It is hard to believe that I have only read a few books by Denis Johnson, and prior to The Laughing Monsters felt left out of the fan club that spoke the “Denis Johnson language”. There is a unique point of entry to his writing that has always mystified me, up until this moment. Jesus’ Son has been a go-to book for me over the years, and I awe in its simplicity. The ease in which Johnson carved and shaped those little moments is really something. In the late innings of his career, Johnson has perfected a style that speaks less out loud, and thinks to itself much more than it has a right to.
This story will make Graham Greene fans sit up and take notice, but not without a tip of the hat to Cormac McCarthy. The Laughing Monsters is not a straight up spy novel; it is more along the lines of a disgruntled and careless spy cautionary tale.
Our hero, a man named Roland Nair is of mysterious origins, traveling with a U.S. Passport, but claiming to be spawned out of Scandinavia. The book opens with Nair, as he likes to be called, arriving in Freetown, Sierra Leone in search of an old friend from his salad days, Michael Adriko. Johnson throws them together quickly, but not before Nair tells a cab driver where to stick it, when the cabbie asks for more money. Nair is fed up, tired, and jet-lagged. Adriko is fueled by love, libations, and an urge to get rich. These men quickly hatch a plan that by any standards is foolish. Their scam hopes to burn a few people out of a ton of money, and sell a certain ingredient to make a weapon of mass destruction. This includes dealing with the Mossad, French government, British spies, and whatever shitty knife wielding dealers of death they happen to come across. And in Africa, you can take your pick of really, really, really bad guys.
Adriko is a loon, bouncing off one bad idea to the next, just because his latest idea isn’t as bad as the last idea, and Nair is there to remind him that all his ideas are bad. Nair isn’t much better, except he is keenly aware of his own mortality. This plot drives the story, but really is nothing more than a flimsy engine to drape the love story on, like ripped panties on a shrub by the swimming hole. It is all a distraction, because really who wants to go to the Uganda-Congo borderland for anything other than love?
The main attraction is Davidia St. Claire, Michael Adriko’s fiancé, and her introduction by Nair:
And as soon as they’d made everything right, Davidia St. Claire entered the scene, slender, elegant, wearing an African dress. She had the usual effect of one of Michael’s women. He wouldn’t have one that didn’t. Even in the Third World he managed to find them, at fashion shows and photo shoots, at diplomatic cocktail parties-church. The gazes followed behind her as if she swept them along with her hands.
Notice how Johnson calls this the Third World, and not a developing country. Upon re-reading this section now, I see what he is doing. This is a post-9-11 novel, set in the years right after 9-11, and the lingo isn’t quite politically correct. Davidia is the driving force to Nair, and it is almost too much to watch. Adriko and Nair dispense with an awful amount of hand wringing over how badly to screw the other guy over, and finally when it comes down to it, Nair doesn’t have the balls. His “bitching out” moment is really brilliant. Told at high speed, rapid exposure, this section of violence has copious blood, and lots of deep breathing. The bad guys in this book would rather chop you up and feed your parts to whatever house pet is handy. Nair knows this, but he want’s to get rich just like Adriko.
A note about the style of this novel is certainly in order. I loved the speed and propulsive tone of the writing. A lot like Jesus’ Son, just not so clearly doped up on mushrooms as that early collection. It is also bleak. Nair has a taste for whores, like Baskin Robbins offers ice cream, and he easily describes the shocking human bankruptcy of Africa. The land is a character on it’s own, and will destroy even the most rugged traveler. Toward the last third Nair is alone after a breathtaking interrogation, which is almost too good to be fiction. Johnson goes on to describe Nair’s dehydration with such precision that it will make you stand up and get a glass of water. Nair dances too close to the flame, as so does Johnson, but they both manage to pull the nose up just as this drone finds its target.
