I’ve been an admirer of David Szalay’s fiction since his debut novel, London and the South-East, was published in 2009. While that book had a rather broad, comic sensibility, the novels that followed, The Innocent and Spring, were more introspective, and successfully so. Ironically, the only book of his that I haven’t enjoyed is the one that reached the Booker shortlist, All That Man Is, a short story collection masquerading as a novel that, for this reader, contained some questionable portrayals of women.
I stuck with him though. Turbulence, an actual story collection, was a bit hit and miss, but Flesh is a strong return to form, featuring a fascinating central character and a storyline with more twists and turns than the road to west Cork.
The novel opens with 15-year-old István living with his single mother in Hungary, where he’s repeatedly raped by a 42-year-old neighbour. Other reviewers might suggest he’s seduced by her, particularly as the word rape isn’t employed in the book, but sex with a minor is always, by definition, rape, and will forever have emotional consequences for the child. István never acknowledges this abuse, however, remaining simultaneously repulsed by and drawn to the older woman. Their encounters lead to a life-changing moment at the end of the opening chapter that undoubtedly affects his future relationships, which are respectful but emotionally disengaged.
Most of what follows takes place in London over the next 20 years and to reveal too much would spoil the story, but suffice to say that living in a cheap, shared house while working as a bouncer at a strip club leads to his becoming a driver for a super-wealthy couple, which in turn leads to an extraordinary but credible journey from poverty to riches.
Flesh by David Szalay: Compulsively readable with more twists than the road to west Cork
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Flesh is compulsively readable. In some ways, it reads like a thriller because of its gripping plotline, but also because there’s an edge of violence to István that seems like it could detonate at any moment. The closest he gets to lashing out in true rage, however, is towards a small child, a bully, but thankfully he holds back. In fact, he remains curiously submissive throughout, allowing good and bad things to happen around him while rarely influencing events. That said, when he becomes a father, there’s no doubting the heart that beats inside this passive chest.
Between chapters, Szalay often moves forward in time, slowly revealing what’s taken place in the intervening period, and there are many surprises along the way. When István becomes a successful property developer in London, awash with loans but flying around in private planes while living on a grand estate, it’s difficult to recognise the shy teenager of the Hungarian section, until we meet that boy again, as Jacob, his son, whose near refusal to answer any question with anything other than a self-conscious shrug feels wholly inherited from his dad.
István’s relationship with his wife is constructed in a loving way. The passion isn’t entirely reciprocal, but he’s loyal to her and a subplot, involving his troubled stepson, is carefully developed, leading to a denouement that feels as shocking as it does appropriate. (A lesser writer would have made a different decision at how to resolve this storyline.) Similarly, a twist in the closing 40 pages took my breath away but becomes the natural catalyst for the novel’s subtle resolution.
If I have any complaint with Flesh, it’s Szalay’s over-reliance on intentionally trite dialogue. I understand that István is both reticent and deeply introverted but there’s an awful lot of, “how are you? What? I asked, how are you? How am I? Yes, how are you? I’m fine” type conversations that soon begin to grate. One often longs for him to crack and deliver some highly charged monologue that might expose his soul to us, but we’re denied any such sentiment. Clearly that’s how Szalay wants it, which is fine, but some chink in his armour would have been welcome. A brief scene with a therapist might have given an opportunity for this but it’s an author’s prerogative to decide against. This doesn’t point to any failure in the novel; more a reader’s desire to elicit some raw emotion from a character we’ve come to care deeply about.
I’m glad I’ve stuck with Szalay over these last 15 years. Like many of the best writers, he flies under the radar, reappearing once in a while with a new book, then disappearing again, leaving his readers longing for more. Flesh is, I think, his best novel yet, quietly traumatising, with memorable characters and a rather brilliant last line whose peaceful resignation lies in marked contrast to the dramatic experiences that precede it.
