Antoine Wilson
Allen & Unwin
Otago Daily Times, May 14th 2022
The saying goes that when you save a person’s life, they become your responsibility forever. The consequences of the lives of saviour and saved becoming thus enmeshed are examined in Antonine Wilson’sspare and thought-provoking third novel.
When a second-rate novelist chances on a high-school acquaintance, Jeff, during an unexpected airport layover, he is quick to accept an invitation to join him in the VIP lounge until their flights clear. But Jeff’s offer is more than mere altruism, for, like Coleridge’s ancient mariner, he is determined to share a story he has never revealed to a soul. Years ago, he rescued a drowning man on a deserted beach, even though “he could have walked away…pretended he hadn’t seen what he’s seen… left [it] to unfold by itself, as nature might have intended.” After the shock of his heroism wears off, Jeff becomes obsessed with the man he saved – celebrated art dealer Francis Arsenault – and orchestrates an ‘accidental’ meeting, and although Francis fails to recognise him, Jeff is soon swept into his orbit, much to his advantage. But the more he learns about Francis, who is an egotistical bully, the more Jeff questions whether he truly deserves a second chance or if his death would have been no great loss to the world.
The surreal nature of Jeff’s tale is accentuated by breaks in his narrative that return the focus to the purgatorial limbo of the transit lounge, and it is clear to neither the reader nor the writer why, after decades of silence, Jeff has chosen this moment to bare his soul. Is he seeking absolution, acknowledgement, or trying to make his version of the story a de facto reality? He freely admits he owes his current fortune to Francis but insists that, initial encounter aside, subsequent developments were pure serendipity. Any attempt by the writer to reassure him that Jeff’s desire for Francis’s gratitude is perfectly natural is brushed off with dark warnings to wait until he hears the full story, and he admits to fearing “I had become monstrously deceptive and selfish, on the order of Francis himself, as if he had infected me the moment I had put my mouth to his”.
The motives of the writer – any writer – are equally suspect. Here is a failing author presented, quite literally, with a tale with the potential to become a best-seller and the central character’s blessing to use it for his own benefit. He may not have stolen the story, which is more than some other novelists can say. Still, it is a Faustian bargain if, in so doing, he enables a morally questionable man to curate his own self-portrait: evidence either that the writer has been infected with the same self-interest or that such weakness is the natural state of the world.
That all this can be packed into less than 200 pages is a testament to Wilson’s ability as a writer. What the reader makes of it is their responsibility.
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