The Believers by Zoe Heller – a book review

What makes us into the people we become? Are we the Michelangelos of our vulnerable cap shaped intestinally complex Davids, tucked safely and guarded by the skull? Is it us who scrupulously chisel, plaster, fill and colour the inevitably clingy, the invisible and interminable thoughts to design our masterpieces? Or do we indolently leave it for others? And whatever the final outcome of the design, is it ever final. No, I say, as nature and nurture fight it out to add their own strokes to it – either to enhance or to scar it. And the finest of sculptors have at times designed the ugliest pieces of art, haven’t they?

The Litvinoffs are who Zoe Heller writes about; a family of believers whose ties are loosely bound but their individual beliefs in life are almost non-negotiable, or so it seems. Mr. and Mrs. Litvinoff are a supercilious condescending bunch; they would never bend their thoughts for anyone; they wouldn’t think twice before imposing them on their children or friends though. The daughters are a contrast, one having given up the struggle to find answers and has been in an acceptance mode for a long time, the other arrogantly seeking answers she doesn’t have questions for. An adopted drug addict of a son is the only one Mrs. Litvinoff seems to care for; probably she enjoys the dependence he has on her – so much for control.

As Mr. Litvinoff lands up in hospital and is in a coma, a past is revealed. The story progresses smiling ruefully and mocking at the strength the characters portray in their thoughts and attitudes. Like being acted upon in a chemistry lab, Zoe Heller subtly immerses them in situations and lets them react and transform. They resist, accept, fight, think, discover with the other elements that are added to them gradually. And finally when they are poured out, magically they are of a different colour and shape, they are still believers, but changed ones, questioning their erstwhile beliefs.

As Pink Floyd sung, 

The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You rearrange me 'til I'm sane

You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me

Mrs. Litvinoff reminded me of Rupert from A Fairly Honourable Defeat by Iris Murdoch; though Rupert was not a despot like Mrs. Litvinoff, yet he was unbending in his thoughts and views. Like Murdoch, Zoe Keller shows us that there cannot exist a permanency in formidability – not in a stone, not in a human. Time and life are obstinate, relentless and ruthless forces; time and again they slacken the tautness of the most formidable, to show who they really are – mortal specks and nothing more. And when and in what form that happens, is the enigma called life; at times it's a discovery of being needed, like for Karla, at times it's a beckoning by religion, like for Rosa or at times being struck by an incident, questioning the very existence you've had for an entire married life, like for Mrs. Audrey Litvinoff. Keller’s strong willed characters resonated very well with me; I have met a few like them myself, only to know the ostentatious façade of will they build around them, to stay protected in their fight to understand their existence. Only that they are as strong and as weak as you and me. This is the second book by Zoe Heller that I’ve read, the first one being ‘Notes on a scandal’. She truly knows her characters and makes sure you know them as deeply as she does. Intelligently and subtly written, I enjoyed it immensely.

My rating: 5/5

Images copyright:

Book cover: © https://www.amazon.co.uk/Believers-Penguin-Street-Art/dp/0141024674

Zoe Heller: © https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zoe-Heller/e/B001H6NVYI%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

She

 

There’s a tree,
Lining the shore of the sea,
In the shade of the palms of that tree,
Sits she

The dusk is still a distant affair. It’s a clear blue sky with a few white candy floss clouds lazily floating around; they are devoid of any ambition. She has a book beside her she’s carried along but she never reads it. Probably never will. She gazes into the horizon, lost, trying to find herself, resting her chin on her knees. She listens to the sound of the waves; they chant the same tune over and over again and the tune is in her head, the sea is in her head now.

The wind rustles the hem of her skirt; it’s pink. She looks lovely in pink; it blends with the hue the evening light has rendered to the sand beneath her feet; she becomes the shore. She isn’t wearing any shoes. She invents a game between her and the sea; she enjoys the playfulness of the waves as they try to reach her feet and then as if embarrassed, coyly retreat. She teases the retreating backwash ‘to touch me you’ll never succeed’ and yet yearns for the coolness against her feet. For once, she wants to lose and knows she will. ‘What if I turn into a mermaid’ she thinks and smiles, giving away a depression on her face she’d tried to hide. The breeze is somewhere there; she tries to eavesdrop on its conversation with the swaying leaves of the coconut tree she sits under. She used to appreciate their language once but now scowls at the incomprehensible and conspiring gibberish they speak. She can’t feel the breeze.

She realizes she hasn’t been like this in a long time. No thoughts, no errands, no responsibilities – her mind and heart are at peace. She stares ahead - Is that a ship in the distance on the horizon? The breeze and the tree are still at it. She glances at the book beside her, yawns and closes her eyes. She thinks of the story she’ll never read. What could it have been, she wonders. She is beginning to drowse but is brought out of her reverie. A wind, so strong, where did it come from? The sand rises in swirls, the sea hitherto calm has become a formidable force. A wave rises and forgets to fall. The sky, all of a sudden is a continuum of psychedelic hues.

She holds her hand to her eyes to keep the scattering sand away. But none of it touches her, she realizes. She’s puzzled. Her chin is still on her knees. But touched she is – by the wind. Her reverie is broken by a murmuring; the pages of the book are fluttering. And rising from the pages, brought to life are a multitude of colours, on exquisite wings they flutter. They recognize the song, they dance to the tune; they dance for her. Lost in the enigma, she knows not when the wave had reached her feet. She laughs and touches her feet to check if she’s been transformed into a mermaid and smirks as she knows she doesn’t need a tail to be one. She squints to look at the butterfly perched on her nose and tries to touch it but off it goes. It goes and carries everything along with it. The wind follows, the tall wave splashes without a sound, the sand lies immobile as if it was never disturbed. The book is closed. She looks up and wonders – there wouldn’t have been a sky in the dark without the stars.

She remembers she has to return, to the place where she belongs, and do all she has to do to make her future safe and strong. She gets up to leave; she is puzzled by the shoes on her feet. Had she worn them here, these white shoes, she muses, one of them looks marked. She can now see the sea only by the white splashes of the waves, by now they too are tired of the game. She says something to the wind and takes a last glance behind. She’s still sitting there but it’s not her.  A smile forms on her face as she turns back her head. It was nice to know you, she says.