Ring Roads, After the Crash and The Age of Earthquakes: Guide to the Extreme Present

After the Crash

And just to prove that the French are not all arty-farty, obscure and style obsessed, we bring you this. After The Crash is a roman a clef as they say over t’other side of La Manche. It is the story of a plane crash that took place on the French-Swiss border in 1980. A baby is the sole survivor, but is she: a) Granddaughter of mad manipulative aristocratic cads? or b) Granddaughter of salt-of-the-Earth working folk? Both sets of parents died in the crash.

Most of the novel is told in retrospect via the journal of private dick Credule Grand-Duc (literally Duke Gullible), who has been commissioned by Grandmere Aristocad until the foundling’s 18th birthday, to get to the bottom of things at any cost. Grand-Duc is cliché writ large: “I imagine it dates back to my former job as a mercenary – an armed binman charged with emptying the world’s filthiest bins.”

His journal is preposterous. It is purportedly a report that both sets of grandparents, the foundling child and two possible siblings – Rich psychobitch Malvina, whom we shall call Poison Dwarf Aristocadette and Marc, the Incestuous Prole Squeeze – are expected to read.

In it, Grand-Duc plays to the gallery like a total ham, impossibly eavesdrops on a sexual encounter between two of the main characters and has all the credibility of a low-budget soap opera: “Dear reader... this case has been stuck in my brain like a piece of mental chewimg gum.”

Michel Bussi sacrifices style, language, class and stakes everything on a labyrinthine plot structure and quickfire editing, which does give the story a certain pace and punch, as Grand-Duc informs us: “In terms of suspense, you really don’t have anything to complain about.”

But how is this for covert observation or voyeurism beyond the call of duty? “Deeper underwater... by accident almost, her mouth touched his penis. He went hard. How could he do otherwise?” Private dick indeed.

The characters are cardboard cut-outs. Malvina, or Poison Dwarf Aristocadette, “Gave her inimitable rich-little-girl-stare, her aristocratic-serial-killer smile.” The foundling is been raised by the salt of the Earthers after the Aristocads fail to buy her.

Their other grandchild, Marc, who missed the fatal flight, grows up something of a jock and becomes Incestuous Prole Squeeze: “Little Marc sought the affection of Emilie, his adorable little sister... and then Little Marc grew up and the doubt began to seem like an opportunity, bury little Emilie and fall in love with Lyse-Rose.”

Maybe all the quality translators were occupied doing the complete works of the Nobel Prize winner, but I have to confess my disappointment that a Frenchman, even in 2015 could claim that a Type H Citroen van could reach 70 mph, when even the later models would only reach 90 kph in a tailwind down Mont Blanc, with no little risk to structural integrity. A translation error or just wishful thinking, perhaps?

Naturally, an unlikely series of improbable events ensue, as this is genre fiction and not literature. As for the denouement, let’s just say it isn’t boring. However, I’ll leave you with two little tasters of dialogue to give you a hint as to the bouquet of Roquefort contained within:

“Killing you is the last thing I want Marc, but what else can I do?”

“How could I possibly know that I would fall in love with one of my victims?”

This is fromage of the first order, like an Italian Giallo from the Seventies, but it passes time quickly enough, is a suitably guilty pleasure and shouldn’t leave too many mental scars on consenting unimpressionable adults – and over 700,000 copies sold in France already can't be bad.