Heliopolis

Another contender for this year's Man Booker Prize, Heliopolis by James Scudamore was a welcome discovery, which is what's so great about the prize and challenging myself to read the longlist: it opens me up to literature and writers that otherwise I may not have encountered.

I loved this novel. I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting but it surpassed whatever expectations were there. I was reminded slightly of Haruki Murakami in its surrealism but also thought there were definite aspects of magic realism, perhaps because of its South American setting, which lends itself to the genre beautifully.

Ludo, the main protagonist, is twenty-seven years old and works in São Paulo; he was born in the the largest favela (shantytown), Heliopolis, before being taken in with his cook mother by a rich family who later adopted him. Now, Ludo is sleeping with his adopted sister, Melissa, who is also the wife of his best friend, Ernesto, and is about to undergo a transformation in a week that sees him in dramatic situations whilst he, with hindsight, recounts his past and attempts to control his present.

Each chapter title refers to particular food or drink with that dish or beverage central to the narrative in that chapter; as scents and tastes often form our memories, so too do they for Ludo. I was amazed at food's centrality to the plot when there was no mention of it in the synopsis, excluding reference to Ludo's insatiable appetite; it is one of the things that makes the novel exceptional in my eyes. Food imagery pervades the text and Scudamore uses food to describe experiences and emotions.

I wanted to press my fingertip on the metal of the pan to mark the moment, make it permanent. I thought of watching it sizzle as the hot oil erased my fingerprint and coloured the skin. What would it smell like? The burnt hair smell of a car wreck? Charred and succulent, like steak? Sweet and sickly, like plum sauce?

The setting came across to me as futuristic and even dystopian, with the rich seldom on street level but always landing their helicopters on heli-pads on buildings ensuring that they never mix with people from the favelas in the poorer element of the city or engage with the tedium of everyday life.

During the day, he might hop to another high-rise to meet someone for lunch, or to attend an afternoon meeting, but he never touches the pavement. It's not just a question of safety: if he went by car he could get snared in a traffic jam lasting hours. Nobody who's anybody gets driven to work in the city these days.

I then thought that the descriptions of São Paulo could be embellished realism as it is the largest city in Brazil and the nineteenth richest city in the world. However, reading Simon's review of Heliopolis and the subsequent comments, the insight provided by The Converted One suggests that the depiction of São Paulo whilst illuminating is actually toned down. Moreover, if anyone wrote a non-diluted version of his home city, The Converted One thinks that no one would ever go. This fascinates me as I have always wanted to visit Brazil and although Scudamore's description of favela life and poverty are often grim, it doesn't deter me in any way; Scudamore lived in Brazil so I imagine his representation of the city is realistic. In comparison, I am reminded of reading The Other Hand last week and thinking that Chris Cleve did Nigeria no favours as a tourist destination; it is interesting the power that literary description has over a place and how good a job Scudamore did in transporting me there whilst presenting the city fairly.

As yet I have only read five of the thirteen longlisted titles for the Booker but so far I am championing Heliopolis; yes, it even surpasses The Wilderness, one of my favourites this year, in my esteem for its brilliance and originality.

Some favourite passages:

My mother wouldn't have dreamt of showing me how she really felt, but her sadness was as evident in the chicken stew she ladled on to my plate as if the meat had been simmered in her tears.

As the music struck up, I swept away the debris of the meal, collecting the intact steaks and pocketing them, munching on them like apples, getting the meat down even when it hurt my throat to swallow, devouring it so it wouldn't go to waste, trying to get round the tables and clear as many of them as possible so that my mother wouldn't see them coming back.

By the time it was over, so was the storm, leaving behind fresh air, dripping leaves, and roads that gushed in the evening sunlight with milky orange water. As usual, the rain brought hordes of frogs out on to the driveway, croaking and belching and slipping about in the mud. The guests' roaring cavalcade of off-road vehicles smashed them all in a euphoric blare of car horns and klaxons as it sped back to the farm. Their burst bodies lay there crisping for days afterwards.