
The most valuable people are not those that praise our work but those who find it wanting. Seamus "Dirk" Devlin, as one reader has so astutely pointed out, is incidentally about South Africa but critically about Devlin, the United States and the times.
It is 1968 and the US is having a nervous breakdown as is Europe, while Devlin finds himself in the land of apartheid when he has had no acquaintance in his life with people of color.
Being a novel reader of serious novelists -- of whom all are dead -- the idea of a character study such as "The Brothers Karamazov" is clearly germane. I'm no Dostoyevsky but I am one of his acolytes.
Some have asked to see a sample of this work, something to give them a sense of the book. What follows is the opening lines of the Twelfth Chapter. The previous chapters give a developing sense of Devlin's character as he takes on this momentous task of facilitating the formation of a new chemical company in South Africa of an American Affiliate, a British subsidiary and a major South African chemical company. He is an Iowa boy of working class stock thrust into the arena of British colonialism on the strength of his American training.
Those familiar with Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" will understand why this was bound to be a clash of cultures.
The sample follows:
THE BROKEN WING
During dinner the children held sway, while their parents stared into space, only to collapse into love making that rivaled that first time when they were total strangers to each other. It was as if Dirk and Sarah were trying to kill something that was pulling them forward until exhaustion covered them in sleep.
The next morning, which was the Devlin’s fourth Saturday in South Africa, the stares returned between them as everyone dressed, ate breakfast and set out on the required journey to the home of the company’s managing director. This was located on the far north east side of Johannesburg, some ten or fifteen miles away.
It was a bright sunny day warm with a gentle breeze. The sky was high and clear in a majestic blue. Sunlight seemed to wink through the trees that lined the route out of Rosebank as they passed into mock countryside. Stately homes ten or more acres apart caused Devlin to think of Chicago’s mainline suburbs as sandboxes. Smiling to himself, he directed the car around a small hill to see a large handmade sign, “Waverley Manor Straight Ahead.” Smaller signs marked the way into the area for another mile. One thing was clear, he mused, Mark Mathews was not subtle.
After another quarter of a mile, they came to a narrow gravel road and drove through an arched gate with the family crest mounted in the center, “Waverley Manor.” A wall of tall trees standing like sentinels arching across to form a broad umbrella of cover framed the road. Shards of light shot through these branches to nearly blind Devlin as he came upon the manor. It took him a few seconds to adjust his eyes, angry for not purchasing sunglasses.
* * *
Devlin had seen postcards of such homes but he wasn't prepared for the reality. The manor had a quiet elegance but seemed too massive to be a home with a naked circular cobblestone drive, the sun causing the stones to materialize like precious gems. Otherwise, the dignity of the place was simplicity itself devoid of trappings.
The house, set off by the circular cobblestones, made him think of a strand of pearls around the elegant neck of a lady as the manor clearly had a woman’s touch further accentuated by the blond thatched roof, something Devlin had not seen before. Was the roof meant to imply “going native" without having to? In any case, he liked it as the place put him in awe.
There was a separate building of the same design housing four sporty looking automobiles all positioned with their hoods facing the drive as if at the starting line of a drag race. For some reason, it sent a chill through him. He was never into cars.
To the east several thatched roofed cottages formed a semi-circle beyond the main house. He assumed them to be servant or guest quarters. He noted there was no fence but that a brook ran along the west side of the estate nearly a quarter mile away. A small bridge spanned the brook, and beyond it was a clearing with an earthen border that framed a field of lush greens that put him in mind of a golf course. On the western horizon were rolling hills and an oak glen and checkerboard pastures, but not another dwelling in sight. The Transvaal took his breath away. Could anything in the world be more beautiful?
“Look, daddy!" exclaimed Rosie, “Horses. Can we go see them?”
Devlin was so mesmerized by the thatched roofs and the splendor of the place that he hadn’t noticed the horses beyond the brook, or the colorful collection of umbrellas with people penciled around them against a cluster of oaks that lit the grass in chiaroscuro pools of uneven soft light. The word ‘tranquility’ came to mind.
“We’ll see, honey, but first we must visit our hosts.”
Rosie pouted and pulled at her new dress, but said nothing
Iowa farms were large with small, modest well-kept homes, barns and silos, but nothing grand, he was thinking, as he approached the house. He was surprised with the pitch of the gabled thatched roof as he approached the house that rose like a cathedral only to be supported by plain white stucco walls with prominent turrets on the third level displaying large bay windows with a circular veranda on the second level, and an open terrace on the first level that also encircled the mansion like a medieval moat. It made him wonder what to expect once inside this manor. Here he was, a working class American, sent to show the colonial Brits who lived in this aristocratic grandeur how to create a mega corporation. It was absurd.
The absurdity was compounded when four Bantu servants dressed in white suits materialized beyond the manor’s massive double doors, and stood at attention to greet the Devlins. A man clearly the head of the staff came forward and said, “Welcome to South Africa! I’ll escort you to the Mathews family.” And so the incongruity of this adventure began.
* * *
No comments:
Post a Comment