Le Regard Libre N° 39 - Nicolas Jutzet

Published by Slatkine & Cie, French author Daniel Fohr's story takes us on an adventure. There's plenty to think about, and the story he tells plunges us into a nostalgic past.

The focus is on the Aviator. It is in his memory that his grandnephew sets sail. Setting out from Le Havre, his mission is to reach South America—more specifically, Buenos Aires, after a stopover in Santos. He is doing this to fulfill the old sage’s final wish. The sage wants his ashes scattered in the Río de la Plata. And why? To find his lost love.

"The Aviator," a remnant of a forgotten world

A war hero, the Aviator is a sturdy man. After flying all over the world throughout his career in aviation, he is now enjoying his retirement. A model of longevity, he eventually passed away at the age of 118, coming very close to the world record. The last surviving member of a family plagued by tragedy, the grandnephew then enters the story. The will is addressed to him. He inherits the deceased’s apartment, as well as a mission: to make the journey he was never able to take. To travel to South America by ship, setting out from Normandy. The city, which was heavily damaged during World War II, lies at the heart of the great melodrama of the old man’s life. It is here that everything ends—and, paradoxically, everything begins anew.

In his early youth, the man had met a radiant South American woman who, not content with being stunningly beautiful, was also fortunate enough to come from a good family. Having come to discover Europe and enjoying the hospitality of her aunt, who was settled on the Old Continent, she eventually fell in love with the valiant engineering student that the Aviator was at the time. At the age of twenty-five, he managed to win over the twenty-one-year-old maiden. It was the beginning of the adventure of a lifetime. Or at least, that was the shared destiny the lovebirds swore to each other.

«Every moment, I feel the need to convince myself that you weren't a dream. I feel as if I was born the very second I met you.»

Unfortunately, as expected, his beloved must return to her homeland at the end of her European journey. She returns there—a different time, a different reality—by ship. A long voyage awaits her. Exchanging letters was the only connection that bound this madly in love couple together at the time. And back then, the postal service was different; it took weeks and weeks to deliver mail from one continent to another. The situation was agonizing for anyone waiting for a reply from their loved one. Unimaginable for us, in this age of instant messaging and information overload. Add to that the slow crossing of the Atlantic Ocean. A true lesson in humility for the ultra-connected generation we belong to. Could patience reignite those emotions?

Now that he’s finally graduated, he decides to join her. Off on an adventure! He’ll take the same route, by ship, from Le Havre. Everything’s settled; the anticipation is palpable. But one day before departure, just as he was about to check out of his hotel room in Le Havre, the future pilot’s world came crashing down. A terse telegram shattered—perhaps forever—the illusion of attainable happiness. «I’ve thought it over. It’s over. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t want to see you anymore. It’s final.» Brutal.

«He was twenty-five, and the woman who had just shut the door on their future together was only twenty-one.»

A Long, Quiet River

The grandnephew thus inherits a journey that should have led his ancestor to happiness. The Aviator will finally make that journey, years later, sealed inside an urn. Carried by his descendant, who keeps a watchful eye on things. One last journey, in search of rest—and answers, no doubt. The grandnephew, a rather uninspiring librarian, takes the mission very seriously. Off he goes for a month—not on a cruise ship, but on a container ship, as impersonal as can be.

Through the character’s remarks, we are introduced to the sometimes harsh world of sailors: solitude, sacrifice, and a sense of community. One might even detect a barracks-like atmosphere. With his numerous lists and a slowing pace, the author succeeds perfectly in conveying the tempo the most peaceful part of the journey, to say the least. Traveling at 17 km/h on a red cargo ship, life is calm and monotonous. At times, the narrator’s boredom almost rubs off on the reader.

Interrupted by a storm that triggered severe seasickness and a few scares for the Aviator—who watched his new home perform a few acrobatic maneuvers on the ship—the drowsiness that sets in is pleasant for anyone who dreams of one day taking on such a challenge. Often left to his own devices, the librarian tries to understand, to uncover the missing pieces, and simply to connect with others—without much success. We grow attached to the crew members on board, who do their best to brighten up their daily lives.

«I thought of the Aviator as he set out on his final journey, and of myself, tasked with bringing him back to his childhood sweetheart—a fantasy that had remained lodged for nearly a century in his reptilian brain, the seat of romantic love.»

Despite the sometimes suffocating confinement, it’s hard to grasp the depth of the characters. Breaking through the narrator’s shell remains a pipe dream, as he speaks primarily of the urn that accompanies him and his ultimately quite mundane daily life. Through the letters left for his grandnephew, we learn the story of the two lovers, though we never quite manage to form a complete picture. It isn’t until the final pages that we truly understand the sudden transformation of the gentle woman.

It’s also a shame that so little time is spent on dry land. A few chapters to really immerse ourselves in a way of life so different from what we know in Argentina would have given the story even more depth. You can feel the adventure taking shape, but it never really takes off—or only barely. But that isn’t the point of the book. It isn’t a thriller, but rather a travel novel—a coming-of-age story with historical elements. Yet to find oneself, to understand one’s own history, and to understand one’s lover, it takes time—not endless plot twists.

Interview with the author, Daniel Fohr:

Le Regard Libre: There are several references to Blaise Cendrars in your book. Why is that?

Daniel Fohr: Because he’s first and foremost a writer of adventures—human adventures: Russia via the Trans-Siberian Railway, Brazil on a cargo ship, the Gold Rush in America, or even the trenches of 1914. I wanted to follow in that tradition, but with a twist. The name «Buenos Aires» is evocative, just like “Maracaibo,” “Valparaíso,” and so on. My fondness for Cendrars—which isn’t exclusive—also stems from his writing style and his mastery of language. As a literary nod to a cargo ship, it was either him or Conrad, but the latter is too dark a reference for the story I wanted to tell. There’s a lighter, more playful humor in Cendrars—the humor of the parties in Montparnasse—whereas Conrad’s is ironic, sarcastic, and critical. Even though death is present in the novel, it’s always counterbalanced by humor. There’s undoubtedly a connection between the ashes the narrator is carrying and the pseudonym of the writer with the severed hand. And then, my character is, in a way, a “psychological amputee”—he has never truly loved, and becomes aware of this void when he is confronted with a love story he does not understand.

Life on board is described with precision and skill—have you ever worked on a ship of this size yourself? Where does this desire to describe the lives of sailors come from?

I haven’t worked on a ship of that size, but I sailed on one to make the crossing from Le Havre to Buenos Aires, just like my character. It was the least I could do if I wanted to capture a certain truth. The reader has to take the journey too; we have to believe in it—a work of fiction must have its own truth. If someone who’s made this kind of crossing reads my book, they shouldn’t feel like I’m making things up; otherwise, they’ll throw the book away—and they’ll be right. There are some things you simply can’t make up. You can’t find everything on the internet; experience is irreplaceable, because what makes things true are the details you can’t find anywhere else—and the way you observe them. Hemingway’s first piece of advice to anyone who wants to write was: write only about what you know. That’s absolutely right. Then, building on that, you can invent whatever you want. When I say I didn’t work on this container ship, that’s not entirely true: I wrote passages, notes, and reflections for the book every day. My desire to describe seafarers undoubtedly stems from my modest career as a journalist. freelance that I had a long time ago. I’m interested in sociological realities, as well as the way people live lives that are far removed from my own. I’m fascinated by that; I have a taste for exotic things. That’s what I loved about working in advertising, too: one day I’d be visiting a Camembert factory in Normandy, the next a car factory in Japan, and yet another day I’d be off to shoot a film in Cuba or South Africa. That’s always been what interested me, even in seemingly different professions. My family has always traveled; my mother, who is ninety-seven, still travels—she just got back from Canada. I have two brothers—one lives in Madrid, the other in Mexico City. I’ve always been more interested in what’s far away than in what’s close by; that’s undoubtedly a limitation.

The pace of the story mirrors the speed of the container ship. There is little action. Why was this choice made?

I wanted to write a classic coming-of-age story—the kind that takes you from one shore to the other, a return to Ithaca. I was looking for something unadorned, without too much action, precisely because my previous novel, The Silent Lightning of Catatumbo, was quite rich. It was a kind of tribute to a certain type of Latin American literature that I feel close to. With Back to Buenos Aires, I wondered if I'd be able to write a story where not much happens, like Ballard in *The Concrete Island*: A character drives his car off a cliff one rainy evening into a no man's land between a series of highway interchanges and bypasses, and he’ll never leave this wasteland and return to the Stone Age. I approach each of my books as a new experience. How can I talk about the repetition of days without repeating myself? How do I handle time and duration? How can I talk about boredom without boring the reader? This has forced me to be precise in my writing, to be fluid, and to always put myself in the reader’s shoes—which helps me avoid a certain complacency. Sometimes I’m very satisfied with a long passage that I find perfectly structured and well-written, but which adds absolutely nothing to the narrative—or even slows it down. You have to know how to prune a text, to continue the reference to Cendrars. Since I tend to reread and rewrite a lot, if a passage starts to bore me—if I find myself skimming over it too quickly—I know it will bore the reader. The text must still appeal to me after fifty rereadings; that’s the best test of all. But style and tone aren’t enough; there must also be something at stake. Aside from the episodes with the crew and life on board, the gradual unfolding of this love story—composed of six letters that the protagonist rereads with us— right up to the final resolution—finding out what awaits our character upon arrival—is a driving force that compels the reader to turn the page and, I hope, makes the novel less boring than the voyage itself.

Write to the author: nicolas.jutzet@leregardlibre.com