MANDARIN GATE by Eliot PATTISON (a review)


Excerpt from Chapter 1, pages 11-12

For the moment it did not matter that there were brigades of Chinese police seeking to ferret out men like Lokesh and Jamyang, two of the gentlest, kindest humans he had ever known. It did not matter that bonecatchers roamed the hills, that outsiders were settling in the valley, pushing out Tibetan families who had been rooted there for centuries. He could forget for now the nightmares of death that increasingly disturbed his sleep. He would not even let thoughts of his son, locked in a gulag camp thirty miles away, cloud the day. Shan had been learning from his friends to accept that what mattered was the here and now, the experience of this moment. And this moment (…) was perfect.

As if reading Shan’s mind, Jamyang looked up from his meditation. ‘’The gods are content enough,’’the lama declared with a serene smile. He reached through the fragrant smoke and squeezed Shan’s hand. ‘’I take strength from you being here now,” Jamyang whispered, and wrapped his rosary around his fingers.

Then the lama picked up the pistol and shot himself in the head.

This suicide, followed by the gruesome murders of three seemingly unrelated people --a Tibetan nun, and two unidentified men-- on the grounds of an old convent in Tibet, will send Shan on a dangerous quest for the truth and for justice. But how do you achieve this in a country run by the Chinese government’s police and where monks are considered outlaws, where natives can be imprisoned for no particular reason, and where the only hope of survival is by blending in and letting yourself be indoctrinated.

Eliot Pattison’s novels featuring Shan Tao Yun started in 1999 with The Skull Mantra, which became a winner of the Edgar Award for Best First Novel. In that book, Shan was a veteran police inspector who had been deported to Tibet for getting in the way of a highly influential man in the Beijing government. In Mandarin Gate, the 7th book in the series, Shan is now an inspector of irrigation and sewer ditches in a small Tibetan township, unofficially released from prison for having saved a Colonel from a false accusation of murder (see The Lord of Death, 2009).

Shan’s son Ko is in a prison for the criminally insane where inmates are malnourished and treated like cattle, if not worse. With every step he takes, each and every day, Shan is at risk of worsening his son’s situation; one false move or one wrong word from Shan and Ko could be transferred further away in an even worse prison.  Every month, Shan is allowed to send a letter to Ko and to visit him once. He can’t afford to lose these two privileges. But to avoid reprisal on his Tibetan friends for the recent murders, he will readily put himself at risk.

In the course of his investigation, he will get help from unexpected places, even trusting people he would never have wanted near him before: the Jade Crows’s gang leader, Lung, whose brother and nephew were both recently killed; and also Meng, a Chinese female officer who is at a crossroads in her life.  

The Shan series of novels is built upon complex plots that involve more than just murder mysteries; like the Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags inscribed with invocations, mantras, and symbols, Pattison’s stories carry Tibet’s traditions and beliefs not only with respect, but also with a richness in details. He shows both the physical and psychological aspects of the painful history, just as the prayer flags are used to balance the present lives both externally and internally.

Mandarin Gate is a compelling novel that involves more interesting and complex characters than many writers will create in ten books. It is a story that will transport you in the Tibetan mountains and villages for a journey into the heart, mind and spirit of its people.  This is a book well-deserving of showing up on the end-of-year best novels lists.
JF
December 30th, 2012
P.S.: don't forget to vote for your favourite crime fiction books of 2012
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DERNIÈRE NUIT À MONTRÉAL de Emily ST.JOHN MANDEL


C'est l'histoire de Lilia, 7 ans, qui par un soir d'hiver très froid, pieds nus et en robe de nuit, les bras couverts de pansements, va rejoindre son père, dehors, dans la neige. Elle ne l'a pas vu depuis plusieurs semaines mais ils ne se quitteront pas pendant plus de dix ans, tout le temps que durera leur cavale en Amérique pour échapper à la police et au détective privé engagé par la famille. Détective privé qui devient obsédé, au fil des ans, par la disparition de cette petite fille. À un point tel que sa femme le quitte et qu'il laisse sa propre fille, Michaela, livrée à elle-même avec ses rêves de devenir funambule, un héritage venu de ses parents, anciens forains qui ont bien du mal à devenir sédentaire.

Après une décennie d'errance, le père de Lilia décide que tout s'arrête au Nouveau-Mexique, et qu'il y fonde une nouvelle famille, avec la permission de sa fille. Elle essaie bien de s'habituer à cette stabilité mais s'aperçoit vite qu'elle ne peut pas s'arrêter définitivement, ni faire du "sur place". Alors elle reprend la route, seule. Elle a cependant l'impression constante d'être suivie. Elle remonte lentement vers le nord où tout a commencé. À New York, elle croise Eli, un éternel étudiant passionné de langues mortes. Lilia sort ensuite subitement de sa vie, mais lui, tombé amoureux, part à sa recherche. Une carte postale anonyme venue de Montréal lui indique la direction à suivre. Et c'est là, dans ce nord glacé, que Michaela lèvera le voile sur le passé de la fugueuse.

Un très bon roman noir. L'auteur excelle à créer ces atmosphères confinées de chambres de motels un peu miteuses, l'habitacle de la voiture, ou ces bibliothèques où se réfugient Lilia et son père pendant de brèves escales.

Quelques descriptions de la ville de Montréal et des allusions à la loi 101 sur la protection de la langue française au Québec laissent à penser que l'auteur n'a pas conservé de très bons souvenirs de son bref séjour en sol québécois. À moins qu'elle ne joue à fond la carte de l'anglophone qui se sent persécuté, pour les besoins de l'histoire.

Un récit qui néanmoins nous habite longtemps après avoir tourné la dernière page.

BIO: Emily St.John Mandel est née en Colombie-Britannique, a étudié la danse à la School of Toronto Dance Theatre, et elle a vécu brièvement à Montréal, avant de se relocaliser à Brooklyn, où elle habite présentement. Dernière nuit à Montréal est son premier de trois romans.

texte de Grenouille Noire

CONTEST: VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE BOOKS OF 2012


UPDATE: with so many votes coming in today, I'm extending the deadline until noon tomorrow (January 2nd). I have a couple of ties right now, so your votes will really count. As of 1 pm (Montréal time) I've received over 450 ballots, way more than I ever expected! Thank you. I'll post the results on Friday, January 4th. Happy New Year!

Last year, I wrote a list of my favourite books of the year; this time, because I don't want to omit too many books (I can't read everything that's out there, unfortunately) I want to try something different. How about you tell me what books you most enjoyed in 2012.
I've written down a list of some of my favourites to help you out, in each category, but you don't have to pick one of these titles --just add your own favourites. To be eligible, the novels need to have been published between November 1st, 2011 and October 31st, 2012.

Click here to send me your selections (one pick per category, 6 answers total--you can do it quickly by just writing the authors's last names or part of the titles, etc) and you'll be entered automatically into a contest for the chance to win a bundle of books (some were published in 2012, others are advance reader's copies of 2013 titles). Also, every writer, agent, publicist, and publisher who would like to add a book or two to the bundle, you are welcome to send them to me (my mail address can be found in the OFFICE DESK/INFO KIT page on this site). My goal is to give 5 books to one winner, and 2 books to four more winners. Additional books will be given away every week, through January.

Everyone over 18 years of age can participate --from any country (on this planet). Don't forget to give me your full name and postal address. Results will be posted on January 3rd, and then I'll contact the winners of the giveaways before announcing them. After that, I'll post my personal list of favourite crime fiction books of 2012.
Please pass the word around!


November 1st, 2011 to October 31st, 2012
1- WORLD (except CAN, USA, UK)    
     
CALL ME PRINCESS Sara BLAEDEL  
SAIL OF STONE Ake EDWARDSON  
THOSE WHO LOVE NIGHT Wessel EBERSOHN  
BURNED Thomas ENGER  
SOME KIND OF PEACE C. GREBE & A. TRAFF  
BRENNER and GOD Wolf HAAS  
SALVATION OF A SAINT Keigo HIGASHINO  
1222 Anne HOLT  
AUTUMN KILLING Mons KALLENTOFT  
SEVEN DAYS Deon MEYER  
BLESSED ARE THE DEAD Malla NUNN  
PHANTOM Jo NESBO  
THE VIPER Hakan OSTLUNDH  
SAY YOU'RE SORRY Michael ROBOTHAM  
CAPTURE Roger SMITH  
     
2- UNITED KINGDOM    
     
RUSH OF BLOOD Mark BILLINGHAM  
A DARK AND BROKEN HEART R. J. ELLORY  
SAFE HOUSE Chris EWAN  
BROKEN HARBOUR Tana FRENCH  
HANGING HILL Mo HAYDER  
INTO THE DARKEST CORNER Elizabeth HAYNES  
THE FIRST CUT Ali KNIGHT  
THE VANISHING POINT Val MCDERMID  
THE DEVIL'S RIBBOND.E. MEREDITH  
DARK ROOM Steve MOSBY  
STOLEN SOULS Stuart NEVILLE  
STANDING IN ANOTHER MAN'S GRAVE Ian RANKIN  
VALLEY OF ASHES Cornelia READ  
AGENT 6 Tom Rob SMITH  
THE KEY Simon TOYNE  
     
3- UNITED STATES of AMERICA    
     
GUN CHURCH Reed Farrel COLEMAN  
THE DROP Michael CONNELLY  
CLIFF WALK Bruce DESILVA  
GONE GIRLGillian FLYNN  
SIMPLE Kathleen GEORGE  
LONESOME ANIMALSBruce HOLBERT  
DEAD HARVESTChris F. HOLM  
THE DISPATCHERRyan David JAHN  
11/22/63 Stephen KING  
THE PROPHET Michael KORYTA  
DEFENDING JACOB William LANDAY  
EDGE OF DARK WATER Joe R. LANSDALE  
LIVE BY NIGHT Dennis LEHANE  
AND WHEN SHE WAS GOOD Laura LIPPMAN  
THE CUTTING SEASON Attica LOCKE  
EL GAVILANCraig MCDONALD  
WHAT IT WASGeorge PELECANOS  
HELLBOX Bill PRONZINI  
DRIVEN James SALLIS  
LET THE DEVIL SLEEPJohn VERDON  
     
4- CANADA    
     
A KILLING WINTER Wayne ARTHURSON  
TRUST YOUR EYES Linwood BARCLAY  
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Peggy BLAIR  
UNTIL THE NIGHT Giles BLUNT  
CONFINED SPACE Deryn COLLIER  
THE NEXT ONE TO FALL Hilary DAVIDSON  
BELLRINGER J. Robert JANES   
THE DEAD OF WINTER Peter KIRBY  
THE PROFESSIONALS Owen LAUKKANEN  
TUMBLIN' DICEJohn MCFETRIDGE  
BLOODMANRobert POBI  
CROW'S LANDINGBrad SMITH  
      
5- TOP INDIE or SELF-PUBLISHED    
     
HILL COUNTRY R. Thomas BROWN  
BLOOD TEARS Michael J. MALONE  
GHOST MONEY Andrew NETTE  
A DETAILED MANDavid SWINSON  
RESURRECTEDSteve TROTTER  
      
6- YOUR 2012 FAVOURITE CRIME FICTION NOVEL  
TITLE WRITER  
     

Thank you for taking the time! And HAPPY HOLIDAYS, whatever you celebrate, as long it involves peace!

JF
December 2012

MANNHEIM REX by Robert POBI (exclusive first chapter)

Internationally bestselling author of BLOODMAN, Robert Pobi braves the deep water in MANNHEIM REX, an homage to the blockbuster JAWS and to the classic American novel MOBY DICK.
MANNHEIM REX is published in November 2012 by Thomas & Mercer: here's Chapter One, an exclusive excerpt.

MANHEIM REX by Robert POBI

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Robert Pobi
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Author’s Note-

The New York Public Library has in its permanent collection a terrestrial globe known as the Hunt-Lenox Globe. Dating from 1510, it is the only known historical map with the inscription HC SVNT DRACONEShic sunt dracones,” or “here are dragons”—over terra incognita. Less than fifty years later, the legend discussed in Mannheim Rex made its first printed appearance in Conrad Gesner’s celebrated treatise Historia animalium III, of 1558. Although these are the oldest documented sources I was able to find, there is evidence that this legend dates as far back as 1230.
After three-quarters of a millennium, there is still much in the way of terra incognita.

Robert Pobi
CHAPTER 1

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest

 
Lake Caldasac, New York
Early June

Frank Knechtel slowed the boat and swiveled his head in the direction of the approaching storm. He took off the battered gold Ray-Bans and squinted into the ugly mass of clouds, trying to get a feel for her vitals; he had fished this lake long enough to know that when it came to weather, shit turned on a dime out here. The summer storms were the worst, screaming in from the north, washing out roads and downing trees like a malevolent force in a science-fiction movie.
As he turned, the thick rolls of stubbly flesh on the back of his neck squeezed out sweat, and a small part of him was happy that rain was coming— maybe it would cool things down a bit. Then he saw the ugly flash of lightning and his relief was short-circuited by the electrical charge he saw dancing in the clouds. It was going to be a bad one.
The slate thunderhead rolled in fast, devouring the land in great spasms of rain and wind and lightning. Behind the jagged cliff of stormcloud, brittle snaps of white pulsed in the dark body like the irregular firing of a vast volcanic heart. The cloud bank had flattened the horizon and the atmosphere was pregnant with the electricity beating in its chest. Ten miles off. Maybe less.
Frank slipped the throttle into neutral and pulled the big St. Croix musky rod out of the holder bolted to the oarlock. The cork handle was slick with warm beads of moisture, as if it too were sweating. While he worked, he kept glancing at the anvil head moving in, hoping that he wouldn’t run out of time. A flash of lightning detonated and the lake went from blue to white for an instant. A few seconds later the sound wave screamed in and it pushed the oxygen from the air and he tasted the electrical charge in the atmosphere. He spit over the side, hoping to get rid of the metallic film that seemed welded to his teeth.
Frank pumped the handle of the reel and the big spool recovered line quickly. He felt the lure biting the water and the braid sung through the guides on the rod. There was another mortar round of thunder and the boat actually shook. He doubled his retrieval speed and spat again.
And then his lure snagged on something.
He yanked back on the heavy rod, the hundred-and-thirty-pound line twanging with each jolt he put into it, then checked the Lawrence fish finder with a precise pivot of his massive head. The bottom was fifty feet down. What the hell could he have hooked out here in the open water? Submerged log, maybe. If the storm hadn’t been coming, Frank would have circled around and tried to work his lure free, but the wall of darkness had touched the far end of the lake, swallowing the dam, and he could see the glint of rain hammering down. Then he saw the rainbow shards of light dancing like sparks and realized that it wasn’t rain at all; it was hail. Sonofabitch. If he didn’t want to get stuck out in the middle of an electrical storm with bullets falling from the sky while waving his own personal lightning rod, he’d have to cut loose and head for shore right now. But at forty-five bucks he hated to let the big handcrafted lure go. Another jolt of electricity cracked the sky and made his mind up for him. He reached for his knife just as the snag started to move.
The bright slash of the line cut through the water and Frank yanked back, leaning into it. The rod tip bent, and he pulled with his shoulders, feeling the unmistakable throb of muscle at the other end of the line, telegraphing out to him. It was massive, sinuous, sure.
A wave sloshed over the gunwale as the wind set in. The line zagged back, then pulled taut, and his reel screamed against the strain on the drag.
Frank had spent four years stationed at Subic Naval Base in the Philippines and he’d eyeballed everything from giant bluefin to Mark 48 torpedoes slicing through the water, and nothing he’d ever seen had moved this fast. Not even close. He pulled back again and the whine of his reel rose above the howl of the wind that had started to wail.
The boat swung like a compass needle, pulled by the force he had hooked.
He couldn’t stop it. Hell, he couldn’t even slow it down. The motor was gurgling in the irregular swells, coughing blue smoke thick with the smell of oil. The pulse of the sky at the edge of his vision caught his attention once again and he glanced up.
The wall of hail was thrashing across the surface of the lake, bearing down on him. There was another shot of lightning and the world lit up in eerie blues and the air ripped open with the roar of thunder. He had to cut loose and head for one of the shallow bays to wait out the storm or he’d get chewed up out here. Whatever the lightning didn’t fry, the hail would smash to bits.
He slashed at the line with the big Buck knife.
The world went supernova again as Mother Nature slammed a billion volts into the lake. The shockwave hammered him back over the bench, and he tripped. He reached out to steady himself. Line wrapped around his wrist and for a second he felt a pinch. There was another violent surge from the lake itself and the line dug into his arm. Then the tension let go and he stumbled back. There was a splash.
He felt a stinging in his fingers and looked at his hand. It was gone. Neatly. Cleanly. Gone.
The braided line had garroted his hand.
A thick piss-rope of blood drooled out. Thick drops splattered his boots and turned the water sloshing around the bottom of the boat pink at first. Then quickly black.
Then the sky opened up. The staccato clatter of hail bouncing off the boat almost drowned out his single, girlish scream.
Frank fumbled with his belt. Managed to get it off. Pulled it tight around his arm to slow the bleeding. Pain hit. He howled again. Grit his teeth. Then saw the shadow moving just below the surface of the lake. The hail was pounding the water, distorting it, but it was huge. Massive. Something about the way it behaved transmitted more than its shape could. There was purpose in the way it moved. It wanted something.
Frank scrambled back against the transom, his eyes never leaving the nightmare that surged through the water, skirting his field of vision. He tripped on the bench and almost went sprawling backward, over the gunwale. He stood at the transom, crying, staring into the water. It wasn’t going away. It was getting closer, circling in.
There was no longer the sensation of blood drooling out of his wrist or of the hail clattering down; his universe had been reduced to the black shape that wanted him. He knew it wanted him. He could feel it.
What was it?
Why was it doing this?
But he knew. It was here to feed.
Somewhere above him there was a flash of lightning and the air cracked with the pressure. Frank stumbled. His thigh hit the throttle and engaged the propeller. The boat lurched forward with a jolt.
There was a split-second as he teetered on the edge of his balance. Then he fell, screaming, into the water.
His boat! He needed to get to—
The boat chugged steadily off into the haze of the storm and was soon gone, leaving him alone. With it.
He spun, searching.
It found him first.
He heard his humerus break before he felt it and the thing pulled him down into the black, toward the center of the earth. His body seesawed with the pulse of its muscles as it pulled him away from the world.
Please stop. Oh God, it hurts. STOP! Please. Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplee—
Stars filled with phosphorescent blisters of pain burst behind his eyes. His lungs screamed for air. Something else broke deep inside him and fear replaced all the things he had ever hoped for.
He tried to free himself. Each movement to get away brought him a jolting slap of hurt. He punched at the snout. Connected with bone and slime and teeth. His palm ripped open. Hit it again. And again. Suddenly he was free. Floating. Knechtel kicked his legs and his life vest brought him up.
He broke into the mist and sucked in greedily, filling his lungs. Water splashed into his mouth and down his throat. He coughed. And screamed. What the fuck is it? was all he could think.
Get to shore. He looked around and could see it at the edge of the haze. Three hundred yards. Maybe less.
The first stroke was awkward and he faltered over onto his side. He tried again and the same thing happened. The bad arm was not working. He reached over and felt the denuded bone and slimy tendrils of tendon sticking out of his shoulder. There was no arm. It was gone. And that was when the pain went supernova. Bucketloads that spilled through his body and set his mind on fire.
There was the swish of something in the water in front of him and he felt the pulse of a wave as it moved by.
Then it came back and grabbed him.
It clamped down onto his remaining arm. Yanked him under. All the fuses in Knechtel’s mind exploded in a flash of fear. He felt his body pulling to the surface, the buoyant life vest doing what it was designed to. But the freight train driving him down just kept going. There was nothing he could do, not against the force taking him into the earth. He felt a sharp snap as his eardrums imploded and white noise of static filled what few corners of his mind weren’t packed with agony. Blackness started creeping in and he started to lose consciousness. Then, for some reason, it let go.
The life vest pulled him toward the white world above. The fuses in his mind that were not yet blown kept him holding on to consciousness. For the second time he bobbed to the surface.
The first breath burned down his throat. He coughed and vomited, bile splattering out his nose in red strings. The world spun dizzily and he saw the distant outline of the shore flash by. He spun in a whirlpool created by whatever it was circling him.
He had to make it to shore. To get away from it. Far away.
Knechtel tried to swim and nothing happened. It took a second for him to realize that he wasn’t moving because he had no arms. They were both gone. No, a voice somewhere back there at the edge of consciousness said, not gone—bitten off. He kicked his legs and he spun in place, amid the widening pool of blood.
There was a surge of pressure as it hit him from below and he knew he had shit himself. For an instant the pain was brain blinding. And then it…wasn’t. He hardly felt anything at all except disbelief. But he heard it. The sound was intimate. And with some disconnection he realized that his body was being torn apart. Chewed. Crunched. Consumed.
Below the foaming surface of Lake Caldasac, Frank Knechtel’s head slowly swirled toward the bottom. His mouth instinctively sucked for air that, had it come, would have done no good whatsoever because he no longer had a body to process oxygen. It spiraled down into the cold water, blood billowing out as it sank.
The last message his brain received before the electrical impulses stopped firing had been sent from his eyes.
Madness was coming for him.
Frank Knechtel’s face, although no longer technically alive, had time to involuntarily wince before it was torn from his skull.
**************************************

ON POBI:

One afternoon, on a job selling high-end vintage wristwatches, Robert Pobi walked into a client's Manhattan apartment and fell in love with the American Arts and Crafts movement. A collection of furniture, pottery, and metal quickly followed. In 1996, Pobi opened Arcadia Antiques and Decorative Arts, an exclusive antiques and decorating shop in Montréal.

Over the next fourteen years, Pobi's shop became internationally recognized, appearing in Architectural Digest (both American and Italian imprints)., Country Home, Canadian House and Home, Conde Nast's Travel, and many other publications. His clients included movie stars, musicians, and an eccentric mix of top designers.

To fuel his client's thirst for the unusual, unique, and exquisite, Pobi haunted London, Paris, New Orleans, and Boston, hand-picking merchandise from auction houses and dealers. Comfortably ensconced in his bustling business, Pobi opened his desk drawer one morning to see six completed manuscripts staring back at him. It was at that instant that he decided to turn his full-time attention to the true great love of his life - writing.

BLOODMAN, Pobi’s debut novel that has now gone on to become a major international bestseller, and his new novel, MANNHEIM REX, written at a desk once owned by ''God's banker'', Roberto Calvi. Pobi splits his time between a cabin in the mountains and the Florida Keys, writing and fishing for everything that swims.

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JF
November 2012