Maggie O’Farrell and The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox
Maggie O’Farrel’s The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is also a book club pick, but oh, what a pick! I remember somewhere reading a review; I might never have picked this book up if I hadn’t needed to read it for the club. And oh, what I might have missed!
It’s like the scariest book ever written, scary in a Margaret Atwood kind of way, a reminder that women have not had rights for very long, and that those rights are still very fragile. When economies go bottoms-up, when unemployment begins rising, women are often the first to suffer, and women’s rights the first to go. In hard times, men will be preferred hirings, because they have families to support, laws to “protect” women are passed, especially laws which “protect” her finances, meaning gives the power of the money management to some man to do for her, or “protect” her person by requiring that some man accompany her to keep her from dangers. Protection = control. It keeps some smart, thinking women submissive to men who are in every way their inferior.
In Vanishing, Maggie O’Farrel writes of such a woman, Esme Lennox, who is a fey spirit, born in India, with the eyes of an artist. While her “good” sister Kitty obeys the rules, walks the straight and narrow path, Esme is messier. As she grows to adolescence, her eccentricity and her rebellion against the constricts of the life in turn-of-the-century Scotland chafe, she yearns for more room to breathe, intellectually, socially, as her family, her community and her society continues to pressure her to conform.
One of the key events in the book is the death of Esme’s baby brother, of typhoid fever. Abandoned, Esme sits holding her dead brother’s body for three days until her family returns (the baby-keeper also died and the other employees deserted while Esme’s family was away). Esme is devastated, but the focus is on her mother, who is wrought with guilt and isolates herself, and Esme, only a little girl, is forbidden to even say her beloved baby brother’s name. Part of what plays a huge role in this book is society, expectations, and all that is hidden and unspoken – as Esme becomes, a family secret, locked away for sixty years.
Their grandmother swept into the room ‘Kitty,’ there was an unaccustomed smile on her face, ‘stir yourself. You have a visitor.’
Kitty put down her needle. ‘Who?’
Their mother appeared behind the grandmother. ‘Kitty,’ she said ‘quickly put that away. He’s here, he’s downstairs . . . ‘
. . . .
Esme watched from the window-seat as her mother started fiddling with Kitty’s hari, tucking it behind her ears, then releasing it. . . . . Ishbel turned and, catching sight of Esme at the window, said ‘You, too. Quickly now.’
Esme took the stairs slowly. She had no desire to meet one of Kitty’s suitors. They all seemed the same to her – nervous men with over-combed hair, scrubbed hands and pressed shirts. They came and drank tea, and she and Kitty were expected to talk to them while their mother sat like an umpire in a chair across the room. The whole thing made Esme want to burst into honesty, to say, let’s forget this charade, do you want to marry her or not?
She dawdled on the landing, looking at a grim, grey-skied watercolour of the Fife coast. But her grandmother appeared in the hall below. ‘Esme!’ she hissed, and Esme clattered down the stairs.
In the drawing room, she plumped down in a chair with high arms in the corner. She wound her ankles round its polished legs and eyed the suitor. The same as ever. Perhaps a little more good-looking than some of the others. Blond hair, an arrogant forehead, fastidious cuffs. He was asking Ishbel something about the roses in a bowl on the table. Esme had to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Kitty was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, pouring tea into a cup, a blush creeping up her neck.
Esme began playing the game she often played with herself at times like this, looking over the room and working out how she might get round it without touching the floor. She could climb from the sofa to the low table and, from there, to the fender stool. Along that, and then –
She realized her mother was loooking at her, saying something.
‘What was that?” Esme said.
‘James was addressing you.’ her mother said, and the slight flare of her nostrils meant, Esme knew, that she’d better behave or there would be trouble later.
As with many inconvenient women, Esme ends up committed at a loony-bin, and sixty years later, is released into the custody of a grand-niece who never even knew Esme existed.
The thoughts, trials and escapades of three women, Esme, her sister Kitty, and Iris, the grand-niece, intertwine through out the book, and the picture is cloudy at first, blurry, shifting, fragmented The pattern becomes more and more clear as the three threads of thought are woven – ever more tightly – together.
I could not put this book down. Finding out how the picture came together became more important than checking my messages, my blog, or fixing dinner. It was compelling, and resulted in a quick and unforgettable read.
Obama and Dreams From My Father
It took me 20 days, but I finished Barack Obama’s Dreams From My Father. I didn’t read it because he is President of the United States, although that would be a good reason, but I read it because our book club is reading it, and I know how busy the next few months are going to be, so I read ahead during the slower times of summer.
And the trick to finishing it was not allowing myself to read anything else until I had finished – I had a stack of really intriguing books to urge me on. “As soon as I finish, I can read . . . ” Even with all that incentive, Obama’s book is a slog.
He is a gifted orator. He is a plodding writer. There is also a problem I find with autobiographies by anyone – we all fool ourselves, we all position ourselves in a better light, and we have no idea how transparent we are when we do so. Fellow bloggers, do you ever read anything you have written a couple years ago and squirm with embarrassment, or even delete? To be an author is a very very brave thing, when you have a book published, there is no going back, your transgressions are all right out there, and the public can be cruelly critical.
What I liked about the book is Obama-as-Third-Culture-Kid, a man of mixed identity. Most kids who have grown up moving or grown up in different countries from their own, or who have immigrated, can tell you, being an alien is no fun. Obama learns how to adapt, how to look for clues to fitting in, how to pass. It’s a common theme in Third-Culture-Kids.
My favorite part of the book was his return to Kenya, his openness to his African roots, the open-armed love with which his Kenyan half-brothers and sisters welcome him and his response. He had some truly extraordinary adventures, working out just who his father had been as a person. He was blessed to recognize the richness of his inheritance.
The book plods along, but it was worth the time. For all it’s flaws, I find I like that man, and I understand more about where he is coming from. (for grammarians, I understand more about from where the man is coming.) 🙂
Apartment Building Coming Down
Expats have their own shorthand, we understand one another when we talk about Doha, although the locals would not have a clue what we are talking about. So I will tell you that this apartment building was newly built at-the-end-of-Indian-Crafts-Street, you know, where the Christmas shop is – and those expats who have lived in Doha for a while will know exactly where that is.
They never even put the glass windows and balcony doors in – at some point, they must have gotten word that all this will come down for the new Dohaland, or Heart of Doha – a revival of the historical district of Qatar.
I won’t complain. I love what they did for the Suq al Waqif, which has been reinvigorated by the new life injected with the restauraunts and cafes. The same shops line the interiors, only now they have more and varied customers.
it just seems like there might be more co-ordination. This apartment building should not have even been started. I hate waste.
Temperatures Coming Down
I gasped when I saw the temperature this morning on Weather Underground:
Not even 90°F! A cool 86°F! Wooo HOOO, the temperatures are seriously coming down.
Here is the expected high in Doha today – you cannot imagine, this is a seriously LOW temperature after a blistering summer:
I’m not exactly breaking out the snowsuits, but lower temperatures will make the upcoming month of Ramadan more comfortable for those who are fasting.
Breakfast at the Beirut Restaurant, Suq al Waqif, Doha
“We want to take you for breakfast at the Beirut!” my friend said with enthusiasm, and I was shocked. She is totally covered. How could we eat at the Beirut? I remember her family loves the Beirut, and I remember lining up with all the other cars along Shar’aa al Karaba’a to buy felafel and foul and hummos, yes, oh yes, such good felafel. But it wasn’t really a place for ladies, especially covered ladies and their daughters.
As is usual with this friend, I never really have the complete picture. When my niece and I go to pick up my friend and her daughter, it is actually my friend and three daughters and we squeeze into my car and head – not to Karaba’a, but to the Suq al Waqif!
When I go to park in one of the new, tiny, narrow little parking spots, my friend laughs and says “You park like an American! I am going to show you how to park like us!” and she points to the one tree off in an unpaved area, and sure enough, there is one spot, not in the shade of the tree but in the shade of a large truck parked in the shade of the tree. “Now you are learning to park like we do!” she laughs, and I laugh too, I am always learning something from this friend.
We walk a short distance and she leads me into a restaurant which on the outside says Matam Beiroot, but it’s in Arabic. If you are walking from the upper parking lot, it is one of the very first buildings you come to, at the top of the street.
Inside, there are all kinds of tables and chairs, but my friend and her daughters lead us upstairs to the family section, where we sit off in the corner, so she and her daughters can sit with their backs to other customers while we eat. We are a strange group, two women covered head to toe, two younger girls in hijab, my blue-eyed-blonde niece and me, laughing and enjoying each other so much in the corner.
Since then, I have been back many times. The Beirut is a lot of fun for breakfast. They have wonderful felafel, and several different great hummos, and they have beans and the ubiquitous french fries, and tea. Grammy and I grabbed a quick bite there on our trip to the Suqs.
I really am so bad at remembering to take photos. This is where the felafel used to be, before we dipped them in the lemon juice and gobbled them all up:
here is what is left of the hummos:
And here is the traditional style ceiling with traditional style light fixtures:
Doha Ramadan Frenzy
As my friend Grammy and I wandered through the back streets of Suq al Wa’ef 😉 yesterday, we came across this frenzied scene, all the machines humming, and new dresses for Ramadan being made. I asked if I could take a photo – I think it puzzles them that I would want to, but I loved watching them stitch away:
Civil Defiance
When I took the photo of this, I thought it was a lot funnier than it is. When I took the photo, I thought it said “Civil Defiance” and thought it was a great entry for the Fail Blog. Once I uploaded the photo and saw that it was just a mis-spelling, it was much less interesting.
Qatar Murals
You know how I love public art. I especially loved, in Kuwait, how all the power stations had scenes of dhows, and majaalis, and lanterns – Kuwait things. In Doha, there is a long wall – I think it might be around a power station, but I am not sure.
Yesterday AdventureMan had to take a phone call and – probably because I was in the car – pulled over to take it. We were right across from the wall, which I have been dying to photograph but never could because we were always zipping right by and there was a lot of traffic.
Fridays are quiet. It was during Friday prayers, perfect. Here are some photos:
This one is my favorite. I know the boat is carrying gas, but don’t they look like huge, giant pearls? And then look to the left, to the reference to the giant oyster on the Corniche with the gigantic pearl:
We Look, But We Don’t See
It was a long phone conversation. As I sat there, I saw this house/compound straight ahead, right on this very busy road, but all walled off, with a big gate in front. I saw the lattice-work around the top – this is not the oldest stuff, but this, I would guess, is from the fifty’s or sixty’s, pre-gas wealth. There are villas like this all over poorer areas of town, now, many have been converted for commercial uses.
I lived in a villa a lot like this in Tunisia. It was long and low. Inside, the ceilings were high, I think it helped keep the place cool in the long hot summers. It was all white. All the bedrooms were off in one area, and the public areas off in another – a very handy way of living, I have found.
It also has that nice big tree growing inside, providing a shaded place for a picnic. I wonder if they also have some little gardens inside? It looks to me like maybe there are still people living here – there are a lot of vehicles parked in front.
Cops Find Motorists Beating Point System in Qatar
Motorists trading penalty points
Web posted at: 8/14/2009 7:42:18
Source ::: THE PENINSULA
DOHA: Some motorists have hit upon a novel idea to escape being penalised for traffic violations under the current points system, which many find deterring.
They look for people with a valid driver’s licence who are willing to get the points transferred to their name for a fee.
There is no dearth of those who are offering such services and they, obviously, are low-income foreign workers, reports Al Sharq. The going rate for a penal point transfer is around QR100.
Since traffic violations are recorded against the number plates of the vehicles, traffic officials ask the owners who was driving the vehicle when the violation took place. All an owner needs to do is provide the name of the “paid volunteer” with his driver’s licence.
“This is a new phenomenon which has come to light after the traffic authorities put stringent rules in place to check violations,” said the daily.
The points system was introduced after the authorities realised the rate of accidents was not coming down despite hefty penalties being slapped on violators. Cash-rich motorists were undeterred as they gladly paid heavy fines for violations.
But in the current points system, a motorist accumulating 14 points for traffic violations in a year can see his driver’s licence suspended for three months.
The next year, if he accumulates 12 points, his licence is suspended for two months, while in the third year it is suspended for a month if the points add up to 10. In the fourth year, a motorist needs to join a driving school and undergo tests afresh to seek a driver’s licence if he accumulates 10 points for violations as his existing licence is revoked.
According to Al Sharq, a number of people have been calling for doing away with the points system and reintroducing the old penalty system.
Jumping traffic lights attracts the maximum points at seven, while wrong parking of a car or breaching the speed limit can see some three points credited into the driver’s account. Minor violations attract fewer points.
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