Book Review: Memory Man by David Baldacci

Amos Decker is the Memory Man, the protagonist of David Baldacci's eponymous series, which opens with Memory Man.

The bearded and massively built protagonist—a former homicide detective turned private investigator turned police consultant—has a rare gift: he remembers everything and forgets nothing. Events, experiences, people, faces, names, objects, shapes, numbers, dates and places are permanently imprinted on his mind, the result of a collision on the football field when he was twenty-two years old.

The accident ruins Decker's professional football career but leaves him with a super autobiographical memory, the ability to recall virtually everything that has happened in his life.

If you were a student preparing for a Maths or History test, you would probably give anything to have Decker's gift.

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In Memory Man, Decker puts his extraordinary perceptive faculties and deductive reasoning to good use by joining the Burlington Police Department, where he and his partner and friend, Detective Mary Lancaster, form a formidable team of investigators.

One evening, Decker returns home from work to find his wife, young daughter and brother-in-law murdered, his family brutally violated in the process. The tragedy sends his life into a downward spiral. He leaves home, gives up his job and drifts through life on the streets, largely indifferent to what becomes of him. Eventually, he manages to rebuild some semblance of a life as a reclusive private investigator, taking on minor cases, simply to survive. Meanwhile, the murders remain unsolved.

More than a year later, Decker is jolted back to reality by two extraordinary events: the appearance of a mysterious man named Sebastian Leopold, who confesses to the unsolved murders despite having a seemingly watertight alibi, and a carefully planned mass shooting at the local high school. His former boss, Captain Miller, persuades him to assist in the investigation into the shooting. Decker agrees, hoping it may finally help him uncover the truth about his family's deaths.

Decker joins his former partner, Lancaster, in the school library—the investigation's makeshift war room—with the FBI also on the case. But he largely works alone, much to the frustration of Lancaster and Special Agent Sam Bogart, bringing them in only after he has pursued a lead and uncovered something worth sharing.

What he uncovers over the next few days leaves him stunned: the person—or persons—responsible for murdering his family also orchestrated the killings of the students and staff at the school. Yet, even Decker's remarkable mental abilities fail to produce any face or name from his past that might explain the motive behind the crimes.

Amos Decker is one of the most unusual characters I have encountered in crime fiction. The tragedy has left him emotionally scarred and detached, but not devoid of empathy. His extraordinary mind makes him an effective investigator. Decker unravels most of the clues and assembles the missing pieces. Others on the case are largely content to follow his lead.

Memory Man is a well-crafted thriller with an unusual storyline and an intriguing hero. The novel's strength lies in its singular focus on Amos Decker, the Goliath-like protagonist who dominates the narrative from start to end, both as a grieving family man and a razor-sharp homicide detective. 

Book Review: Dangerous Lady by Martina Cole

The Ryans—Benjamin and Sarah—and their nine children, eight sons and a daughter, live in poverty and hardship in a seedy district of London. Michael, the eldest, is devoted to his mother and especially protective of his little sister Maura, the bright spot in an otherwise harsh household. His feelings toward his father, a habitual drinker who drifts through life with little purpose, are distant. It is from him that Michael and his brothers are drawn early into petty crime. 

It is not long before the “Bills”—as the police are called in the novel—come calling. Michael develops an intense dislike for the uniformed men. As he grows up to become a powerful and feared mobster, that antipathy toward the police becomes one of his main traits—one that nearly destroys the very family he is determined to protect.

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Martina Cole’s Dangerous Lady traces Michael Ryan’s rise in the London underworld. In many ways, Ryan—born into an Irish-English family and eventually ruling the West End underworld of London—echoes Michael Corleone, the Sicilian-American heir who comes to dominate New York’s gangland. The resemblance, however, is only partial.

In spite of Michael's intimidating presence through most of the 416-page novel, Dangerous Lady is not so much about him as his beautiful sister Maura. Following a secret love affair with a cop, fear of Michael and a painful abortion at the age of 17, she joins her brother and together they build a criminal empire that would’ve made the Sicilian Mafia proud. She proves her worth not just to Michael and her other brothers, but even to the traditionally male-dominated crime syndicates of London. But Maura also has a soft side to her, the result of unfulfilled love that comes back to haunt her and perhaps a chance at redemption.

British crime writer Martina Cole’s debut novel is more than a high-octane crime story; it is the violent saga of a crime family whose exploits stretch from post-war London in the 1950s to the mid-1980s. As the years roll on, the Ryans lose more than they gain, both within the family and on the streets of the West End.

Though Dangerous Lady is a crime drama with plenty of action and gritty scenes, I did have a few reservations about the novel. At times it feels rather long, with the narrative slowing and moving back and forth in time. I am not particularly fond of flashbacks, which may have shaped my reading of these sections. The writing is fairly straightforward, as is the dialogue. I also found it difficult to fully empathise with or connect to the characters—Michael or Maura, their strong-willed mother Sarah, or even the brothers who work in Michael’s organisation.

Despite these issues, Dangerous Lady is both entertaining and readable. It offers a dramatic canvas of organised crime, along with an all-too-real portrayal of an unlikely female gangster with a heart. I plan to read more of the Maura Ryan series, as well as other books by the author.

Confessions of a Book Collector: So Much for Restraint

In the first three months of this year, I bought more books than I did in the whole of 2018. So much for restraint. Any resolve to cut back on book buying quickly disappeared as I walked through book exhibitions and second-hand bookstalls looking for interesting books and comics.

A few titles, including Yuval Noah Harari's 21 Lessons for the 21st Century, were bought online (I already own his Sapiens and Homo Deus.) I also picked up several guides to better writing, two of which are featured below. And although I ordered Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology for my son, I intend to read it myself at some point.

The highlight of the haul was the discovery of three rare Sudden novels by British author Oliver Strange, including two different Corgi editions of The Range Robbers. The book is the first of ten adventures featuring the Texas outlaw James Green, better known as Sudden for his lightning-fast draw. After Strange's death, English writer Frederick Nolan wrote five more Sudden novels under the pseudonym Frederick H. Christian. They remain my favourite westerns to this day.

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Having explored humanity's past in Sapiens and its future in Homo Deus, Yuval Noah Harari turns his attention to some of the most pressing questions facing the modern world in 21 Lessons for the 21st Century.

Problem at Pollensa Bay and Other Stories shows Agatha Christie at her most versatile, with a mix of mysteries, twists and suspenseful tales featuring both familiar and lesser-known characters. 

In The Wrath of God, Jack Higgins—my favourite writer of all time—combines action, suspense and political intrigue in a gripping tale of revenge set in a troubled South American republic.

The Mating Season is a classic Jeeves and Wooster comedy, filled with Wodehouse's trademark humour, eccentric characters and tangled plots. 

Blind Eagle is one of the many instalments in Don Pendleton's long-running Stony Man series, known for its military action, covert operations and fast-paced storytelling. 

The Wilt Alternative is the second novel in Tom Sharpe's popular Wilt series, known for its sharp satire, eccentric characters and wildly improbable comic situations. 

Captain America: The Secret Story of Marvel's Star-Spangled Super Hero offers a behind-the-scenes look at the character's creators, adventures and cultural significance over the decades. 

 

Norse Mythology is Neil Gaiman's retelling of the classic Norse myths, capturing their humour, wonder, magic and tragedy in his distinctive storytelling style.

Dreyer's English combines writing tips, grammar guidance and editorial wisdom with a generous dose of humour. Drawing on decades of editorial experience, Benjamin Dreyer provides an entertaining and insightful guide to clearer, more effective writing.

100 Ways to Improve Your Writing distils Gary Provost's years of writing and teaching experience into a practical collection of 100 concise tips to help writers communicate more clearly, effectively and confidently. 

The Range Robbers is the first novel in Oliver Strange's Sudden series, introducing James Green, a mysterious drifter better known as Sudden for his lightning-fast draw. Guided by a strong sense of justice, the western hero repeatedly finds himself confronting outlaws, corruption and lawlessness across the American frontier, while making new friends wherever he goes. The book launched a series of 15 adventures, 10 written by Strange and a further five by Frederick Nolan after the author's death.

Book Review: Wild by Cheryl Strayed

In order to find yourself, sometimes you have to lose something. Or, in Cheryl Strayed’s case, someone very dear—her mother, who dies of cancer. The loss leaves her distraught and sets off a chain of difficult events in her life: estrangement from her stepfather and younger siblings, extramarital affairs and drug use, the painful decision to put down her horse, and a divorce from the man who truly loved and cared for her.

Cheryl is lost in the wilderness of her life. And it is the wilderness she turns to, hoping to find herself again or, as she puts it, “to save myself.”

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Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail is an engaging and entertaining memoir filled with vivid details of her journey.

Four years after her mother’s death, Cheryl sets out on an epic and deeply personal journey—all alone—hiking the 1,100-mile Pacific Crest Trail stretching from the Mexican border to the Canadian border. Her own route begins in the Mojave Desert, then moves through California and Oregon, finally reaching the Bridge of the Gods—a cantilever bridge—and into Washington state.

It takes her over three months to complete the hike, across mountain ranges, forests and plateaus, through extreme heat, record snowfall, and encounters with wildlife like bears and rattlesnakes. The journey, shadowed by fear and self-doubt, is as intimidating as it is absorbing. The land as hostile as it is hospitable. In the end, she comes out changed, grateful to the PCT—the “long walk”—for helping make her whole again.

Throughout her journey, Cheryl recalls, with a tinge of pain and sadness, the life she left behind—her childhood, the abusive father who abandoned them, the stepfather who admirably filled his shoes, remorse over her failed marriage, and finally, the one person who meant the world to her—her mother, and the illness that took her away. The frequent flashbacks, however, do not take away from the joy of reading about her hike, which Cheryl tells in the first person, in a candid, engaging, and almost conversational style.

Wild struck a chord because I had read similar journeys of self-discovery, undertaken for different reasons. Notably Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words, where Peace Pilgrim (Mildred Lisette Norman) walked over 25,000 miles on a personal journey for peace; the classic Walden, where Henry David Thoreau lives in the woods of Massachusetts; and, In Quest of God and In the Vision of God by Swami Ramdas, the monk who walked the length and breadth of undivided India in search of spiritual salvation.

Nearly all of us must, at some point, step onto some kind of trail—not necessarily a physical one—and try to find ourselves.

Book Excerpt: Justice Gone by N. Lombardi Jr

Presented below is an excerpt from Chapter 1 of Justice Gone by award-winning author N. Lombardi Jr. Inspired by the fatal beating of a homeless man by police, the novel, published in February 2019, introduces Dr Tessa Thorpe, the central character in a series of psychological thrillers.

Back of the Book
 

“When a homeless war veteran is beaten to death by the police, stormy protests ensue, engulfing a small New Jersey town. Soon after, three cops are gunned down. A multi-state manhunt is underway for a cop killer on the loose. And Dr. Tessa Thorpe, a veteran's counselor, is caught up in the chase.

“Donald Darfield, an African-American Iraqi war vet, war-time buddy of the beaten man, and one of Tessa's patients, is holed up in a mountain cabin. Tessa, acting on instinct, sets off to find him, but the swarm of law enforcement officers gets there first, leading to Darfield's dramatic capture.

“Now, the only people separating him from the lethal needle of state justice are Tessa and ageing blind lawyer, Nathaniel Bodine. Can they untangle the web tightening around Darfield in time, when the press and the justice system are baying for revenge?”

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Excerpt from Justice Gone

Bruntfield, New Jersey, just another banal town in a part of the country that nobody thinks about, was about to become famous; or rather, more aptly put, infamous. People sauntered past lackluster shops unaware that in a few days, the lackadaisical streets would bear the rabid frustrations that divided the nation; a pus-like bitterness that was held in check by the demands of everyday survival and the distractions offered by obsessive consumerism and brazen media would inevitably blame the cascade of events on the weather, since the origins could be found on a hot summer day in 2006. Sure, just about all summer days are hot, but this one was close to the record, and humid to boot. By the end of July, the Northeast coast was suffering under a sweltering heat wave. Despite the humidity, no one could remember the last time it had rained. A hundred-year drought was predicted, they'd said.

Bruntfield, among the many places under this curse, had its water supply so severely depressed that the city authorities were forced to impose water rationing. As if that wasn't enough, the excessive load on air conditioners led to incessant brownouts. With the weather nothing less than insufferable, suffocating, oppressive, even provoking, tempers flared along with the temperature. But the local situation, as bad as it was, was about to get worse.

In the heart of this small town, just a block up from the bus depot, sat Sliders, a rather successful drinking establishment catering to young adults, and noted for its ecstasy-fueled rave parties. At four in the afternoon, the owner, Joe Poppet, a burly man with a thick red beard and a well-developed beer belly, was staring out the large glass facade of his bar.

"Screw this heat, man."

Joe was sweating because he didn't want to turn on the air-conditioning; as a rule, he didn't put it on until a half hour before opening. He possessed a rather cynical personality, considering himself continually persecuted by life's little aggravations. Now it was the heat ramping up his electricity bill; soon it would be the freezing temperatures inflating his heating bill…always something. His worries constantly exceeded his hopes. He was sort of a "glass-half-empty" man.

Rudy Glum, the shaven-headed bartender, was an easygoing optimist, a "glass-half-full" kind of guy. He was whistling as he washed the glasses in the sink behind the bar. "Tell me about it," he chuckled. "I hear ya, buddy."

But Rudy's sanguinity did not rub off on Joe. "There's that guy again."

"What guy?"

"That fucking guy we saw yesterday."

"Oh, yeah, he's probably from the bus depot. Lotta homeless hang out there."

Joe continued to stare out the glass facade, feeling helpless. "For Chrissakes, why can't the city do something and get rid of those bastards. They're a fucking eyesore…it's bad for business. Probably got diseases too."

Rudy finished drying the glass in his hand and hung it up on the beer mug rack. "Yeah, it's a goddamn shame," he said noncommittally, trying to get these glasses done before the evening crowd surged in.

"He doesn't have a shirt on."

"Yeah, well it's hot, ain't it? Wish I could take mine off."

"And we're opening in an hour. Ladies Night tonight."

Rudy said nothing while reaching for another glass from the sink behind the bar.

"Call the cops."

The bartender froze with the glass still in his hand. "And tell them what?"

"I don't know, tell 'em there's someone suspicious hanging out on the corner…trying to break into cars or something. That way they'll come fast."

Reluctantly, Rudy put down his dishrag, picked up the phone, and dialed 911, not feeling good about it at all.


Patrolman Rafael Puente might well be considered an unattractive man. A pencil-thin mustache above diminutive lips made insignificant by his large inflated face, gave his head the appearance of a balloon with a cartoon countenance. His acnescarred skin oozed sweat as he studied the thin disheveled man, shirtless with unkempt hair and a scraggly beard, standing three feet in front of him. "You were trying door handles on cars, eh?"

The man's body wavered, but his gaze was focused hard on Puente's eyes. Then his own eyes darted left and right, revealing his vacillation on how to handle this situation. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Puente began playing with his baton, twirling it down, and then back up smack into his palm. Rotating it down, rotating it up, like a long yo-yo…like the tail of an agitated cat ready to pounce. "Give me a language…tell me a language you speak in."

"Like what?"

Puente's tone rose in hostility. "Tell me a language you speak in."

"I don't know. What do you want to know?"

The humidity was so dense it felt like a sponge rubbing against their skins; so thick you could almost take a bite out of it and chew it.

"I want to know what kinda language you speak."

"I don't know."

"Yeah, well, what do you know?"

"I don't know."

"My partner, he speaks ten languages. Right, Foxy?"

Patrolman John Fox, a clean shaven, waspish-looking man standing to his right, smiled a mouthful of nice bright teeth.

"Yeah, that's right. I can speak Mongolian, Cambodian…" Fox came closer, boxing in the man they were questioning.

"He don't speak English," Puente told his partner.

"You don't?" Fox asked the homeless man.

The figure in front of them became fidgety. "What do you think I speak?"

Fox put his hands on his hips. "I don't know, you tell us. You're speaking English right now, aren't ya?"

Puente interrupted. "You know, it seems I see you all the time, and all the time I gotta say something to you. Do you enjoy that?"

"Oh yeah, I love bumping into you all the time."

"Really?"

The bearded man looked to his left and right, looking for an escape route while at the same time desperately trying to tell himself that these guys were just American cops and not the enemy in Iraq. He was trembling with the effort. "So, what do you guys wanna know?"

Puente's baton was still twirling with a pent-up belligerence. "I asked you already."

"I don't know what…"

"You trying to open car doors?"

"Well, I don't know what you're talking about."

"What does that mean, is that a yes or a no?"

"I don't know, don't know what you're hassling me for, man."

"You got any ID on you?"

"No. I don't need any."

"You don't need any?" Fox voiced with a rising tone of contempt.

"No, I don't drive, I don't vote, no credit card, and I don't use my passport anymore."

"So what's your name?" Puente asked.

"Felson. Jay Felson."

"What's your first name?"

"I just fucking told you, man. Jay."

"'J' is an initial. Tell me your full name."

"Jay, J-A-Y, Felson."

Puente, his question answered, went off on a new tack. "You know, I can take you to jail right now…loitering, suspicion of burglary."

"You don't have anything better to do?"

"What's in your knapsack?" Fox interjected.

"Why? You wanna search it?

"If you don't mind."

The bearded man swung his bag off his shoulders and handed it over. "Knock yourself out."

"Sit down," Puente abruptly ordered.

"Sit down where?"

"On the ground."

This was getting hard. Just cops, he reminded himself, but he suspected something worse.

"I said sit down."

"Where man?"

"Where you're standing, on the ground."

Felson plopped down on the concrete pavement.

"Put your legs out in front of you. Stretch them out."

Just do it. He did so, his arms at his sides supporting him.

"Put your hands on your knees."

No, this is a mind fuck, man. He ignored the command.

"I said put your hands on your knees."

Realizing he didn't have much choice, Jay drew his legs up first, then put his hands on his knees.

"Stretch your legs out."

He removed his hands from his knees and stretched out his legs.

"Put your fucking hands on your knees."

"What the fuck you want me to do. I can't do both."

"Give it a try, lean forward and put your hands on your knees."

Fox was going through the items found in the knapsack. "Got some letters here. They ain't addressed to Jay Felson…let's see, Casey Hull, Donald Darfield… You stealing other people's letters, boy."

"I'm gonna mail them."

"They already got stamps on them," Fox noted. "How come you haven't mailed them yet? You know, just slip them into a mailbox. There's one right over there on the corner."

Puente was still toying with his baton. "Let's take him in on a 4-96." Four-ninety-six was police code for handling stolen property.

Jay Felson, feeling an ache in his lower back, removed his hands from his knees, once again placing his arms in back of him to support himself.

"Hey, what the fuck I tell ya! Hands on knees!"

This time Felson was not eager to comply. He remained motionless in silent defiance.

Puente then reached into his back pocket and slowly, deliberately, put on a pair of latex gloves. He thrust one glove-laden fist in front of Felson's face. "See these fists?'

"Yeah, what about 'em?"

"They're getting ready to fuck you up."

"That just sucks."

"Put your legs out, put your hands on your knees"

"Hey, I'm sick of playing games, which one is it!"

Puente slapped him in the head.

"Hey, wouldya just fucking…"

"Put your hands on your knees!" he yelled, giving Felson another slap.

"Wouldya just fucking…"

Fox got on his handheld radio. "Code three, four-fifteen, bus depot corner Fifth and Clemston." (Code three, urgent, proceed with lights and siren; four-fifteen, disturbance.)

Puente slapped Felson's head a third time. Felson stood up, tired of being hit while on the ground.

Puente raised his baton.

Felson put his hands in front of him to display supplication.

"Hey, hey all right!"

"Get on the ground, get on the ground now!" Fox screamed. Both officers began to hit Felson on his legs and side with their batons, and he did what came instinctively-he ran.

"Take him down, take him down!" Puente yelled.

They grabbed him, got him down on the pavement, pressing his face against the concrete, and the real beating began.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, sorry, man."

"Put your hands behind your back," the two cops shouted, twisting his arms.

"Okay, I'm sorry…I can't breathe…"

The two cops were on top, Puente with a knee in Felson's back and Fox kicking him. "Stop resisting," they both yelled in turns.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

A second patrol car pulled up with sirens blaring and flashers blazing. Two more officers sprang from the car and piled on. One of the new guys, Victor Fratollini, tasered Felson, zzzzt, and Fox began walloping him over the head with his stun gun. Another unit pulled up. Two more cops, two more assailants, and seeing Fratollini smashing the homeless man's cheekbones with his elbow, joined in the fracas.

Zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt they tasered him again and again.

"Dad, Dad, help me!"

More tasering, six times now.

"Help me, Dad! I can't breathe, I can't…Dad…"

Someone pounded Felson's head into the pavement.

"Dad help me!"

A pool of blood formed beneath him. The six police officers relentlessly pummeled him, the scene resembling a feeding frenzy of enraged carnivores…until Felson was no longer able to call for his father.

© Reproduced with the written permission of N. Lombardi Jr and John Hunt Publishing
(Roundfire Books)

 

About the Author

N. Lombardi Jr (N for Nicholas) has spent over half his life in Africa, Asia and the Middle East, working as a groundwater geologist.

In 1997, while visiting Lao People's Democratic Republic, he witnessed the remnants of a secret war that had been waged for nine years, among which were children wounded from leftover cluster bombs. Driven by what he saw, he worked on The Plain of Jars for the next eight years. Nick maintains a website with content that spans most aspects of the novel: The Secret War, Laotian culture, Buddhism etc.

His second novel, Journey Towards a Falling Sun, is set in the wild frontier of northern Kenya.

Nick lives in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. You can read more about him and his work at Goodreads.

So many books, so little time: Looking forward to The White Nile

When it comes to reading, I don't make New Year's resolutions, though every year I mentally tell myself I'll buy fewer books, and read more of the ones I already have. Last year, I kept half my promise. I bought just about a dozen secondhand books but read so few that there was hardly any point writing about them.

This year, somewhat surprisingly, things have gone the other way.

Less than two weeks into 2019, I had already added four "new" books to my groaning TBR shelves and, happily, read an equal number. My aim is to finish at least seven books and novellas a month, along with as many short stories and poems as I can manage. Time, however, is not on my side, so I'll be reviewing only a select few each month.

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Of the four books I picked up at the Books by Weight exhibition, the one I'm eager to read is my Penguin edition of The White Nile, 1960, by Alan Moorehead, the Australian-born war correspondent and writer of popular history. 

I've been curious about this book for quite some time. It chronicles the exploration of the Nile in the second half of the nineteenth century, when much of central Africa remained unknown to Europeans and the river's source was still one of geography's great mysteries.

Part travel narrative, part history, The White Nile has earned a reputation as a classic account of adventure and discovery. Its blend of historical detail, larger-than-life personalities, and dramatic expeditions has kept it in print for more than six decades. 

Separately, my wife picked up three books—Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen as a replacement copy, Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton, and The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit.

I also bought a few ebooks, but that's a guilt trip for another day.

Book Review: On the Run with Fotikchand by Satyajit Ray

“...And who is this young assistant you have got here?”

The question came so unexpectedly that Fotik’s heart nearly jumped into his mouth.

The two men were standing nearby. They had just emerged out of the dark. On Fotik’s right stood Shyamlal, his bow legs covered by long trousers. Out of the corner of his eye, Fotik saw the blade of a knife flash, go past his ear and stop somewhere between him and Harun.

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On the Run with Fotikchand by Satyajit Ray, the celebrated filmmaker, writer and cultural icon, is a charming adventure story about an 11-year-old boy who loses his family and his memory.

The story begins when Bablu, the son of a wealthy Calcutta barrister, is kidnapped by four criminals. Their plan takes a disastrously wrong when the stolen car carrying the boy crashes, killing two of the kidnappers. Bablu survives the accident but awakens with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

Adopting the name Fotikchand, he drifts through the streets of Calcutta (now Kolkata) until he meets Harun, a poor but warm-hearted juggler who offers him food, shelter and work. As Fotik settles into his new life, helping at a tea stall by day and assisting Harun at local fairs by night, he becomes fascinated by the world of juggling and street performance.

His newfound happiness is short-lived, however. The two surviving kidnappers discover that the boy is alive and begin searching for him, still hoping to collect a ransom. As danger closes in, Fotik and Harun are forced to flee, setting the stage for an exciting climax in which the boy's lost memory begins to return. Meanwhile, back home, his influential father presses the police to intensify their search and places newspaper advertisements offering a reward of Rs.5,000 for information leading to his son's return.

On the Run with Fotikchand is not so much a tale of kidnapping as an endearing story of friendship between Fotik and Harun. The juggler’s hand-to-mouth existence does not come in the way of his kinship with, and generosity towards, the boy, the son of a rather selfish and calculated man. A not-so-subtle contrast between the arrogance of the privileged and the humility of those living on society's margins.

The 94-page novella is mildly suspenseful and moves at a brisk pace. The narrative is simple and engaging, thanks to Gopa Majumdar's translation from the original Bengali. Majumdar has translated several works by Satyajit Ray and other Bengali writers into English.

The book was adapted into the 1983 film Phatik Chand, which I have not seen. My Puffin Books edition (pictured above) also contains black-and-white illustrations by Ray himself.