Paul Theroux - The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro

One of the aspects of the story that is lost in translation, Prinsloo told me, is the elaborate courtesy of the man Finsch, faced by people who plainly dislike him and want something from him. The moral, if such a cynical tale can be said to contain a moral, is that no one means what he says; everyone is out to get something they don’t deserve. But as soon as you conclude that in these encounters there is not an ounce of generosity, you realize that Finsch — for his amazing gift of translation — is the soul of kindness.

The narrative occupies an entire day in the life of Farmer Finsch, a day in which he sees an old friend, interviews some men for the job of driver, has lunch with his son-in-law, and later, walking in the graveyard outside Nelspruit (all Prinsloo’s stories seemed to take place in deeply rural South African settings), meets and talks with a pretty young woman.

In the opening paragraph, the early morning of that day, the old friend stops by for coffee. Finsch greets the man amiably and the friend says, “You look terrible — much worse than me. Your face is fat and blotchy, probably from drinking.”

The reader thinks: What’s going on here? But Prinsloo knows what he is doing; gives no warnings or preliminaries, just plunges into these heartless dialogues. Finsch the translator is implacable.

“And how are you?”

“As if you care, you egotist. Your money has blinded you to the misery of the rest of us poor souls.”

“I haven’t seen you for ages,” Finsch says.

“I never liked you! Once a year would be too often! God, what a scraggy neck you have. Watery eyes, too. The blood blotches are stamped on your face.”

Antagonistic people are scrupulous noticers of faults, Prinsloo seems to be saying. And Finsch, although burdened by this prescience, does not reveal what he is hearing.

“One of these days we should have dinner,” he says.

“I don’t think I could stand a whole evening. And now I want to go. I want to find a way of ending this conversation. It must be those cigars that make your skin like parchment.”

“Would you like a cigar? Here, take one.”

“You think that offering me a cigar means I’m your friend? On the contrary, it makes me despise you more, because it reminds me of how little you’ve given me in all the years I’ve known you.”

More of this and then the friend goes away, and Finsch is not insulted but calmed by the encounter. And though we have not been told explicitly what Finsch’s gift is, we know what is happening when the men show up for the driver interviews.

“A bit more than a driver,” as Finsch explains, for he also needs a handyman and mechanic, someone to keep the car in good repair.

“What experience do you have?” Finsch asks the first man, who is a big blond ex-army sergeant.

“How much experience do I need? I can drive well, as if you’d know the difference. Put me behind the wheel and I will dazzle you.”

“Are you knowledgeable about engines?”

“The usual. I can change the oil, I can fuss and fool. Anything serious would go to a real mechanic — you can afford it. You can’t expect me to know everything.”

“I need someone who’s handy,” Finsch says.

“People like you always say that without having the slightest idea of what you mean. You’d never guess how little I know. But I know more than you.”

Other interviews follow, all the men just as harsh as this; and then a new note is struck, one of timidity, the man revealing himself as fearful of Finsch.

“I’ll bet you’re always snooping,” this man says. “You’ll be watching everything I do.”

Finsch says, “You’ll be expected to look after the car as well as drive it.”

“And it will never be enough for you. You’ll do nothing but complain and make my life hell.”

After more exchanges, the man cringing, terrified of Finsch, he is offered the job, which, almost mute with fear — little to translate — the man accepts.

Lunch with the son-in-law was painful to read for all the obvious reasons, the young man mocking Finsch and reflecting on what a close resemblance he has to his selfish pig of a daughter and saying, “I am going to get something from you, or else. I am just deciding what it is I want.” Finsch remains serene. We see that he is content with his seemingly diabolical gift.

Later in the afternoon, in Nelspruit's white graveyard, Finsch meets a young woman. He realizes, as soon as she begins telling him she is there “to mourn a dear friend,” that her boyfriend has just left for a job in Durban. While she talks to Finsch she is pondering a scheme to ensnare him — get some money out of him — so that she can join her boyfriend.

“I see you glancing at my breasts. I know you want to play with them. You are so simple. But it is going to cost you. I know I can make you pay.”

“My wife is buried here,” Finsch says.

“That is wonderful news. You will be all the more willing to do as I say. You're pathetic, but what a lovely ring on your finger. That will be mine.”

“I miss her greatly,” Finsch says.

“One glimpse of my naked body and you’ll stop missing her. You’re weak, but I won’t hurt you. After a little while I’ll take what I deserve and go on my way.”

“We might meet for a cup of tea one day,” Finsch says.

“I’ll wear my red dress. I’ll hold my nose. Sometimes men your age can really perform. That’s my only worry — your demands.”

Of course, Finsch avoids the woman — he has been warned. But he loses his serenity when he realizes that his knack for knowing what people are saying, what is in their heart, makes him lonely. He becomes isolated to the point where he won’t see anyone, so disgusted is he by people’s meanness and cynicism, their insincerity and greed. But in a redemptive moment with his daughter he understands that she genuinely loves him — or at least seems to. Dining with her, he reads her thoughts, as he has those of the others. Her kindness is sincere — or is it? Overwhelmed by a feeling of love, has he lost the ability to translate what she is saying into what she really thinks? The reader must decide.

There were about six other stories, the shortest of them about a farmer — another farmer — who finds a young abandoned monkey on his land. In his loneliness the farmer raises the monkey, names it, and trains it to become a helpful companion whom he comes to regard as a partner. At the end of the story the farmer is visited by a man who says, “Your monkey is staring at me.” The farmer loses his temper. “That is no monkey!”

A similar story about a gray parrot with a vast vocabulary and the same name as the main character: at the end you are not sure whether you are reading about the farmer or the parrot.

In “Drongo,” a bird appears on a veranda, pecking at the railing. The bird will not be deterred by the farmer, who is at first friendly — offering it food; and then hostile — plinking at it with a rifle. This simple bird visitation takes place against a backdrop of the wedding of the farmer’s son, the appearance of the farmer’s first grandchild, the promise of continuity. But without any warning the house collapses. “Eaten away.” Had he looked more closely the farmer would have understood that the drongo he killed was picking at termites and keeping the house whole. Now there is nothing of the house left.

Strange stories — but Prinsloo’s life, the last years of it, were stranger than anything he wrote.

“Quite a curious thing befell me,” Lourens Prinsloo said to me — and as a writer I was keenly aware that he was trying this story out on me, as he had probably tried it out on other people. Because I was a writer myself I would not be able to use the story, though I would be allowed to repeat it, and when this master of the bizarre story finally wrote it, I could compare the version he wrote with the one he had told me in confidence.