Drive la France: a taxi driver in Paris in 1929. Photo: Getty
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Home and away: The Prince’s Boy by Paul Bailey and Other People’s Countries by Patrick McGuinness

Two new novels, about a Romanian in Paris in the 1920s and a Belgian living near the French border respectively, are examinations of nationality and identity.

The Prince’s Boy
Paul Bailey
Bloomsbury, 160pp, £16.99

Other People’s Countries: a Journey into Memory
Patrick McGuinness
Jonathan Cape, 208pp, £14.99

In his recent memoir about Paris, Inside a Pearl, Edmund White recalls that a meeting he organised between the francophile English novelist Julian Barnes and the anglophile French novelist Marc Cholodenko turned out to be “stiff” because neither had any interest in the other’s country except as a source of “counter-examples” with which to mock compatriots. Cholodenko hasn’t been published in Britain but readers of Barnes’s work will be familiar with his manner of invoking the French – “The English don’t have cousins the way they do”, etc – and a variation of the strategy can be recognised in Evelyn Waugh’s use of Africans and Martin Amis’s use of Americans. It’s a kind of chauvinism that feigns engagement.

When the novelist Paul Bailey first visited Romania, at the end of the Ceausescu years, he went as a former south London grammar school boy and a novelist in a consciously English tradition. It has taken him a while to engage with the country on its own terms. In Kitty and Virgil (1998), the Romanian character was seen from the perspective of an Englishwoman. In Uncle Rudolf (2002), Romanian experience was recalled by a naturalised Englishman.

Bailey’s new novel, The Prince’s Boy, presents a rich man’s son named Dinu, who travels from Gara de Nord in Bucharest to the Gare du Nord in Paris in 1927 with a view to becoming a poet or novelist. Instead, partly thanks to his reading of Proust, he becomes an academic. More significantly, he meets a fellow Romanian, Razvan, a well-known prostitute and an alleged acquaintance of Proust, with whom he falls in love. The mood of Dinu’s reminiscences, composed in the late 1960s, is one of rapture shot through with loss, the latter emotion becoming stronger when the story reaches the 1930s and Dinu’s homeland starts to display its “talent for farcical brutality”.

To discover in the final pages that Dinu, “Romanian by birth, French by choice”, ended up as an accidental Englishman is a source less of disappointment than relief. It explains, if belatedly, the fussiness of the book’s prose: “green in the ways of the flesh”, “inspirational aspirations”, “What in God’s holy name was happening to me?”, “our mutual hunger once assuaged”. And it confirms Bailey’s reluctance to coddle the reader with an Anglocentric viewpoint.

When Julian Barnes wrote a story about a Romanian in exile, “One of a Kind”, he chose as his narrator an English novelist full of Barnesian glibness (“I always had this theory about Romania. Well, not a proper theory: more an observation, I suppose”). That Dinu eventually settles in England does little to diminish the thoroughness with which Bailey executes his central task – to evoke what it would be like not for an Englishman to be a Romanian, or for someone with the author’s English cast of mind to have been born in Romania, but for a Romanian to be a Romanian. If there is a limit to what Bailey achieves here, it has less to do with sympathy of imagination than exuberance of invention. Devoted Bailey readers, on finishing this slight successor to the slight Chapman’s Odyssey (2011), may find themselves yearning for his old untamed energy, the force behind earlier exercises in male befuddlement such as Gabriel’s Lament (1986).

Patrick McGuinness, an academic and poet and the author of a novel about the end of the Ceausescu regime, The Last Hundred Days, has also attempted a sort of Proust-in-miniature in Other People’s Countries. It’s a memoir in vignettes – part essay, part poetry, part prose poetry – concerned with Bouillon, a Belgian municipality near the French border where his mother’s family lived and where he partly grew up. McGuinness emerges as an insider with distance, able to note Bouillon’s “eccentricity and exoticism” while still considering it his home. Recalling how he used to think “Evenbrussels” was a place, because his awestruck relatives would refer to “Mêmebruxelles” (as in, “Lucie’s dresses are worn in Arlon, Namur and even Brussels”), he appears affectionate rather than condescending.

If the charm of McGuinness’s reminiscences helps to ward off self-indulgence, his weakness for theory – his desire to write meta-memoir as well as memoir – undoes much of the good work. Although Other People’s Countries is billed as an extension of the bedtime stories that McGuinness tells his son and daughter, it contains a great deal of intellectual rummaging that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy’s children: “my idea of what the house remembers about itself”, “It seems important to distrust the material, maybe even to make distrust itself the material”, “those three stooges, the past, the present and the future”, “This house of mine, this house of mind”, and so on.

The stooge-like past being so hard to get straight, McGuinness is annoyed that the English language insists on not being good enough, forcing him to wrist-slap widely accepted metaphors. Of “takes place”, he writes, “Place can’t be taken”; “When we say ‘naturalised’,” he points out, “we actually mean ‘denaturalised’.” But McGuinness’s figurative language doesn’t always do what he wants it to, as when he writes that a speeded-up recording of his voice made him sound “like a breathlessly excited Charles Hawtree”, an image that combines a redundant simile, a tautology and a misspelling.

Towards the end, he plays his hand a little too aggressively. After recalling an “old lady” with a “lucky rabbit’s foot dyed in the national tricolour”, he writes, “I couldn’t have put it better myself” – presumptuously alluding to his own powers of eloquence and doing so with a cliché.

Leo Robson is the NS’s lead fiction reviewer

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 09 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Anxiety nation

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The non-fiction novel that takes readers inside the head of Raoul Moat

Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, but its semi-fictional world is something more complex.

In July 2010, just weeks after becoming Prime Minister, David Cameron expanded upon his vision for the “Big Society” that he had first unveiled at the 2009 party conference. It promised a “big advance for people power”, in which individuals would be responsible for their actions. “To be British is to be sceptical of authority and the powers that be,” he told conference. “There is a ‘we’ in politics, and not just a ‘me’.”

That same month, just two days after being released from HMP Durham for the assault of a child, the self-employed gardener and former doorman Raoul Moat shot and injured his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart and killed her boyfriend Chris Brown, who he wrongly believed to be a policeman. Moat went on the run, shooting a policeman at point-blank range, then fleeing to the rural Northumberland town of Rothbury. For a week, the story of this exotically named, delusional man who left behind a wealth of material, including letters and four-hour-long Dictaphone recordings, was given joint top billing with Cameron’s “Big Society” – soon to be as dead and buried as Moat, who, cornered by police after a seven-day hunt, killed himself.

The journalist Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, yet really is a non-fiction novel, in which writer and reader squat inside a mind that moves from irrational anger and self-pity to despondency. Moat’s is a solipsistic narration, in which he is the perennial victim – of circumstance, enemies, authoritarian bureaucracy, police harassment and past lovers. There is little room here for the outside world. Like most outlaws, Moat believed that everyone had failed him. “All my life I wanted death,” he laments.

The real-life Moat story, however, was more than that of a lone fugitive. It was also about rolling news coverage and Facebook groups, some of which celebrated Moat as a Ned Kelly-type folk hero – a “#ledge”. When Cameron denounced him in parliament he inadvertently elevated Moat to a clearer anti-authoritarian position: the antithesis of a “Big Society” citizen, in fact. It is also the story of the Northumbria Police force, which did its very best to show that it had everything under control when it really didn’t.

And, bringing an element of farce to a tragedy, it featured the subplot of a thoroughly leathered Paul Gascoigne – the most exciting and idiosyncratic footballer of his generation – tearing through the countryside in a taxi with a fishing rod, a dressing gown and a rotisserie chicken in an attempt to bring a sense of calm to the situation. “All I want to do is shout, ‘Moaty, it’s  Gazza! Where are you?’” he explained en route during a live radio phone-in. “And I guarantee he will shout his name out: ‘I’m here.’” Gascoigne’s pantomime intervention added to the chaos: now another disenfranchised northern male was running amok. The parallels were evident: Gazza’s career had been beset by injury and alcoholism, Moat’s bodybuilder’s physique was no longer in prime condition after weight loss in prison. Both were separated from their families and prone to self-examination. Onlookers knew it could quite easily have been Gazza holed up in those woods.

Other exponents of the non-fiction novel such as Norman Mailer and Gordon Burn would surely have put all this in, yet Hankinson chooses not to cover any of the peripheral subplots, instead using a second-person narrative to burrow deep into Moat’s paranoia, sourcing all his text from real material. This narrative sacrifice in favour of a singular voice gives the book thrust and authenticity of voice, and manages to show the nuances of a man who was articulate and often capable, and had reached out to social services on many occasions for help. None of which excuses Moat’s action – but it does explain his choices. Where the tabloids favoured the simplicity of the textbook “cold-blooded killer”, Hankinson’s portrait lets the reader make his or her own judgement. Clearly Moat was a bully, and yet he was not born that way. Few are. “There’ll be books written about all this, and you’ll be made out to be some crazed fucking maniac,” he says to himself, with both foresight and grim resignation.

Elsewhere the semi-fictional Moat brushes over past transgressions and labours over the tiniest slights in such repetitive, droning detail that the reader’s sympathy soon wanes. The book’s strength lies in the real-life Moat’s keenness to confess – to be heard, finally, beyond death – through these nocturnal monologues, recorded in his tent after yet another meal of charred burgers. From these remnants, Hankinson deftly assembles the man’s inner workings, lending credibility to his portrait while, beyond the myopic commentary, we know, although we don’t see it, that the outside world is closing in. Critics might ask: why give voice to a loser? Perhaps because in the right hands any real-life story is worth telling, and history should never just record the heroes and victors. The losers play their part, too.

Ben Myers’s novel “Beastings” recently won the Portico Prize for Literature

You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life [You Are Raoul Moat] by Andrew Hankinson is published by Scribe (211pp, £12.99)

Ben Myers’ novels include Pig Iron and Richard, a Sunday Times book of the year. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, NME, Mojo, Time Out, 3:AM Magazine, Caught By The River and many others. www.benmyersmanofletters.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war