The Charm Buyers

This book is full of uncertainty—the story takes place on the edge of what we know and don’t know, in the gaps between silence and words.  This edge is the ocean, what separates life from death:  “The water was unpredictable and unforgiving, the bodies disappearing, washed out to sea” (51), a hint at Uncle Florian and Arthur’s deaths 200 pages later, when they die in a car accident while driving during a storm.  The view from the cemetery is the ocean (143), and Marc describes the meeting with MuSan in which he loses his wealth “as if the calm, unimposing ocean had silently gathered itself into a great, dark wave” (202).  The ocean also holds black pearls, the source of his parents’ wealth, the wealth from which Marc is excluded. 

This edge is magic charms.  We never really do find out if the bead saved Marie-Laure, just as we never know if it is the cause of Marc’s misfortunes, which seemed waiting to happen as it were.  Tahiti is on the edge of this belief system, with some people like A-tai and Marc’s father holding tightly to traditions, while others disregard them, or try to.  “Magic charms and happy endings—just stories” (128), Marc tells us, but he purchases the magic charm for Marie-Laure just the same.  Marie-Laure’s illness is equally enigmatic—the implication is that it is a result of nuclear testing, but causation is never established. 

The edge is appearances, where lies meet truth.  The book opens:  “The things you’re heard about me—they’re true, especially the lies” (3).  The truth is malleable, given the context.  Marc’s illegal business would be more acceptable if the economy were doing better.  In a culture where fulfilling one’s role in the family is of the utmost importance, Radish is a “fine son” (264) because he stands by the coffins of his father and brother and cries while greeting visitors.  Marc is a bad son because he makes a comment against his father’s business. 

The story itself is part a story A-tai might tell at night—forbidden love, sorcerers, magic, good and evil, the beautiful and the ugly—and part postcolonial critique.  There are so many uncertainties, so many conflicting ideas.  Yes, nuclear testing is bad for the environment and maybe for people’s health, but it boosts the economy.  Yes, there is something old-fashion and taboo about love between cousins, but how can we condemn it when presented with a character such as Marie-Laure?  As such, Marc is the perfect narrator.  His taciturn nature causes frustration in many of the other characters—“Go ahead, walk away.  Go ahead.  It’s easy to be silent” (190); “You talk, but you never really say anything about yourself” (195)—and because the story is told through his voice, we too must navigate the limited information he offers.  We don’t know what Marc’s business is in until we see snakes.  We don’t know that his hair is growing again (the end of his misfortunes?) until De Koning points it out to him and to us.  Because no one in the story was there with Marc while he was in the military in France, we never do end up knowing much about that time in his life.  Part one ends and part two begins and what might have been a critical time in his life is lost between.

The way Howan constructs paragraphs and scenes is just brilliant.  “I thought about Marie-Laure during the drive to Papeeta” Marc begins a paragraph on page 122, but by the end he is talking about Radish and his new wife who he only visits “once or twice a month.”  Maybe there is a connection, maybe Marc doesn’t want to acknowledge his feelings about Marie-Laure because he is accustomed to stale marriages, but the effect is that we don’t get to know his feelings about Marie-Laure.  It makes for a very compelling romance.  We don’t see him pining away after her, but then when we get to see the small tender exchanges between Marc and Marie-Laure, it’s so beautiful.  One of my favorites is when he describes his thought process behind reusing to leave Marie-Laure’s hospital bed:  “I thought of Marie-Laure, her fingers in my hand during the ride to the hospital.  I kept holding her once we arrived, as they turned her and as she twitched and gasped while they stuck needles into her arms.  “No,” I said” (147). 

As a child, silence had colors in Marc’s mind, “the aqua blue of the lagoon, the turquoise of the deeper waters, the color of the clouds and all the hopeful dreams I had” but he describes with time silence becoming “the color of nothing” (244).  The descriptions through Marc’s eyes are quite beautiful, although for him the island is a dead-end—Marc sees life as a game of chess in which he has become accustomed to losing.  This double-view of the island ties into the nuclear testing, Aurore’s “Ugly Tahiti” art exhibit.  We are constantly searching for the truth.

This dream-like story ends with Marc looking up at the stars, experiencing a sort of clarity illuminated by the lights of the airport.  The lights of the airport drown out the stars, which means the stars are brighter in the darker parts of the island.  You see them because of the darkness.  In the first part of the story, Marc tells us, “I could go to the most remote island of the Tuamotus, I could go to France, but the truth would still remain, hidden, secret, forgotten, always waiting” (57).  In this last scene under the stars, Marc lands on a sort of truth, a moment of clarity.  So even though Howan doesn’t tell us the ending—do they get together?  does Marc follow Marie-Laure to Sydney?—we find resolution in Marc glimpsing a bit of the truth he has been searching for.

--Gina