Shaf and the Remington

Rana Bose

Description

Shaf, a physics teacher and a philosopher, fought as a partisan in the Balkans during the Second World War. He has not been heard from for 40 years. How could such an ubiquitous and expansive person disappear? Did the murder of his mother and girlfriend Nika by fascists during the War spark his sporadic displays of insanity? Rumours had him teaching in the United States and Europe during the Cold War.
Ben, Shaf’s former student and Nika’s brother, has never given up looking for him. He finally meets up with Shaf in his home town, where they first met. The encounter does not turn out as expected.
Set in Sabzic, a fictitious town in an unnamed country in the Balkans, Shaf and the Remington chronicles the lives of a family, a people, a town and a nation, from dawn at the time of the first great War to dusk as the Cold War sputters to an end.
Rana BoseRana Bose is an award-winning novelist, playwright, poet, and dramaturge. He has written four novels, including Fog (2019), winner of The Miramichi Reader’s 2019 Best Canadian Fiction Award. His plays have been published and performed in Canada and the United States. Founding editor of Montreal Serai, Rana Bose lives in Montreal.
In the media
“Set in the fictitious town of Sabzic in what is clearly Yugoslavia but never identified as such, Bose relates the personal stories of Ben and Shaf against the backdrop of invading panzer divisions and local partisans. But this is in no way historical fiction. Rather, it is an allegory to the forces of human nature, which pit the petty desire to divide against the will to unite. … [Rana Bose] would certainly merit a place in Canada’s pantheon of outstanding writers.” Ian Thomas Shaw, The Ottawa Review of Books.
Praise
“The characters are so full of life, distinct and engaging. The structure is perfect. I loved the artful ending. All is tied up but in a light, electric way. Nothing is heavy-handed. The themes are so prescient. A brilliant exploration of ‘the end of an era’—the post-war truce between races, religions and ideologies. I thank you for restoring my faith in the novel. In addition to being a fiercely intelligent political novel, the prose is luscious.” Marianne Ackerman, novelist, playwright, and journalist, author of Mankind and Other Stories of Women
“This is a gripping, exuberantly written tale, mixing genres and vocabularies, tracking the elusive dream of interethnic harmony. Rana Bose’s story is beautiful and wise.” Sherry Simon, Canada Chair in Translation and Cultural History, Director of Concordia’s Interdisciplinary PhD in Humanities Program, author of The City in Translation: “Urban Cultures of Central Europe”
“Masterfully crafted, the final pages of the book compel the reader to start over again.” Nilambri Ghai, founding member and editor of Montréal Serai, author of From Johanne to Janaki: Bringing Vikings to Varanasi.

Sujets

• Historical Fiction
• Historical
• Cold War
• Yugoslavia
• Guerre froide
• Fiction
• Balkans

Informations

• Publié par: Baraka Fiction
• Date de parution: 29 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781771863063
• Langue: English

Extrait

Rana Bose
Shaf and the Remington
Baraka Books Montréal

“A vivid chronicle of life in a small corner of Europe opens onto an exploration of history from the Byzantines to the Ottomans to the Second World War. This is a gripping, exuberantly written tale, mixing genres and vocabularies, tracking the elusive dream of interethnic harmony. Rana Bose’s story is beautiful and wise.” Sherry Simon, Canada Chair in Translation and Cultural History, Director of Concordia’s Interdisciplinary PhD in Humanities Program, author of The City in Translation: “Urban Cultures of Central Europe .”

“In his new novel Shaf and the Remington , Rana Bose paints complex, unforgettable characters that last long after the book is read. In an epistolary style, Ben, and his tutor, Shaf, narrate events that changed their lives and the history of nations. Bose forces us to face our own anger, animosity, arrogance, and religious and racial intolerance. Masterfully crafted, the final pages of the book compel the reader to start over again.” Nilambri Ghai, founding member and editor of Montréal Serai , author of From Johanne to Janaki: Bringing Vikings to Varanasi .

“Set in the fictitious town of Sabzic in what is clearly Yugoslavia but never identified as such, Bose relates the personal stories of Ben and Shaf against the backdrop of invading panzer divisions and local partisans. But this is in no way historical fiction. Rather, it is an allegory to the forces of human nature, which pit the petty desire to divide against the will to unite. … [Rana Bose] would certainly merit a place in Canada’s pantheon of outstanding writers.” Ian Thomas Shaw, The Ottawa Review of Books .


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. © Rana Bose ISBN 978-1-77186-295-0 pbk; 978-1-77186-306-3 Epub; 978-1-77186-307-0 pdf Cover by Vincent Partel Book Design by Folio Infographie Editing and proofreading by Blossom Thom, Anne Marie Marko and Robin Philpot Legal Deposit, 3rd quarter 2022 Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec Library and Archives Canada Published by Baraka Books of Montreal Printed and bound in Quebec Trade Distribution & Returns Canada – UTP Distribution: UTPdistribution.com United States Independent Publishers Group: IPGbook.com We acknowledge the support from the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC) and the Government of Quebec tax credit for book publishing administered by SODEC.


Table of Contents Section One Ben and the Town That Diedar Built Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Section Two Shaf, the Remington and the Principia Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Section Three From Dusk to Dawn Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Section Four Jonah, The Serf and the Remington Chapter Thirty Acknowledgements
Points de repère Couverture Couverture Page de Titre Page de Copyright Dédicace Dédicace Remerciements

The carpet looks wonderful, but if you bring your nose closer, it smells.
-Overheard in a café
- for Josephine Chameli, Colette Daisy and Fran Amiya


Section One
Ben and the Town That Diedar Built


Chapter One
I made a swift U-turn and parked my rental car about twenty-five metres away from the house with the big arched double wooden doors. I cut the engine of the car and it coughed to a boisterous stop. The watch said it was eight thirty-one.
I rolled down the window. The moldy and fusty smell of the canal water swept over the painted parapet, crossed the street, rose up into the air above it and then went straight for my nostrils. I stiffened my grip on the steering wheel, overwhelmed by the staleness that suddenly invaded the car. In the distance I saw the shimmering amber reflections of the canal water under the arch of the stone bridge; on the Strand, electric lights had replaced many of the old gas lamps from the previous century. The large slabs of rock on the walkway under the bridge glistened, like a fresh downpour had just happened. But it had been like that for the past several centuries. Horseshoes had honed down the rocks into smooth, shiny undulations, and even on a dry sunny day, it seemed like the canal had just overflowed or a sudden downpour had left a pock-marked reminder of the Sultans and Dukes who rode down the Strand and the walkways of this centuries-old town.
For several thousand years, horses had been domesticated in the high grasslands up in the northeast of our country. For the last six centuries, majestic stallions had been ridden-in by marauding adventurers ready to occupy, loot, convert, decimate and sometimes revive forgotten lifestyles. Horses had been their head-bobbing accomplices. The cobblestones bore this imprint and the buildings, the walls, the bridges, the canals bore the changing stamp of succeeding empires, in the facades of the houses, in the colours of the tiles on the domes and the tapestries inside the places of worship. Invasion after invasion and the assimilation that followed, for a few centuries at a time, bore testimony to the tempest that this region had witnessed. But for now, there was stillness and anxiety as I focused on the house, after having driven for more than ten hours.
From where I was parked, I could see the target address, the road in front, the stone bridge, the Strand under the bridge, and a little to the left and on the opposite side of it, lay the other part of town where I would go occasionally, while growing up. I could see the house lights in the distance, the blue grey shadows of the mountains which spread like a blanket, that had been thrown casually on the horizon. And as I looked into the darkness, I could hear the faint sound of a horse carriage crossing over on the stone bridge, as I had heard and seen some forty years ago.
***
His name is Shaf. I have not seen him since the end of the War, which was about forty years ago. He was my tutor till the end. His knowledge of Physics and Algebra was immaculate. Spotless, that is. But the Philosophy that he associated with his understanding of forces, the laws of motion and gravity, could be elusive and refract minds away from the obvious. And that is what attracted me to him, his ability to point out what is beyond the obvious—under the skin and beyond the horizon—something that you did not see or feel while you were staring at it. Maddening, insanely provocative were his ways of highlighting phenomena and behaviours which were beyond the tangible.
He was always poorly shaved, but there was no attempt to grow a beard as such. Some dark brown stubble grew in a haphazard manner. His eyes were light brown, and his hair had blond streaks, here and there. His nose was unusual in that he had a raised bridge roughly one quarter inch below where his eyebrows nearly met ready for glasses, but he never wore any. And beyond that it was like a ski-slope coming down at a seventy-degree angle, followed by a gentle flare into nostrils that were noticeably hairless. When he smiled, occasionally, his teeth were barely visible, because his upper lip was significantly well endowed, compared to the lower one. His cheek bones were unobtrusive, like his character. He often wore a beret, that was pulled to one side. He rode a bicycle in a wavering, unsure manner like he would change direction any moment; but I learnt later that it was perhaps a deceptive ploy. Either that or he was distracted and reckless.
***
I sensed a movement behind me, shadowy and dubious; but there were no shadows as such, just a feeling, as no one was standing by, or waiting in silence. Nothing was visible in the side-view mirror. No one approached the door of the big mansion. My quixotic imagination required that I would see a dark silhouette appear from nowhere or, at least, on top of the stone bridge looking down. Absolutely nothing happened. And yet, there was a sulking presence that had taken the form of the smell that lurked under the arches. When I looked into the rear-view mirror, I saw the road curve behind me, sharply, as if I was forbidden to look behind. There were no cars behind either. If a curfew had been declared, I would have known for sure, but the stillness was reminiscent. I remembered to turn off all of the car lights. I kept looking across at the massive wooden doors. That was the address I had been given. The bone-penetrating cold crept in through the partially open window, as if querying the fluids in my marrow. I felt icicles were entering and exiting my body—and while I held on to the deceptive warmth inside a rapidly cooling car, there was no choice but to put my gloves on and lift the jacket collar around my face. I stared deep into the shimmering waters of the canal and remembered my inglorious grandfather salivating about it as a wild and prodigious river, that was full of leaping and cavorting trout.
Well, yes, several kilometres upstream, the canal was actually a river. With fish, boats, piers and daredevil kids doing cannonball leaps, in summer. But here, in the town, as the river became a canal, the currents changed, the fish were gone and only a few tourist-trapping gondola-style boats lazed by once in a while. And there was the pale-yellow facade on all the houses, that peered through the patches of green foliage, as one went a little way onto