Theft: A Love Story
by Peter Carey
Two Magic Puddings
A review by Georgie Lewis
Peter Carey calls Theft a love story, and yes, it is, though not like any
love story you've ever read. There is also a heist story hidden amidst the drinking,
wrestling, and cursing; and the electric wordplay disguises some really tight,
dazzling prose. This crazy-making story is told by two siblings whose hilarious
alternating narratives duel for the reader's attention like little kids desperately
vying for a moment of their parent's time.
Theft opens with:
I don't know if my story is grand enough to be a tragedy, although a lot
of shitty stuff did happen. It is certainly a love story but that did not
begin until midway through the shitty stuff, by which time I had not only
lost my eight-year-old son, but also my house and studio in Sydney where I
had once been about as famous as a painter could expect in his own backyard.
It was the year I should have got the Order of Australia -- why not! -- look
at who they give them to. Instead my child was stolen from me and I was eviscerated
by divorce lawyers and gaoled for attempting to retrieve my own best work
which had been declared Marital Assets.
This is Michael Boone, also known as Butcher Bones, talking here -- not his
brother Hugh "Slow Bones" Boone. Michael, he not of the Order
of Australia and no longer possessed of a glittering artistic career, is, at
the opening of the novel, stepping out of Long Bay Prison and into the guardianship
of Hugh, his "damaged two-hundred-and-twenty-pound brother."
Michael and Hugh are rapidly sequestered to the beautiful country home of Michael's
only remaining patron, with a small stipend and encouragement to create art,
drink less, and keep out of Sydney. And for a while they almost behave themselves.
Enter the beautiful Marlene Leibovitz, trekking up the muddy driveway in her
Manolo Blahniks, with a mysterious mission and seductive (to both brothers for
different reasons) manner. While her visit is brief, her aftermath carries tremors
of volcanic proportions: a valuable painting is missing; the police point the
finger at Michael and even believe he used the painting as a canvas for one
of the first good paintings he has managed to create in years.
Loose, penniless, and just a bit crazy, the brothers set off to Sydney to clear
Michael's name, retrieve his work, and perhaps visit his little boy. Of course,
none of this happens simply; the plot is so dizzying to describe it in some
sort of linear fashion makes the novel sound like something Carl Hiaasen would
write. That is not a bad thing. It is just not the right way to describe Theft.
More apropos might be Norman Lindsay's wondrous creation The
Magic Pudding, in that they both share a type of literary chutzpah and absurd
humor. American readers may not see it, but as a fellow Australian I'm pretty
sure Carey is playing conscious homage to The Magic Pudding, a book every
kid growing up in Australia knows very well. It is in fact Hugh's favorite book
and the character of Barnacle Bill is his hero. Part of Michael Boone's personality
could have been lifted from Lindsay's wicked pudding also; curmudgeonly, snarly,
and imbued with a gigantic ego, Michael "Butcher" Bones is a comic
invention as much as anything. Carey's dual narration allows the reader to see
him through his brother's eyes as well as his own, and the technique is brilliant.
Theft could be seen as a companion piece to My
Life as a Fake, and fans of Fake will rejoice in Theft. Carey's
dazzling prose is energetic as ever, narrated by the unreliable and the highly
neurotic. The Australian vernacular gets such a run for its money I honestly
worried that some readers would be utterly bewildered, though to judge by the
glowing U.S. reviews I needn't have. Carey also continues his fascination with
what defines art; how do we place value on a work, how can we measure its worth
and what is fake and what is real? And he does so with such cheek! The art world
is skewered mercilessly, the ego of the artist hilariously portrayed, and yet
the creative act and the resulting work (whatever that may be -- Carey is not
keeping himself to painting exclusively) is treated with passionate respect.
|
|