Colonial Mischief

I'm not sure whether anyone else is afflicted, like I am, with nostalgia for the era in early last century when white colonizers indulged in lives of adventure and misbehavior that could only happen far from home. Exotic displacement carries a promise of romance, conflict and loss. A promise that Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Karen Blixen, W. Somerset Maughan, E.M. Forster, and Marguerite Duras, among others, wrote into their books.

Paul Bowles, a favorite, was a late master. "The Sheltering Sky" and most of his short stories either end badly or at least not entirely well. The differences too insurmountable for a happy ever after. "The Sheltering Sky," like many of the novels of the authors above, was made into a movie. Sadly, a bad one.

Good or bad, I could always put myself in the landscape of Africa, the Indian Subcontinent or South East Asia, obviously free from the sin of xenophobia. I would not treat natives as intrinsically dangerous, invisible or disposable since I'd land in the scene with a big dose of anachronistic political correctness.

Fast forward to today's global marketplace, when every city is easily reachable after a plane ride or with a text, and we have yet to become one big homogenous family. Colonial mischief--privileged white people far from home behaving badly (political what?)--still happens.

I'm no critic or scholar and not many names come to mind who have continued the tradition into modern days. I think I like Francesca Marciano because "Rules of the Wild" updated the theme and brought it back. John Burdett does that with his mysteries set in Thailand, and while not many farang walk his books, it is a farang sensitivity that propels them.

Lawrence Osborne has lived in this neighborhood a long time but I'm just getting to know him. After reading "The Ballad of a Small Player," Mr. Osborne's last, a reviewer in The New York Times lamented having found another writer he could not put down and whose oeuvre he'd now be forced to read. The curse is contagious.

Set in Macau and Hong Kong, "The Ballad" follows a Brit in flight from the law who spends his fortune in the casinos while mildly romancing, or letting his wounds be tended to by a young local woman with little to say and which immediately brought to mind the main couple in "The Quiet American," time and lack of war notwithstanding. Western men like their Asian girls young and silent. Nothing has changed, and this is not a great endorsement for this book, which captivates because of atmosphere and language, but left me wanting in the western male evolutionary department.

If I hadn't bought his earlier novel, "The Forgiven," in tandem with "Ballad," however, I may have missed one of the best books I've ever had the pleasure to read. Set in Morocco, Paul Bowles's adopted home, "The Forgiven" is a jewel of misunderstandings, the unspoken, the silence that divides the white 'conquerors' (them with the power to buy and restore into luxury abandoned mountain towns to entertain the "Vanity Fair" set in lavish, weekend long orgies) and the impoverished locals (resentful witnesses to their temporary masters' excess.)

The story opens up like a delicate but poisonous flower and its suspense keeps you hooked to the very last word. I loved it.

And, of course, I hated it. One, because a story this good has yet to occur to me. Two, because I resent Mr. Osborne for having the life that has given him the hues for this illuminated miniature's delicate palette.

I, too, have no choice but to seek out and read all his other books. And if any of you, my five readers, needs a plus one to accompany you to the new "VF" party in the Maldives, I'm already packed.