The Book of Evidence by John Banville
'Extraordinary' is a grossly overused word, but it is not risking accusations of hyperbole to apply it to John Banville's The Book of Evidence.
It's difficult to know exactly where to begin with this - the basics are that Freddie Montgomery steals a Dutch old master and murders a young woman in the process. The book is his account of what led up to his crimes, how he committed them and the aftermath.
Or is it? Here is the first question. The narrator seems to make errors in the telling of his story, go back and reconsider things, remember other things suddenly - all the things that seem to give it the mark of being a genuine account. But there is enough of a twist, right at the end, to cast doubt in the reader's mind - not certainty, but doubt.
And this fits perfectly with one of the themes of the book - the roles that we play. Freddie, it seems, cannot act the kind of role that society demands of him. The evny that he notes for theatre actors mirrors his own apparent inability to play the role of living a 'normal' life. But for Freddie, a 'normal' life is a lie and, all around him, are people living lies. Daphne, his wife, is a closet bisexual. So is his mother. His father was having an affair - so, possibly, was his mother. His friends are living lies too, playing the roles expected of them by society and keeping their real selves hidden behind closed doors - Wally the bar owner and his young shag; Charlie, with his dodgy business dealings and partners, and the question over his sexuality.
So it could be said that Freddie does what he does honestly - or at least that is part of how he attempts to portray it.
On the other hand, it could be said that, having committed the crime with (if we are to believe him) no real planning, Freddie creates a role for himself - that of the criminal, the prisoner. So the crime allows him to do what otherwise he cannot.
So the murder is both his apotheosis and his downfall - and his account maintains a sense of ambivalence about whether what it transforms him into being is good or bad.
What does occur as a result of the crimes is that Freddie finally takes responsibility for something - he admits his guilt. Yet even this comes against a background of his needing to spend time attempting to convince us - or himself? - that others are to blame for everything in his life; his parents, for starters.
And he is obsessed with women - the painting that he steals fascinates him to the extent that he creates a backstory for the subject. In it, he imagines that the act of being painted teaches the subject "how to die". This woman that captivates him is long dead, but his backstory imagines death for her. Freddie's relationship with his mother is troubled - he refers to her more than once as a "bitch" and behaves as though she owes him a living. He finds it entirely easy to run away and leave his wife (and child) potentially in physical danger. His descriptions of both Anna and Foxy show his very mixed attitudes toward them both. Later, he fantasises about sex with all the women in his life, including his mother and a young child.
Does all this suggest that at root, Freddie fears women - cannot control them, feels that he is controlled by them, blames them for everything? Does it suggest that - how Freudian is this - that he is scared of sex and blames them for that? Or is he insecure in his own sexuality? He envies Wally's flamboyant gay customers, his relationships with women are difficult etc. The crime solves his inability - unwillingness - to accept responsibility. His refusal to flee, knowing that he will eventually be caught - and looking forward to it - his comfort at being handcuffed ... all these things suggest a desire to be constrained, to be dominated. Perhaps we're back to sex again - Frankie needs to be dominated; he needs strong women (or men?) to control him.
The writing is exemplary. Banville's prose is a gloriously sensual ride - Freddie's sensualism is superbly conveyed by the language: indeed, his desire for a dictionary in prison, his relishing the words he employs, are sensual acts. And this language, together with the sense that Freddie takes some sort of pleasure in what he has done, that he relates it (or this version of it) with such relish, is what is so reminiscent of Nabokov's Lolita.
Much here is smoke and mirrors. We cannot know what Freddie really thinks or knows or has done - because he will not give us a guarantee that he is telling the truth. So we cannot know what Banville really thinks - or intends us to think. Perhaps it is enough that this slender tome seems to have more layers than millefeuille and leaves you feeling that you've been staring into a bottomless sea that you will never be able to fully fathom. That leaves the reader feeling both incredibly frustrated, desperate to comprehend more - and also incredibly satisfied.
A magnificent read.
