This feels slight in comparison to his last few books. I'm not entirely certain why. It's possibly because this is three very loosely interconnected novellas rather than a continuous narrative.
There really isn't any structural link between any of the three stories. Once character appears as a best friend to the lead character of the first, ex wife of the second narrator, and publisher of the third narrator. Other than that and the stories being set in Barcelona, there's no real connection. There are a couple of Easter eggs but nothing truly substantial.
The first story is narrated by Amy, a small shopkeeper in Barcelona who meets a young immigrant man soon after he's been attacked and starts on a life changing affair with him. This story starts well but descends into an unconvincing final act. Trying not to leave spoilers, I understand how the solution given to her problem in the last third of the story works dramatically to increase tension, but that's not how these things work in real life. It was a frustrating end to the story.
The second story features an alcoholic ex-musician. He runs into Ronaldinho (the Barca football player) in the street, then later in the bar he frequents and starts a friendship. This story takes some reading between the lines, although it becomes more transparent as time goes on what exactly is happening.
My problem with this story is my own personal prejudice against football, football players, and fans who think football players are some type of freaking gods. It makes my eyes glaze over, especially at a time like this with a major contest on, when you can't turn on the tv or social media without boring twats whittering on about the game. I probably did miss some early important aspects of this section because of the internal eyerolling due to the behaviour of this particular narrator. It's something I want to avoid and not read about.
It turns very dark by the end of the story which makes up in part for the worship for football players on display.
The third story is narrated by a translator of foreign books who befriends/is befriended by a charismatic but maybe not entirely trustworthy new neighbour from the penthouse of the apartment block he lives in. This story is full of oddities and at times seems like it might be supernatural. It's very ambiguous and feels almost unresolved.
The location is very well realised. Thomson clearly has his finger on the pulse of life in Barcelona. His prose is just as good as usual. The characters are well drawn (even the Ronaldinho worshipper). The issue is that none of the stories feel really satisfying. They all cut off just as they're getting really interesting.
If he was aiming for this to be his own New York Tapestry, it's not quite hit the mark. I've had a great time reading it. It's a genuinely good book, and better than a lot of the books I've written about in the last few years. But I judge Thomson on his own standards and this doesn't reach the pinnacles that the Insult or Five Gates of Hell or Dreams of Leaving reached.
A qualified hit rather than anything resembling a miss. I know if I'd read it when I wasn't suffering from the fatigue of an overload of football from all media, I could probably have given the second story a better chance. I may have to read it again sometime.
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