When crime fiction speaks Maltese

 

Over the summer months I have been catching up with my TBR pile of books in Maltese.  First of all, because I enjoy it. Also, because I find it both ironic and sad that I tend to read more books in English than in my native tongue. When a Maltese book calls me, it instils in me a strange mix of feelings – love for local literature, pleasure at reading a book which speaks to me in my first language (and, more often than not, about the reality I live in), alongside a sense of duty towards what makes me what I am. 

For a language used by only half a million native speakers worldwide (give or take), Maltese has a rich and varied literature.  The past decades have seen generations of new writers who are keen to experiment with new forms and subject-matter and extend traditional boundaries.  One noticeable recent development has been local writers’ increasing engagement with genre fiction, including fantasy, science fiction and crime.  It is therefore not surprising that three of the novels which I read over the summer months, although very different in style and approach, each borrow elements of crime and thriller fiction.

Of these, the book which most evidently falls in the “genre fiction” category is Mark Camilleri’s Volens, the second instalment in an ongoing crime series featuring Inspector Victor Gallo.  Camilleri has written three novels about his creation – Volens is sandwiched between Prima Facie and Nex (both of which I am yet to read).  A fourth will, reputedly, be published later this year.  Camilleri’s style is clearly influenced by hardboiled crime of the American variety.   Gallo is a flawed character plagued by personal demons – a failed marriage behind him and, very often, a drink in front of him.  Given the Mediterranean context, there is also the inescapable influence of Andrea Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano (referenced in Volens).  Like Camilleri’s much-loved inspector, Volens is prone to soliloquys and ruminations about the sad state society is in, and has an idea of justice which sometimes requires bending the rules. 

In Volens, Gallo investigates the murder of a leading footballer, Martin Mizzi.  Mizzi is much admired in the sports scene, but Gallo soon starts to uncover his more unsavoury traits, all of which might have led to his untimely death.  The novel features an array of characters and its plot is complex – perhaps a tad too much – with its mix of drug-dealing, bribery, match-rigging and illicit sexual affairs.  What I enjoyed most about Volens is the local context – the familiar and enjoyable pleasures of crime fiction transposed to settings with which I am familiar. 

A shocking murder also lies at the heart of Walid Nabhan L-Iżvijati (“The Misguided”).  Martha is found in the farmhouse where she lives, dead from a frenzied multiple stabbing, after a night spent with her lover Daniel, a much-feted sculptor.  All evidence points to him as the murderer and, following a high-profile trial, he ends up behind bars.

L-Iżvijati alternates between chapters written in two different points of view.  Some chapters are in the first person and feature Daniel’s crazed (non-)confession.  This is a rambling, increasingly hysterical monologue that, with its echoes of Poe (The Tell-Tale Heart comes to mind), skirts the horror genre.  The remaining chapters are in the voice of an omniscient, ironic narrator, who gives us the background to the triangular relationship between Martha, Daniel and his friend Qasem, an immigrant on the run from Muammar al-Gaddafi’s regime.

Walid Nabhan was born in Amman in 1966 and moved to Malta in 1990.  Although Maltese is not his first language, he has written poetry and short stories in Maltese and, besides L-Iżvijati, has also published another novel, L-Eżodu taċ-Ċikonji (“The Exodus of Storks” - 2013) which earned him the National Prize for Literature in 2014 and the EU Literature Prize for Malta in 2017.  Nabhan is for all intents and purposes a Maltese citizen and writer, but he does bring something different to the local literary scene. First of all, most Maltese writers, in seeking inspiration from beyond our shores, understandably look at the cultures they are more used to.  And given that we are most exposed to literature in English and that a good number of contemporary authors work or have worked with EU institutions, these models tend to be based on European and North American literature, as well as other fiction which is widely available in English (such as the leading South American authors).  Nabhan, however, brings to the table a Mediterranean perspective and an understanding of Arabic literature and the cultures of North Africa and the Middle East (hence the character of Qasem in this novel). 

Moreover, Nabhan has an interesting approach towards the Maltese language – as if he has dismantled its constitutive elements and put them together again. The result is a style which is idiomatic yet striking and original in its unusual turns of phrase.  L-Iżvijati is, unlike Volens, not primarily a crime novel and it does not provide us with a narratively satisfying conclusion typical of the genre.  Whilst this might not appeal to readers who prefer a clearer narrative, L-Iżvijati is certainly a novel worth exploring for its distinctive style.    

 

The opening of Alex Vella Gera’s 2012 novel Is-Sriep Reġgħu Saru Velenużi (“The Snakes Are Venomous Again”) takes us back to eighties Malta, in the uncertain political period just before the 1987 General Election.  It starts off with a nod to the thriller genre with a would-be killer embarking on an attempt to assassinate Dom Mintoff, the redoubtable and controversial firebrand politician and Prime Minister of Malta between 1971 and 1984.  Since this is not a work of alternative history, and we all know that Mintoff died of a venerable age in 2012, it is no spoiler to reveal that the assassination fails and the killer disappears.  His wife and two sons, oblivious to the existence of this plot and his involvement, remain with a mystery on their hands – that of a devoted husband and father who seemingly abandons them with no prior notice.   Two decades later, Noel, one of the sons, returns to Malta after stints in London and Brussels, and tries to come to terms with his past, marked by his father’s disappearance years before. 

Sriep borrows much from pop culture – elements of crime, thriller and mystery add spice to the story. But ultimately, this is not a plot-driven novel and the Mintoff assassination attempt is little more than a catalyst to the novel’s central theme – namely an exploration of what it means to be Maltese.  Vella Gera explores this through an original use of language.  Maltese readers will be aware that in Malta “bilingualism” is fraught with class connotations. In the case of generations brought up in the 70s and 80s (and before), children from financially better-off families would generally be enrolled in private and church schools and would primarily be “English-speaking”, whereas Government school students were primarily “Maltese-speaking”. Whether one is “English” or “Maltese-speaking” therefore could be a pointer to one’s “family background”, which explains why many Maltese become so adept at “code-switching”.

The rapid sociological changes of the past years are also having an impact on this aspect of Malta and I’m not sure that this Maltese/English dichotomy is as evident or as important to young people today.   However, to Noel and his generation, the choice of idiom could be tantamount to a political statement.  This is why left-leaning Noel, despite his church school upbringing, markedly chooses to speak Maltese even in the company of members of his milieu who are “English speakers”. 

Vella Gera conveys this concept in the most natural way possible – by having his characters speak (and think) as they would in the real world, namely in a mix of Maltese and English, subtly suggesting the inescapable link between language and thought (an idea which the late Andrea Camilleri’s used in his historical novel La mossa del cavallo).   It would be interesting to see what a translator would do to achieve the same effect in another language.

Alex Vella Gera’s novel was published whilst the ruckus associated with his short story ‘Li Tkisser Sewwi’ was still in full swing.  For readers of the blog less familiar with Maltese goings-on, some context called for.  Vella Gera wrote a short story for the University campus publication, Ir-Realtà which contained a graphic and realistic depiction of the thought processes of a sex-crazed narrator.  Its perceived obscenity led to a ban of the publication and a subsequent criminal court case. Both author and editor were eventually acquitted, and this cause celebre was one of the instigators of a legal reform to Malta’s censorship laws.  Unsurprisingly, Sriep has its fair share of sex, including an attempted rape scene and a chapter of Murakami-like male fantasies.  I wonder if these disturbing passages would attract the same enthusiastic liberal support today as they would have done some years back. However, it is fair to say that the sex in this novel rarely feels gratuitous and generally serves as a reflection of what the characters are going through.   

At over five hundred pages, the novel becomes rather rambling. However, it remains a remarkable achievement, a deserved winner at the National Book awards, and one of the most interesting novelistic explorations of Maltese language and identity.