|
|
Executive Times |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
2005 Book Reviews |
||
|
|
The Geographer’s
Library by Jon Fasman |
||
|
|
Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Alchemy Jon Fasman’s
debut novel, The
Geographer’s Library, weaves a modern tale of suspense with the history
of fourteen objects stolen from a 12th century geographer. Along the
way, readers learn about alchemy, clever transformations, and the role of
guardians for objects of value. Over 380 pages, Fasman
keeps our attention, shifts from the present to the past, and unveils
esoteric information in an easy manner. Here’s
an excerpt, from the end of the chapter titled, “It is the father of all
works of wonder throughout the whole world,” pp. 125-129: The Trout sat by the side of a rill just south of the “That’s the Hannah ordered their
homemade ale and shepherd’s pie. I asked for a cheeseburger with fries and a
Budweiser. The owner and Hannah both looked at me and winced, as though I had
just asked for a sautéed baby. “Are you sure you want Budweiser?” asked
Hannah, implying that she was sure that I didn’t. “They make their own beer
here.” “Really?” The owner nodded and
grinned, his eyes closed beatifically: with that kind of self-satisfaction, I
expected perfection in a pint glass. “Then I’ll have. . . Just bring me one of whatever you’re
bringing her.” He huffed a bit, gave a tight and extra-tolerant grimace, and
walked away. I shrugged. “I’m a philistine, I know. If they had cans, I would
have ordered a can.” She gave a look of mock
pique. “I just hope nobody sees me with a rube like you,” she joked, brushing
her hand across mine. I asked her what she
thought of Father Hampden. “Oh, he’s a sweet old guy. He loves what he does,
and he’s just the perfect picture of a I raised my eyebrows noncommitally. “I liked Reverend Makgabo.” “He’s pretty quiet. I don’t
know him all that well. But Father Hampden, he just seems so authentic, you
know? He seems like he belongs right where he is.” I knew not “seems,” but
Hampden did, and better than he knew “is,” too. Hardly worth arguing over. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked. I nodded. “What kind of name is Tomm? I
mean, when you first called, I thought of Billy Bob, or Becky Sue, or
something like that.” I laughed and nodded: I had heard this before, and
everyone asked about the name. “I don’t mean to pry,” she said, tilting her
head to the side and pulling her hair back from her face. That was unfair, I
thought; I’d tell state secrets to see that gesture again. “My grandfather, my father’s father, he came to Brooklyn
from “The first mate?” “The boatswain? The keelhauler?
Who knows; I’ve been on one boat in my life, and that’s the Staten Island
Ferry. So he asks this guy, ‘What’s the most English name you can think of?’
The guy says, ‘Tom.’ So that became his last name. How the extra m got
thrown in, I don’t know, but that, believe it or not, is the story of my last
name. What about you? Rowe? You a Mayflower baby?” She laughed, accidentally spitting a little beer back in
her pint glass. “Right. My father likes to think so. My mother, though, she’s
your basic generic midwestern girl. Scandinavian,
Scots-Irish. Probably a bit of something else, too. It’s the kind of ethnic
background that doesn’t really count ethnic background.” “Close family?” “I’m very close to my mother. She lives on her own just
outside Our food had arrived while
she was talking, and she dug into her shepherd’s pie like she hadn’t eaten
in days. I guess I must have been watching her a tad
too intently, because she looked up self-consciously and started wiping her
chin and checking for food on her shirt. “You’re fine, don’t worry.
It’s just that I like girls who eat.” “Oh, thanks. That’s me, I
guess. A good little eater.” “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry, I just . . .“ She laughed and waved me
off. “I know. So what about you? You’re a “Actually, my dad lives
back in “Wow. A three-generation
house in the “Yeah, well, I guess we
don’t get around all that much.” “No traveling?” “No, I guess no one in the
family really likes to travel. My folks took us to “Okay, here’s the big
question.” She did a little drumroll on the table
with her fingers. “How old are you?” “What’s your guess?” “I don’t know.
Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” I slumped backward against
the red Naugahyde bench. “That hurts. That really
hurts. I just turned twenty-three.” She put a hand over her
mouth and her eyes widened, glittering as they picked up the candles on the
tables around us. “My God. A baby. I can’t believe it. I guess I’ve dated
people younger than me, but this is unprecedented. Cradle robbing.” I blushed. Did she just
imply that we were dating? “Why? Can I ask. . .“ “Me? Over the hill. Done for. Past even the Christmas-cake
jokes. You know, no good on the twenty-sixth? I’m
thirty-one.” I didn’t say anything, which in retrospect was worse than
saying something snide. I remembered my mother’s twenty-eighth birthday
party pretty clearly. Thirty-one was an adult’s age. “I’ve never dated
someone this much. . . Well,
I guess I was in college and just didn’t. . .“ The hole got deeper as my face
reddened. “Oh, quit blushing. Just get me a walker on the way out of
the bar and slip a little Postum in my beer, and
I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” I don’t usually talk so smoothly with other people,
especially women— especially women to whom I’m attracted. But our
conversation just floated along, and the easier it got, the more I felt was
at stake. The world grew wider and more benign at that table. I confessed that I didn’t really know what I wanted to do;
she said neither did she. Before moving to “Of course you don’t; you’re barely old enough to buy me a
beer. Speaking of which.” She waved an empty glass in her left hand.
“Another of the, same. And the promise holds: come back to this table with a
Budweiser—or anything Bud-looking or anything in a can—and I’m leaving.” We talked for another two hours and as many beers before
she asked me what time it was. I got up to look at the clock behind the bar
and saw beneath it, perched on a
stool and not talking to anyone, a familiar-looking man. He had a kindly, seafaring
face, blue eyes, and a white beard; he wore professorial clothes that seemed
to lack shape and color (baggy, brownish beige). I couldn’t place him, but I
was sure I had seen him before. When I sat down, I pointed him out to Hannah; I figured he
came from “What’s wrong? Who is that
guy?” “I just told you, I don’t
know. Please, can we just go now? Please?” “You still have half your
beer left. Are you sure you don’t. . .“ As I spoke, she was getting
money out of her purse, preparing to pay the bill. At that, I relented.
“Okay, don’t do that. Let’s get out of here. But if you’re worried, maybe you
should talk to the police, or maybe. . .“ She forced a look of
fatigued, beery calm across her face, but her expression seemed to hover
just above her features like an imperfectly attached mask. “That man just
reminds me a little of my father, the way he looks in old pictures.” If this
were true, then her father must have been pushing sixty when she was born,
which was strange, if not completely unheard of. But I couldn’t see this Old
Mariner type in a golf-course bungalow in Despite her casual smile
and the affected jaunty walk toward the door, her hands shook as she fastened
her cape. Fasman’s creativity on the pages of The
Geographer’s Library makes this thriller blossom. He leads readers on a
treasure hunt for objects that lead to knowledge that transforms. His skill
keeps readers thinking, and that brings fine reading pleasure. Steve Hopkins,
March 23, 2005 |
||
|
|
|
||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
|||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Geographer's Library.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
