Books

What is more damaging to a storyteller's accuracy: time or torture?

Here is the heart of Elias Khoury's mesmerizing new novel, Yalo, in which a young man is arrested at the end of the Lebanese civil war and charged with rape, robbery and collaboration.

If Yalo cannot get his story straight, he faces life in prison or worse.

Parsing fact from fantasy is not going to be easy, for Mr. Khoury's troubled, shellshocked ex-soldier is caught between worlds and languages. He also inherits a legacy of forgetting. Yalo's Kurdish grandfather grew up in Syria, speaking the dead Aramaic language of Syriac, but immigrated to Lebanon and became a Christian priest. Yalo's mother was abandoned by his father and spent her life obsessed with a lover who refused to divorce his wife.

This tortured family history emerges through flashbacks that spring open like escape hatches during Yalo's interrogation. In the book's opening scene, Yalo sits before two court officers and Shirin, the woman he allegedly raped. As he is taunted and threatened, Yalo withdraws into his mind, where he recalls rapping his Kalashnikov on the window of a parked car in which Shirin sat with a man who was not her fiancé. What happens afterward is to Yalo an act of love; in legal terms it is rape.

Or was it? Asking the reader to sympathize with a rapist is probably as bold a gambit as Nabokov's tale of a pedophile in Lolita, but Mr. Khoury goes at it in an entirely different fashion. As he did in Gate of the Sun, his powerful epic of the Palestinian diaspora, he piles one story upon the next upon the next, building a penumbra of tales that cloud a reader's perception of what is real and what is imagined, what is told to family members and what has actually happened. To untangle his tale, a reader must follow Yalo into a vortex of memory and self-deceit, which Mr. Khoury beautifully portrays.

Occasionally, moment to moment this style can feel too hotly exuberant, a stew of themes and images, but when you put the book down or take a break from it, the effect is purposeful. The cultural guilt from which Yalo proceeds – his grandfather betrays his original culture, religion and language – melds with Yalo's interrogation and torture. In his mind, Yalo is not just being punished for what he did, but for who and what he is (or isn't).

However you feel about crime and punishment, Yalo will make for difficult reading. In one horrific scene, Yalo is stripped of his clothes and dropped into a sack with a wild animal and then beaten. In another awful scene, he is forced to sit upon a broken bottle and write his confession out by hand.

One of the great weaknesses of this novel is that while Mr. Khoury portrays Yalo's torture in realistic terms, he does not step outside his head to portray his crimes. We are, therefore, trapped inside Yalo's history and his mind. Perhaps that is where Mr. Khoury wanted us to be: suffocated by the past, swirling around in a sea of recrimination and rationalization, cut off from Yalo's effect on others. And so it is through such a blinkered perspective that war crimes are committed.

John Freeman is president of the National Book Critics Circle.

Elias Khoury

Translated by Peter Theroux

(Archipelago, $25)

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