Stories of My Secret Self

A Book Review Featuring Kim:

The tram hit him full force like a charging rhino. Watching him walk away, blood running down his face, Kim knew she was in love. Of course, he had winked at her first. At least she liked to think he had. She’d already decided he would be her next literary crush and any literary crush worth his weight in words would certainly wink at a pretty girl in a mini skirt. Wouldn’t he? Perhaps not. Perhaps he’s the strong silent type that draws women to him by ignoring them. Perhaps he pushed himself up on sore elbows, looked at her blankly – quite a seductive look itself on the right man – and walked away from the accident as if he weren’t leaving disaster and confusion (including Kim’s) in his wake. As if he hadn’t been doing that very thing his entire life.

None of that actually happened in the book. It DID happen in my head but then lots of things do. It could have happened. Richard de Nooy would have written it better, but it could have happened. That’s one of my favorite things about this book. He leaves you to connect the dots yourself and to draw your own conclusions. There’s room for your own imagination in the equation. And you will need it. It’s a clever thing. The facts of the events are handed to you in a charming way as pages from a scrapbook, police records, textbook excerpts, letters, and sketches. But don’t think it’s going to be easy.

Tell the truth now. You wouldn’t like it if it were. Would you?

The events are thought-provoking. The characters, like your next door neighbor and the homely waitress who turned out to be a prostitute and the person who last e-mailed you, demand your attention in uncomfortable ways and require reassessment at every turn. I’m still processing, still thinking about it, still unsure if I read it right, still going back to check. Like a detective who picks up a broken story three-quarters of the way through and begins to piece it back together at one end while it’s still coming apart at the other. Yes, exactly like that.

So you want a synopsis. Two brothers, Ace and Rem. South Africa to Amsterdam to South Africa, not necessarily in that order. Psychological issues – who doesn’t have one or two? – are fascinating. It’s dark and deep in places and light and fun in others. There’s a cool orange chopper bike and Pacman makes a cameo appearance.

I scanned the room, looking for a dark corner to bury my discomfort.

And there they were, winking at me from a niche, two fruit machines, armless bandits, Fagin and the Artful Dodger. I walked over to the Dodger and dropped a coin into the slot. Warm water poured into my skull, instantly reducing my world to three whirring strips of fruit. Within seconds I was hooked. Just like I’d been hooked on pinball, Space Invaders, Pacman and Asteroids. Just like I’d been hooked on sports and games before that. Anything to narrow down the variables. Impose clear rules and odds. Distract myself. Focus. I spent about half an hour playing that first day, blew all my change and ate lukewarm snacks and soggy chips. But I knew I’d be going back the next day.

Not much has changed in the three weeks since the Dodger first slipped his artful hand in my pocket. Angelique still doesn’t know my name; Rem is still beached on my bed upstairs; and I’m down 430 guilders, which amounts to more than a full week’s soul-snatching drudgery at Free University Lab Stores. But the oblivion it has brought me has been worth every fuckin’ hard-earned cent. If ever there was a time I wanted to forget, this was it.

That tells you nothing of the plot. I just liked it. I like the ease with which I slip into the story. Despite being American, despite having no clue what kleinkaasies are, I could relate. Say something scholarly about tone and characterization if you will. I was there. Given that I’m a lazy reader (See the last two books I read. Oh that’s right! I didn’t finish them.), I take this to mean Richard de Nooy has written an excellently entertaining book.

From the foreword of the alarmingly hot pink book the postman finally delivered to my doorstep yesterday.

Oh. Side bar. When I say alarmingly, I mean ALARMINGLY. A friend had alerted me to its pinkness and yet I was still unprepared for what awaited me when I opened that nondescript brown package. The cover image on goodreads looks red. It’s not. It is peony, it is lipstick, it is a neon sign flashing girls girls girls in the dark. It is the exact – yes, the exact – color of the gloriously undemure pink jacket I bought back in March. The one I thought too bright for spring. Shade your eyes.

I digress. Often actually, which is kind of the point here. So I finally manage to get past my fascination with the fact that this book is the very shade of pink as my jacket and open it. Page one, halfway down:

What can I tell you about this book?

This is a scrapbook. A compilation of essays, letters, accident reports, scientific notes, a police dossier, and running narrative – all slapped together, edited and re-edited. As one early reader put it: “Bits and pieces of writing, seemingly unrelated, like passengers on The Orient Express, waiting to be linked by a single crime.” Who am I to argue?

And here, in this fictitious foreword, Richard de Nooy has summed up the thing that’s on my mind so much these days. This disjointedness. This brokenness of thought. Of course, this was not his intention. I’m intrigued though. A scrapbook showing the hidden correlation of things over a space of time. Pieces slowly fitted together to form a whole. A mystery! But without that ridiculous label of Mystery on it. I don’t care for mysteries that come right out and call themselves such. Where’s the mystery in that? Instead, this is a subtle mystery wrapped in a hot pink coat. Mystery has now risen to Enigma. And I am very intrigued.

Of course, this was not his intention. The author’s intention was “to attract a group of critical and intelligent readers”. oooh… He’s just asked for trouble.

I should not be reading this book.

I am now so definitely reading this book that I’ve set aside not only the two I was plodding along in, but also the one that arrived in the same box as the hot pink wonder that is Six Fang Marks and a Tetanus Shot.

A war correspondent sets out from Amsterdam to South Africa to piece together the fragmented history of two brothers, Ace and Rem. Their bizarre and disturbing scrapbook recounts a suspenseful tale of drama that crosses two continents and leaves a trail of trauma in its wake.

And now I must go read. Anyone know Dutch?