Clean by Alia Trabucco Zerán, translated by Sophie Hughes (4th Estate, £16.99)
Thereâs no hanging about in Chilean author Alia Trabucco Zeránâs third novel, which opens with images of rabbits being frightened to death, life-threatening fungus, a piglet killed â and the warning that in the end, âthe girl diesâ. Our narrator is Estela (âIâve killed beforeâ), who worked as a nanny to a wealthy couple â doctor, lawyer â and âthe girlâ is their daughter Julia. Estela appears to be under questioning by police, held in a room and talking directly to âyou whoâll eventually pass judgment on meâ. Her story proceeds at pace, building its depth from an accumulation of small details: the familyâs cruelty to her; the fatherâs shocking way of teaching Julia to swim; the secret behind the household maid. A strong narrative energy drives the novel to its conclusion, by which time the atmosphere is so full of dread you could weigh it.
Comrade Papa by GauZâ, translated by Frank Wynne (MacLehose, £12)
This funny, ebullient, often chaotic tale of French colonial exploitation of Ivory Coast tells two alternating stories. In the late 19th century, a young man joins a colonial expedition, caught between self-styled âNegrophilesâ and âNegrophobesâ â who disagree on everything except their shared loathing of the British â as he experiences his own bumpy personal voyage of discovery. Meanwhile, a century later, a European Black boy gives an account, filled with comic malapropisms (âlumpy proletariatâ), of his own trip to Ivory Coast, and his upbringing by his communist father â Comrade Papa â who rails against everything from tulips (markers of capitalism) to Philips lightbulbs (made by fascist collaborators). Ivorian author GauZâ was shortlisted for the International Booker prize for his novel Standing Heavy. Comrade Papa is even better.
The Son of Man by Jean-Baptiste Del Amo, translated by Frank Wynne (Fitzcarraldo, £12.99)
An opening scene of a group of ancient hunters switches, in a 2001: A Space Odyssey-style jump cut, to a present-day French family â father, mother, son â on a journey. âAre we there yet?â Theyâre heading to the fatherâs old house in the mountains of Les Roches to spend the summer. But this is no holiday: through flashbacks we begin to get the full, ugly picture, all told in visceral, physical prose. The mother lives on romance novels, beer and painkillers; the supplies packed by the father include cigarettes and a revolver. (The way he devours a chicken carcass will put you off poultry for life.) The fatherâs unpredictability reflects his experience with his own father, the mother turns out to be pregnant â and what about the mysterious Uncle Tony? The novel explores how unknowable the motives of adults are to children, and how man hands on misery to man. There arenât many laughs on the way to the inevitable, satisfying conclusion, but it isnât half gripping.
Comedy in a Minor Key by Hans Keilson, translated by Damion Searls (Pushkin, £9.99)
First published in German in 1947, this novella is a surprisingly entertaining account of a Dutch couple harbouring a Jewish man in their home during the Nazi occupation. As though things arenât difficult enough, he then dies and becomes a much bigger problem. The story switches between his time in the house â playing chess against himself, looking wistfully through the window at the world he canât join, trusting the local barber (âI only do one kind of cut. I hope you like itâ) â and the coupleâs attempts to dispose of his body. At first it appears that they have the ideal solution, and dump him under a park bench at night, âunder the sky like a dead birdâ â then they remember he was wearing a pair of the husbandâs monogrammed pyjamas ⦠Keilson wrote only four works of fiction in his lifetime. We should treasure them.
