Living in the past

<strong>Land of Marvels</strong>

<em>Barry Unsworth</em>

Hutchinson, 304pp, £18.99

Barry Unsworth's last two novels, The Songs of the Kings and The Ruby in her Navel, were set in ancient Greece and medieval Sicily respectively, so, by setting Land of Marvels, his 16th book, in Mesopotamia under the Ottoman empire in 1914, he has returned to comparatively modern times. His main character, John Somerville, is a British archaeologist working on a self-financed dig excavating a mound in what is now western Iraq. After three years of insignificant finds, he is running out of money and time: the German- financed Baghdad Railway that will link Constantinople to the Persian Gulf is heading for his site and may reach him in weeks. (In the real world, the outbreak of the First World War put a stop to the railway's construction, and when the first train travelled along the completed line in 1940, Constantinople was called Istanbul and Baghdad was the capital of the newish state of Iraq.)

Somerville, more interested in ancient civilisation than in modern politics, dreams of making a discovery to rival the identification of the Assyrian capital Nineveh in the previous century. His indifference to the contemporary blinds him to the significance of events around him; it also isolates him from the other characters and from his wife, Edith, in particular. Edith longs to be the "support and companion of a man of purpose", and thought Somerville fitted this description when she married him. As Somerville digs and Edith consoles herself by reading Walter Scott novels, a British major compiles survey maps of the region and they are joined by Alex Elliott, an American geologist posing as an archaeologist, who is looking for signs of oil in the desert.

Other characters include a Bedouin tribesman whom Somerville bribes for news of the railway, a female history graduate who annoys Edith with her talk of votes for women, a pair of Swedish missionaries looking for the site of the Garden of Eden, and Lord Rampling, an ungentlemanly Englishman (touches of the finan­cier Calouste Gulbenkian?) with a stake in the Anglo-Persian Oil Company (BP's forerunner), who dresses in splendid-sounding outfits of pale green linen with lavender silk shirts and carries a silver-tipped cane.

Too many of the novel's cast are monomaniacs in the grip of their individual obsessions, and Unsworth divides the book so evenly between the characters that there are too many monomanias to follow and not enough time for any of them to seem engaging. In addition to this mob of characters, almost every scene in Land of Marvels is loaded with past and present significance. It's almost too much for 300 well-spaced pages to bear. Somerville's reflections on the rise and fall of the Assyrian kings are perhaps the most interesting part of the book in terms of information (though later history is made up for plot purposes), but are also the most static; a trip to the British Museum, which houses most of A H Layard's Assyrian finds, would tell you just as much.

The novel has two epigraphs: part of Kipling's "Recessional" ("Lo, all our pomp of yesterday/ Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!") and a 1923 American newspaper article about the benefits of Middle Eastern oil. Unsworth seems similarly divided as his subject wavers between the arrogance of self-proclaimed civilisations and the consequences of a particular moment in 20th-century history. Eventually he opts for the latter story and an action-packed finale, which is disconcerting after the ponderousness that has preceded it. The literally explosive ending is then followed by a postscript that you could easily imagine, in shortened form, descending on a screen just before the credits of the film adaptation roll. We learn what happens to all the characters, but the parallels Unsworth draws between then and now, and then and even longer ago, are too vague and too many to be very satisfying as either fiction or a history lesson.

This article first appeared in the 26 January 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Nixon went to China... Will Obama go to Iran?

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The Bloody Mary is dead: all hail the Bloody Caesar

This Canadian version of an old standard is a good substitute for dinner.

It is not anti-Catholic bias that makes me dislike the Bloody Mary, that lumpish combination of tomato juice and vodka named after a 16th-century English queen who, despite the immense reach of her royal powers, found burning Protestants alive the most effective display of majesty.

My prejudice is against its contents: the pulverised tomatoes that look like run-off from a Tudor torture chamber. A whole tomato is a source of joy and, occasionally, wonder (I remember learning that the Farsi for tomato is gojeh farangi, which translates literally as “foreign plum”) – and I am as fond of pizza as anyone. Most accessories to the Bloody Mary are fine with me: Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, celery, black pepper, even sherry or oysters. But generally I share the curmudgeon Bernard DeVoto’s mistrust of fruit juice in my spirits: “all pestilential, all gangrenous, all vile” was the great man’s verdict. His main objection was sweetness but I will include the admittedly savoury tomato in my ban. At the cocktail hour, I have been known to crave all kinds of odd concoctions but none has included pulp.

To many, the whole point of a Bloody Mary is that you don’t wait until the cocktail hour. This seems to entail a certain shying away from unpleasant realities. I know perfectly well the reaction I would get if I were to ask for a grilled tomato and a chilled Martini at brunch: my friends would start likening me to F Scott Fitzgerald and they wouldn’t be referring to my writing talent. Despite its remarkably similar contents, a Bloody Mary is a perfectly acceptable midday, middle-class beverage. If the original Mary were here to witness such hypocrisy, she would surely tut and reach for her firelighters.

Yet, like the good Catholic I certainly am not, I must confess, for I have seen the error of my ways. In July, on Vancouver Island, I tried a Bloody Caesar – Canada’s spirited response to England’s favourite breakfast tipple (“I’ll see your Tudor queen, you bunch of retrograde royalists, and raise you a Roman emperor”). The main difference is a weird yet oddly palatable concoction called Clamato: tomato juice thinned and refined by clam juice. Replace your standard slop with this stuff, which has all the tang of tomato yet flows like a veritable Niagara, and you will have a drink far stranger yet more delicious than the traditional version.

Apparently, the Caesar was invented by an Italian restaurateur in Calgary, Alberta, who wanted a liquid version of his favourite dish from the old country: spaghetti alle vongole in rosso (clam and tomato spaghetti). He got it – and, more importantly, the rest of us got something we can drink not at breakfast but instead of dinner. Find a really interesting garnish – pickled bull kelp or spicy pickled celery, say – and you can even claim to have eaten your greens.

I’m sure that dedicated fans of the Bloody Mary will consider this entire column heretical, which seems appropriate: that’s the side I was born on, being Jewish, and I like to hope I wouldn’t switch even under extreme forms of persuasion. But this cocktail is in any case a broad church: few cocktails come in so many different incarnations.

The original was invented, according to him, by Fernand Petiot, who was a French barman in New York during Prohibition (and so must have known a thing or two about hypocrisy). It includes lemon juice and a “layer” of Worcestershire sauce and the tomato juice is strained; it may also actually have been named after a barmaid.

All of which proves only that dogma has no place at the bar. Variety is the spice of life, which makes it ironic that the world’s spiciest cocktail bestows a frivolous immortality on a woman who believed all choice to be the work of the devil.

Next week John Burnside on nature

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis