Nancy Huston's "Infrared" reviewed.
Atlantic Books, 272pp, £12.99
“It was a good book but I just didn’t like the main character”: a complaint levelled at fiction with alarming frequency. Why should the protagonist be likeable if the writing is good? Surely all that matters is that a character is believable and interesting? Think of Humbert Humbert in Lolita. Or Charles Highway in The Rachel Papers.
The title of Nancy Huston’s Infrared is a photographic technique and a metaphor: the book is concerned with things that are hidden from ordinary vision. Rena Greenblatt, the 45-yearold photographer heroine, is decidedly unlikeable. Her most irritating characteristic is a vaunting, self-conscious intellectualism. “I use infrared to disturb the hic et nunc that is the very essence of photography,” she tells us. On waking, she “stays in bed for a while, eyes closed, breathing in the Florence air and slowly intoning the words Tuscany, Renaissance, beauty”. She’s so down with key historical figures that she’s on nickname terms with them: Buonarroti (Michelangelo), Bea (Dante’s Beatrice) and J C (Christ). Yet the insights she shares with the reader are teenage. “Most Holy Annunciation, my eye! My ass! Mary didn’t get knocked up by some whispered word from the angel Gabriel, she got knocked up by some guy’s tool.”
The various artworks trigger memories for Rena and this timed-release life story is the novel’s main focus. The narrative voice flicks between the third person and Rena’s interior monologue – except there’s a twist. On page five, we are introduced to “Subra, the special friend who accompanies [Rena] wherever she goes”. Subra is Rena’s imaginary older sister, named after Diane Arbus (“Subra” being “Arbus” backward). Her function in Infrared is twofold. First, she is an attempt to naturalise the artificiality of a character telling herself things that she already knows by giving Rena someone to “talk” to. “Tell me, Subra says” becomes a refrain, used to signpost any shift from the hic et nunc to memory.
Subra’s responses to the stories Rena “tells” her (“Subra rewards her with a laugh”) are unfortunately reminiscent of Anastasia Steele’s “inner goddess” in E L James’s Fifty Shades of Grey. (The inner goddess comments on Anastasia’s adventures with Christian by “tapping her small foot impatiently”, for example). Subra is also unoriginal within Huston’s oeuvre, in that her previous novel, Fault Lines (which made the Orange Prize shortlist in 2008), features three characters in the habit of talking to and receiving instructions from their congenital birthmarks.
Subra’s second function is more complicated. Rena is an unreliable narrator: the stories she tells are not necessarily true. Subra provides a corrective. “No, all right, Rena concedes to Subra, who has been frowning at her sceptically for the past half hour. I didn’t leave Alioune, Alioune left me.” In this way, the truth haltingly emerges. Rena’s father, Simon, is a failed academic who believes: “A self is neither more nor less than the story of a human body, as told by that body’s brain.” The Subra device literalises this idea.
The novel is similarly enslaved to psychoanalysis (referenced throughout). Each chapter begins with a dream that Rena helpfully parses. The narrative method corresponds to Freudian theory, with Rena’s memories of her abusefilled childhood being gradually recovered and articulated as the story progresses.
That abuse-filled childhood is also Huston’s get-out clause, because everything – Rena’s crackpot habit of talking to an imaginary friend, her obsession with sex, her lies – can be explained away by the early trauma. However, it can’t explain away bad writing. Infrared is cliché-concentrate: smoke pours out of nostrils, bitter cups are drunk to their dregs, Pandora’s box is opened along with the can of worms . . . And the sex – there is a lot of sex – is truly terrible, worse than D H Lawrence on a bad day:
My self freed of both self and other, the quivering sensation, the carnal pink palpitation that detaches you from all colour and all flesh, making you see only stars, constellations, milky ways, propelling you bodiless and soulless into undulating space where the undulating skies make your non-body undulate.
Come back, Fifty Shades, all is forgiven.
Claire Lowdon is assistant editor of Areté