Reading Wednesday
Sep. 17th, 2014 04:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brigdhWhat did you just finish?
Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. This book is the first in a trilogy, with the last one supposedly coming out soon. In 1830s India, the world powers of Britain and China are in the lead-up to the first Opium War; caught up in the tumult is the ship Ibis and its crew and passengers, most of whom are people who are crossing all sorts of barriers. The main characters include Deeti, the widow of a poppy farmer who's run away with an 'Untouchable' man; Zachary Reid, a freedman from Baltimore passing for white; Paulette, a French orphan disguised as a Bengali woman; Jodu, the local servant boy who was raised as Paulette's brother; Nob Kissin Pander, a Bengali clerk who believes he's being reborn as his dead guru, a transformation that includes his body becoming female; and Raja Neel Rattan, a rich and noble landowner who is jailed on trumped-up charges and exiled. Most of the book is taken up with introducing the many characters and getting them all in the same place; by the time everyone was actually on the Ibis, the book was almost over. Though there's not much of a plot, I loved all the attention given to the setting and historical research and the people. Everyone speaks their own dialect of English, to the point that people are easily recognized by the words they use:
Zachary was touched. 'Thank you, Serang Ali. Ain nobody never gave me nothin like this before.' He stood in front of the mirror, watch in hand, hat on head, and burst into laughter. 'Hey! They'll make me Mayor, for sure.'
Serang Ali nodded: 'Malum Zikri one big piece pukka sahib now. Allo propa. If planter-bugger coming catch, must do dumbcow.'
'Dumbcow?' said Zachary. 'What you talkin bout?'
'Must too muchi shout: planter-bugger, you go barnshoot sister. I one-piece pukka sahib, no can catch. You takee pistol in pocket; if bugger try shanghai, shoot in he face.'
or:
'Miss Lambert? Why, I cannot believe! You have turned up in my backside? And wearing native garbs also. So nicely you have hidden your face I could not tell...'
'Shh!' Paulette pleaded. 'I pray you, Baboo Nob Kissin, please abase your voice.'
The gomusta switched to a piercing whisper. 'But Miss, what you are doing in this nook-and-cranny, kindly can you inform? We all are searching you left and right, to no avail. But never mind – Master will rejoice like anything. Let us return back right now-itself.'
'No, Baboo Nob Kissin,' said Paulette. 'It is not my intention to go to Bethel. I searched you out for it is with you I must most pressingly speak. May I pray you to spare a little time to sit with me? If it will not too much derange you?'
I love this sort of attention to the details of accent and dialect, but I imagine that if you don't, it would get very frustrating to read. I recommend this, and I'm looking forward to reading the next book.
Light Thickens by Ngaio Marsh. During a production of Macbeth, superstitions about the play lead to various strange and unlucky things happening backstage, eventually culminating in the murder of the lead actor. The mystery itself is extremely lacking (who did it? The crazy guy! Why? Because he's crazy! Aren't you shocked and stunned by this revelation?), but it doesn't matter much because clearly this book is way more interested in the details of preparing a theatrical production – the murder doesn't even happen until about 3/4ths of the way through the book, and the detective is barely a character. All the backstage details of actors' interpersonal drama, how rehearsals work, the various tasks of directors, stage managers, lighting supervisors, etc, were all really interesting. Everything felt oddly old-fashioned for a book published in the 80s (people have cooks in their homes! Women seem universally not to work after marriage! Children are sent away to boarding school!), but that's not really a problem, as such, just slightly strange. A light, quick read, but enjoyable.
Die Upon a Kiss by Barbara Hambly.I think of this as one of the lighter-weight books in the series. The subject matter is nowhere near as serious as some of them (which is appreciated, coming right after Sold Down the River) and there's no particularly big developments in the characters' lives, but it's entertaining and there's lots of nice bits. I love all of the backstage stuff particularly. The mystery is good too, and I really like the ultimate resolution – the way it's Marsan's daughter who steps up to protect Drusilla, that they've both been abused by the same man.
I really love the Dominique plotline in this book! It's one of the few plots that gets split over two books (I mean, I guess a lot of the more slow-burning, background character relationship stuff goes from book to book, but this is the only dramatic, specific plot that spans more than one book that I can think of). Which makes sense, since pregnancy is inherently a plot that takes a certain amount of time, while the mystery plot in this one is fairly short-lived (I think this book only covers a few weeks, maybe two-three months at most). I like that even though Henri is a pretty nice guy and does love Minou, the system they're in makes it impossible for her to entirely rely on him. It really illustrates how problems like these aren't about individuals and their personal beliefs. I also really like that abortion is treated as a valid choice by the series.
I always wonder if the subtext between Silvio Cavallo and Bruno Ponte is deliberate, or if I've just been reading too much slash. But at least a one-sided attraction from Ponte to Cavallo seems obvious! Lines like But the young man’s attention—as always—was on Cavallo or The pistol came up. Ponte moved to throw himself between them. And then they share a blanket the night they spend in the barn.
Which, speaking of the scene in the barn, I am always amused that for a novel whose plot centers around a someone passing for white, the only people who get legally accused of passing are the ones who are actually Italian.
In the corner near the street door Cochon Gardinier and Hannibal leaned back-to-back against each other, knees bent, eyes half shut, fiddle-bows flying so that the music spiraled and soared like mating dragons—Jacques and Uncle and every other musician from a dozen balls and parties had assembled here and whirled along behind them, the glory of the music fast and heartstopping and wild. January shut his eyes and let the sound fill him, and for a time he understood again why after Ayasha’s death— when the whole world stood open to his empty heart— the only place he could come to was here.
Music. The flesh that robed his soul’s chilled bones.
Family. Helaine Passebon’s dirty rice on a couple of sheets of newspaper and the sound of laughter in the shadows.
New Orleans on a Carnival night, at the back of town.
I LOVE the whole Mardi Gras party scene; it's one of my favorite pieces. I'd love fic about that, or more canon, or whatever – it's just so happy and fun, like the best sort of fluff. And Rose is dressed up as Athena! And now I want to know what costumes all the other characters would wear.
The people at the back of the Faubourg Tremé weren’t so very different from the Milanese and the Sicilians who said sbirri with that look in their eyes. It does something to you, to know in your bones that justice is something other people get.
I feel like this line really explains a lot about who Ben is. Not just in regards to solving mysteries, but in the people he chooses as friends and the topics he feel sympathy for. Even Marguerite, in this book, is someone who's been betrayed by justice.
The Buttonhole was a small establishment on Rue St. Anne that catered to free colored musicians and artisans, and served up in its tiny plank-walled front parlor the best gumbo and jambalaya in town. Cora Chouteau, who owned the place
Cora! And Gervase! It's nice to see them doing well.
“Now that you mention it, he does indeed bear a startling resemblance to my father’s solicitor—Droudge, his name was. If he swallows the bottle, I’ll know for sure he’s the very man, garbed in a clever disguise.”
Hannibal backstory! That matches up to his backstory in later books! I'm always impressed when authors can do that. But this bit doesn't work with what we find out later on:
"Look at this— Guerrero and the liberals take over Mexico. I remember my brother thought that was going to be the end of civilization.”
“And so it was,” murmured January, “for anyone who had ties with the Iturbide regime.” It was the first time he’d ever heard Hannibal mention a brother. “What year was that? ’Twenty-seven?"
I suppose it's possible Hannibal has a younger brother who wasn't relevant to later plots and so didn't get mentioned, but the years don't work out. Maybe he had a friend he called 'brother'? I wonder what Hambly was originally planning as a backstory, that this line was part of.
One of these individuals had repaid the favor by instructing him in the techniques of lock-picking, a skill January gathered he was passing along to the ever-inquiring Rose.
I desperately want the fic or short story or whatever about them learning how to pick locks togethers.
He spoke to Hannibal with a friendly matter-of-factness, sized January up with polite approval, and added, “What’s your boy’s name?”
January opened his mouth to express a sentiment both unwise and inappropriate for a man of color, be he ever so free, along Tchoupitoulas Street, and Hannibal cut in with “Plantagenet. Hal Plantagenet. A bawcock and a heart of gold. Let’s go, Hal.”
This is one of my favorite of Hannibal's quotes – I looked it up because I had no idea what a 'bawcock' is, and the context of the line is someone speaking to a king without realizing it's the king. Which seems appropriate for Hannibal's feelings regarding the situation. (Also, the next sentence is "I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heartstring I love the lovely bully." which is excellent for fic purposes.)
When January walked Rose up to the gallery of her little rented room, he put his hands on her slim waist and kissed her gently; felt her stiffen for one instant at old memories, old hurts. Then her hands slid swift and light around his shoulders and her mouth grew warm under his, tasting at first, hesitant, then crushing, devouring, and yielding to be devoured.
January walked home feeling curiously breathless and light, as if he’d found a note from God under his pillow, saying, Everything will be all right.
Everything will be all right.
I love this scene, it's so sweet and bright. And I love the slowness of Ben and Rose's relationship, how careful they are of one another.
A cherub’s face,” quoted Hannibal, “a reptile all the rest.” He looked a little better since he’d been squiring Madame Montero, though whether this was from pleasure at the friendship of a fellow artist, or because she was feeding him better, was hard to say.
BEN SO SNARKY. Let Hannibal date someone with judgement! I actually really like Hannibal and Consuela's relationship; neither one seems head-over-heels in love, but they get along well and suit each other and generally just seem to understand one another and be friends. I also love that for all the flirting Hannibal does, his actual relationships always seem to be initiated by the woman.
I love that Ben gets stage-fright when he has to get up on stage and dance. Sometimes he's a dork and it's always adorable.
Here are some of my favorite quotes from this book
If there were a form of address less respectful than tu, January reflected, leaning back in the deceptive gold-crusted cushions of the throne and closing his eyes, Marsan would use it to Shaw. He wondered how soon it would occur to the French Creoles to write to the Académie Française and ask that one be invented.
Hee!
“Might you be free for—oh—three hours tomorrow morning? Before rehearsal here?”
January’s first thought—If that five dollars is for an amorous interlude, you’re certainly flattering me, Madame— glanced aside at the veiled calculation behind those long lashes. Even cutting short his time at Bichet’s, it would mean he’d have almost no sleep. But he’d never forgive himself—certainly neither Rose nor Hannibal would forgive him—if he didn’t find out what was going on.
Ha, I love that they're all so curious.
At the age of ten he’d beaten up three of the quadroon boys from the St. Louis Academy for Young Gentlemen of Color, classmates he’d surprised in the act of drowning a puppy in the gutter. As the darkest boy in the school, January had little patience with those boys anyway—the ones who’d call him bozal and country and cane-patch—and he’d taken a split lip and a swollen eye in defense of the poor little cur, who had promptly slashed his wrist nearly to the bone and run away while its erstwhile tormentors howled with laughter at January’s pain and chagrin. His mother had whipped him, too, for getting his clothes torn.
You guys, Ben LITERALLY SAVES PUPPIES. He is the best hero.
Mardi Gras was the harvest of his year, far less grueling than the sugar-grinding seasons of his childhood. You didn’t sleep in either case, but at least at Mardi Gras you went to interesting parties.
Haaaa.
January felt again the iron cold of other dawns, the damp, mossy stink of the morning streets of Paris. Marguerite beside him, sinews and heart loosened with the sleepy content that the young feel when they’ve made music three-quarters of the night and love for the rest of it, in quest of coffee among the grimed echoing torchlit stone vaults of Les Halles.
I really like Ben and Marguerite's relationship. I'd love to read more about it. Hambly is so good at capturing evocative details, and I love these lines in particular.
Dress rehearsal proceeded uneventfully enough. The only interruption came from James Caldwell’s suggestion that since the American audience was unfamiliar with both Mozart and the Italian language, the talents of the lovely Miss d’Isola and the equally lovely Mrs. Chiavari might be better showcased were certain more popular— and more familiar—American songs inserted at key points into Le Nozze di Figaro.
“What?” said Cavallo, shocked.
“You’re joking,” said Hannibal.
January knew better than to state any opinion of his own to a white man in the State of Louisiana, but he did ask himself whether he’d assisted the wrong parties in the alley last Thursday night.
And the lovely Mademoiselle d’Isola turned wide eyes to Cavallo and whispered, “Qual’? Di cos’ sta parlan’?”
“I’ve marked in the libretto where these should go,” Caldwell continued. “Here—you see?—in Act Two, we have the Countess singing ‘Soft as the Falling Dews of Night’ when we first see her, and then ‘Blest Were the Hours.’ Both very pretty songs, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Are you crazy?” demanded Hannibal, lowering his music to stare at the theater owner. “You want to put ‘Soft as the Falling Dews of Night’ into Mozart?”
“Well, that’s precisely our point,” explained Trulove, his pink oval face beaming with satisfaction at his own cleverness. “It’s a little too much Mozart, if you take my meaning.... […] Now, we have the dance number in Act Three, which I think would go just as well with the John Quincy Adams Grand March and Quick-Step—”
Herr Smith opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“—and then Susanna in Act Four can sing ‘Look Out Upon the Stars, My Love,’ when she’s in the garden at the beginning, and follow it up with ‘Cherry-Cheeked Patty.’ ”
Hannibal repeated soundlessly, Cherry-Cheeked Patty? while Belaggio nodded and approved, “Yes, of course— just the songs for my beautiful d’Isola, are they not?”
“I will have to learn them in English?” Drusilla looked as discomposed as if the lyrics had been in Mandarin.
“A few run-throughs merely,” declared the impresario. “I’m sure the musicians won’t mind staying a bit later after rehearsal.”
“You’ll see,” said the theater owner encouragingly. “It’ll bring the American audiences back shouting for more.”
“And add immeasurably to our reputation as musicians,” muttered Hannibal under his breath as Caldwell, Trulove, and Belaggio—hugely pleased with themselves— turned away. He reached beneath his chair and brought out his hat, a shaggy, flat-brimmed chimneypot that hadn’t been fashionable since Napoleon’s day, and turned it over like a beggar’s bowl. “Anyone want to start a fund,” he inquired, “to purchase bullets for M’sieu Marsan?”
I adore all of the fighting and posturing about the music, but this scene is my favorite. This book is much funnier than the earlier ones in the series.
And link to the FFA discussion, with some other people's interesting comments!
What are you currently reading?
Recasting India: How Entrepreneurship is changing the World's Largest Democracy by Hindol Sengupta. Man, nonfiction is so much better when it's recent. I've been reading too much stuff that's ten and twenty years old; this one, awesomely, is from 2014.
Wet Grave by Barbara Hambly. Keeping up with the reread!
Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. This book is the first in a trilogy, with the last one supposedly coming out soon. In 1830s India, the world powers of Britain and China are in the lead-up to the first Opium War; caught up in the tumult is the ship Ibis and its crew and passengers, most of whom are people who are crossing all sorts of barriers. The main characters include Deeti, the widow of a poppy farmer who's run away with an 'Untouchable' man; Zachary Reid, a freedman from Baltimore passing for white; Paulette, a French orphan disguised as a Bengali woman; Jodu, the local servant boy who was raised as Paulette's brother; Nob Kissin Pander, a Bengali clerk who believes he's being reborn as his dead guru, a transformation that includes his body becoming female; and Raja Neel Rattan, a rich and noble landowner who is jailed on trumped-up charges and exiled. Most of the book is taken up with introducing the many characters and getting them all in the same place; by the time everyone was actually on the Ibis, the book was almost over. Though there's not much of a plot, I loved all the attention given to the setting and historical research and the people. Everyone speaks their own dialect of English, to the point that people are easily recognized by the words they use:
Zachary was touched. 'Thank you, Serang Ali. Ain nobody never gave me nothin like this before.' He stood in front of the mirror, watch in hand, hat on head, and burst into laughter. 'Hey! They'll make me Mayor, for sure.'
Serang Ali nodded: 'Malum Zikri one big piece pukka sahib now. Allo propa. If planter-bugger coming catch, must do dumbcow.'
'Dumbcow?' said Zachary. 'What you talkin bout?'
'Must too muchi shout: planter-bugger, you go barnshoot sister. I one-piece pukka sahib, no can catch. You takee pistol in pocket; if bugger try shanghai, shoot in he face.'
or:
'Miss Lambert? Why, I cannot believe! You have turned up in my backside? And wearing native garbs also. So nicely you have hidden your face I could not tell...'
'Shh!' Paulette pleaded. 'I pray you, Baboo Nob Kissin, please abase your voice.'
The gomusta switched to a piercing whisper. 'But Miss, what you are doing in this nook-and-cranny, kindly can you inform? We all are searching you left and right, to no avail. But never mind – Master will rejoice like anything. Let us return back right now-itself.'
'No, Baboo Nob Kissin,' said Paulette. 'It is not my intention to go to Bethel. I searched you out for it is with you I must most pressingly speak. May I pray you to spare a little time to sit with me? If it will not too much derange you?'
I love this sort of attention to the details of accent and dialect, but I imagine that if you don't, it would get very frustrating to read. I recommend this, and I'm looking forward to reading the next book.
Light Thickens by Ngaio Marsh. During a production of Macbeth, superstitions about the play lead to various strange and unlucky things happening backstage, eventually culminating in the murder of the lead actor. The mystery itself is extremely lacking (who did it? The crazy guy! Why? Because he's crazy! Aren't you shocked and stunned by this revelation?), but it doesn't matter much because clearly this book is way more interested in the details of preparing a theatrical production – the murder doesn't even happen until about 3/4ths of the way through the book, and the detective is barely a character. All the backstage details of actors' interpersonal drama, how rehearsals work, the various tasks of directors, stage managers, lighting supervisors, etc, were all really interesting. Everything felt oddly old-fashioned for a book published in the 80s (people have cooks in their homes! Women seem universally not to work after marriage! Children are sent away to boarding school!), but that's not really a problem, as such, just slightly strange. A light, quick read, but enjoyable.
Die Upon a Kiss by Barbara Hambly.
I really love the Dominique plotline in this book! It's one of the few plots that gets split over two books (I mean, I guess a lot of the more slow-burning, background character relationship stuff goes from book to book, but this is the only dramatic, specific plot that spans more than one book that I can think of). Which makes sense, since pregnancy is inherently a plot that takes a certain amount of time, while the mystery plot in this one is fairly short-lived (I think this book only covers a few weeks, maybe two-three months at most). I like that even though Henri is a pretty nice guy and does love Minou, the system they're in makes it impossible for her to entirely rely on him. It really illustrates how problems like these aren't about individuals and their personal beliefs. I also really like that abortion is treated as a valid choice by the series.
I always wonder if the subtext between Silvio Cavallo and Bruno Ponte is deliberate, or if I've just been reading too much slash. But at least a one-sided attraction from Ponte to Cavallo seems obvious! Lines like But the young man’s attention—as always—was on Cavallo or The pistol came up. Ponte moved to throw himself between them. And then they share a blanket the night they spend in the barn.
Which, speaking of the scene in the barn, I am always amused that for a novel whose plot centers around a someone passing for white, the only people who get legally accused of passing are the ones who are actually Italian.
In the corner near the street door Cochon Gardinier and Hannibal leaned back-to-back against each other, knees bent, eyes half shut, fiddle-bows flying so that the music spiraled and soared like mating dragons—Jacques and Uncle and every other musician from a dozen balls and parties had assembled here and whirled along behind them, the glory of the music fast and heartstopping and wild. January shut his eyes and let the sound fill him, and for a time he understood again why after Ayasha’s death— when the whole world stood open to his empty heart— the only place he could come to was here.
Music. The flesh that robed his soul’s chilled bones.
Family. Helaine Passebon’s dirty rice on a couple of sheets of newspaper and the sound of laughter in the shadows.
New Orleans on a Carnival night, at the back of town.
I LOVE the whole Mardi Gras party scene; it's one of my favorite pieces. I'd love fic about that, or more canon, or whatever – it's just so happy and fun, like the best sort of fluff. And Rose is dressed up as Athena! And now I want to know what costumes all the other characters would wear.
The people at the back of the Faubourg Tremé weren’t so very different from the Milanese and the Sicilians who said sbirri with that look in their eyes. It does something to you, to know in your bones that justice is something other people get.
I feel like this line really explains a lot about who Ben is. Not just in regards to solving mysteries, but in the people he chooses as friends and the topics he feel sympathy for. Even Marguerite, in this book, is someone who's been betrayed by justice.
The Buttonhole was a small establishment on Rue St. Anne that catered to free colored musicians and artisans, and served up in its tiny plank-walled front parlor the best gumbo and jambalaya in town. Cora Chouteau, who owned the place
Cora! And Gervase! It's nice to see them doing well.
“Now that you mention it, he does indeed bear a startling resemblance to my father’s solicitor—Droudge, his name was. If he swallows the bottle, I’ll know for sure he’s the very man, garbed in a clever disguise.”
Hannibal backstory! That matches up to his backstory in later books! I'm always impressed when authors can do that. But this bit doesn't work with what we find out later on:
"Look at this— Guerrero and the liberals take over Mexico. I remember my brother thought that was going to be the end of civilization.”
“And so it was,” murmured January, “for anyone who had ties with the Iturbide regime.” It was the first time he’d ever heard Hannibal mention a brother. “What year was that? ’Twenty-seven?"
I suppose it's possible Hannibal has a younger brother who wasn't relevant to later plots and so didn't get mentioned, but the years don't work out. Maybe he had a friend he called 'brother'? I wonder what Hambly was originally planning as a backstory, that this line was part of.
One of these individuals had repaid the favor by instructing him in the techniques of lock-picking, a skill January gathered he was passing along to the ever-inquiring Rose.
I desperately want the fic or short story or whatever about them learning how to pick locks togethers.
He spoke to Hannibal with a friendly matter-of-factness, sized January up with polite approval, and added, “What’s your boy’s name?”
January opened his mouth to express a sentiment both unwise and inappropriate for a man of color, be he ever so free, along Tchoupitoulas Street, and Hannibal cut in with “Plantagenet. Hal Plantagenet. A bawcock and a heart of gold. Let’s go, Hal.”
This is one of my favorite of Hannibal's quotes – I looked it up because I had no idea what a 'bawcock' is, and the context of the line is someone speaking to a king without realizing it's the king. Which seems appropriate for Hannibal's feelings regarding the situation. (Also, the next sentence is "I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heartstring I love the lovely bully." which is excellent for fic purposes.)
When January walked Rose up to the gallery of her little rented room, he put his hands on her slim waist and kissed her gently; felt her stiffen for one instant at old memories, old hurts. Then her hands slid swift and light around his shoulders and her mouth grew warm under his, tasting at first, hesitant, then crushing, devouring, and yielding to be devoured.
January walked home feeling curiously breathless and light, as if he’d found a note from God under his pillow, saying, Everything will be all right.
Everything will be all right.
I love this scene, it's so sweet and bright. And I love the slowness of Ben and Rose's relationship, how careful they are of one another.
A cherub’s face,” quoted Hannibal, “a reptile all the rest.” He looked a little better since he’d been squiring Madame Montero, though whether this was from pleasure at the friendship of a fellow artist, or because she was feeding him better, was hard to say.
BEN SO SNARKY. Let Hannibal date someone with judgement! I actually really like Hannibal and Consuela's relationship; neither one seems head-over-heels in love, but they get along well and suit each other and generally just seem to understand one another and be friends. I also love that for all the flirting Hannibal does, his actual relationships always seem to be initiated by the woman.
I love that Ben gets stage-fright when he has to get up on stage and dance. Sometimes he's a dork and it's always adorable.
Here are some of my favorite quotes from this book
If there were a form of address less respectful than tu, January reflected, leaning back in the deceptive gold-crusted cushions of the throne and closing his eyes, Marsan would use it to Shaw. He wondered how soon it would occur to the French Creoles to write to the Académie Française and ask that one be invented.
Hee!
“Might you be free for—oh—three hours tomorrow morning? Before rehearsal here?”
January’s first thought—If that five dollars is for an amorous interlude, you’re certainly flattering me, Madame— glanced aside at the veiled calculation behind those long lashes. Even cutting short his time at Bichet’s, it would mean he’d have almost no sleep. But he’d never forgive himself—certainly neither Rose nor Hannibal would forgive him—if he didn’t find out what was going on.
Ha, I love that they're all so curious.
At the age of ten he’d beaten up three of the quadroon boys from the St. Louis Academy for Young Gentlemen of Color, classmates he’d surprised in the act of drowning a puppy in the gutter. As the darkest boy in the school, January had little patience with those boys anyway—the ones who’d call him bozal and country and cane-patch—and he’d taken a split lip and a swollen eye in defense of the poor little cur, who had promptly slashed his wrist nearly to the bone and run away while its erstwhile tormentors howled with laughter at January’s pain and chagrin. His mother had whipped him, too, for getting his clothes torn.
You guys, Ben LITERALLY SAVES PUPPIES. He is the best hero.
Mardi Gras was the harvest of his year, far less grueling than the sugar-grinding seasons of his childhood. You didn’t sleep in either case, but at least at Mardi Gras you went to interesting parties.
Haaaa.
January felt again the iron cold of other dawns, the damp, mossy stink of the morning streets of Paris. Marguerite beside him, sinews and heart loosened with the sleepy content that the young feel when they’ve made music three-quarters of the night and love for the rest of it, in quest of coffee among the grimed echoing torchlit stone vaults of Les Halles.
I really like Ben and Marguerite's relationship. I'd love to read more about it. Hambly is so good at capturing evocative details, and I love these lines in particular.
Dress rehearsal proceeded uneventfully enough. The only interruption came from James Caldwell’s suggestion that since the American audience was unfamiliar with both Mozart and the Italian language, the talents of the lovely Miss d’Isola and the equally lovely Mrs. Chiavari might be better showcased were certain more popular— and more familiar—American songs inserted at key points into Le Nozze di Figaro.
“What?” said Cavallo, shocked.
“You’re joking,” said Hannibal.
January knew better than to state any opinion of his own to a white man in the State of Louisiana, but he did ask himself whether he’d assisted the wrong parties in the alley last Thursday night.
And the lovely Mademoiselle d’Isola turned wide eyes to Cavallo and whispered, “Qual’? Di cos’ sta parlan’?”
“I’ve marked in the libretto where these should go,” Caldwell continued. “Here—you see?—in Act Two, we have the Countess singing ‘Soft as the Falling Dews of Night’ when we first see her, and then ‘Blest Were the Hours.’ Both very pretty songs, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Are you crazy?” demanded Hannibal, lowering his music to stare at the theater owner. “You want to put ‘Soft as the Falling Dews of Night’ into Mozart?”
“Well, that’s precisely our point,” explained Trulove, his pink oval face beaming with satisfaction at his own cleverness. “It’s a little too much Mozart, if you take my meaning.... […] Now, we have the dance number in Act Three, which I think would go just as well with the John Quincy Adams Grand March and Quick-Step—”
Herr Smith opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“—and then Susanna in Act Four can sing ‘Look Out Upon the Stars, My Love,’ when she’s in the garden at the beginning, and follow it up with ‘Cherry-Cheeked Patty.’ ”
Hannibal repeated soundlessly, Cherry-Cheeked Patty? while Belaggio nodded and approved, “Yes, of course— just the songs for my beautiful d’Isola, are they not?”
“I will have to learn them in English?” Drusilla looked as discomposed as if the lyrics had been in Mandarin.
“A few run-throughs merely,” declared the impresario. “I’m sure the musicians won’t mind staying a bit later after rehearsal.”
“You’ll see,” said the theater owner encouragingly. “It’ll bring the American audiences back shouting for more.”
“And add immeasurably to our reputation as musicians,” muttered Hannibal under his breath as Caldwell, Trulove, and Belaggio—hugely pleased with themselves— turned away. He reached beneath his chair and brought out his hat, a shaggy, flat-brimmed chimneypot that hadn’t been fashionable since Napoleon’s day, and turned it over like a beggar’s bowl. “Anyone want to start a fund,” he inquired, “to purchase bullets for M’sieu Marsan?”
I adore all of the fighting and posturing about the music, but this scene is my favorite. This book is much funnier than the earlier ones in the series.
And link to the FFA discussion, with some other people's interesting comments!
What are you currently reading?
Recasting India: How Entrepreneurship is changing the World's Largest Democracy by Hindol Sengupta. Man, nonfiction is so much better when it's recent. I've been reading too much stuff that's ten and twenty years old; this one, awesomely, is from 2014.
Wet Grave by Barbara Hambly. Keeping up with the reread!
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Date: 2014-09-18 01:10 am (UTC)Marguerite is glorious, and I love that she fits so well with Ben's current social circle. I kind of wish she'd have stayed in New Orleans! She could have had a scandalous and adorable background romance with Davis. Davis is fun! I really expected him to die in this book, I actually think it's possible Hambly decided to keep him alive because Ben keeps needing two white male witnesses. But it's really interested how Ben really likes him, but there's still a huge disconnect between them.
I might have more insightful thoughts tomorrow but right now I'm just basking in the excellence of all these quotes and LITERALLY SAVES PUPPIES. <3333
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Date: 2014-09-18 03:49 am (UTC)I would have lovedddd Marguerite to hang around and be friends with Hannibal and Rose and Olympe and everyone else. It would be amazing. Maybe she'll come back for a visit someday! Or everyone could go to Paris.
I think Davis is a real historical figure? So presumably he has some actual cause of death Hambly's sticking to, which probably doesn't involve, like, Austrian spies and arson. He does make a good witness for Ben though! He probably can only use Hannibal and Shaw so many times, and Davis is way more respectable than either of them.
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Date: 2014-09-18 12:36 pm (UTC)Ohh, I had no idea Davis really existed! And, yes, Davis and Mayerling are both v. useful whatever the jury is, like, Davis is French but American-friendly, Augustus is a respectable charming foreigner, thus they're both much more useful than Shaw (american animal) and Artois's uncle (French ivory tower person). I really would like to see Hannibal in a court setting, actually, it'd be a great opportunity to veiled declarations of love!
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Date: 2014-09-18 07:15 pm (UTC)And yessssss, me too. There's a bunch of times where Ben brings Hannibal somewhere to be his Official White Male Witness, and yet we never actually see him go to court. I imagine he gets in trouble for, like, quoting Ancient Greek when the opposing lawyer assumes it's a secret message. Also it's hard to be charming with an audience. But veiled declaration of love is the BEST. Especially because Ben obviously can't respond immediately, but has to wait and just listen until there's a recess/the next witness is called/an unrelated riot starts in the courtroom and everyone is kicked out.