A Dead Hand: A Crime in Calcutta [Paperback]

Set in India, familiar territory for Theroux, 'A Dead Hand` tells the story of a travel writer suffering from writer's block (aka `dead hand') until a chance letter from an American ex-pat, the mysterious Mrs Unger, relating a story of a mystery of a dead body in a hotel leads him to release his creativity in very unexpected ways. The story is more about obsession and infatuation than it is about the mystery itself as the narrator falls under Mrs Unger's Tantric charms. But does she have more to hide than she's letting on?

In the hands of Theroux, a new novel set in the India that he knows so well, what could possibly go wrong? Disappointingly, quite a bit on the evidence of this book.

For a start, both the narrator and the object of his infatuation, Mrs Unger, are far from likeable characters. The writer (Jerry Delfont, although he is hardly, if at all, referred to by his name in the book) comes over as a self-pitying man (and when the narrator has few redeeming qualities it's hart to empathise with him) and he largely fails to convey any of the charms that make the Mrs Unger so appealing to him. Also inexplicably for someone who knows India so well, Theroux fails to invoke much of the mystery of the place.

A further problem I had with the book was that in relating the Tantric activities of Mrs Unger there is clearly a lot of sexual metaphor(the sessions take place in Mrs Unger's `vault') - which is fine although it is repetitious (as is much the first two parts of the book), but he then goes on to make it explicit - `And being inside the vault was like being inside her body'. It seems that he is giving his readers no credit for picking up on his non-too subtle hints. We really can pick up on the hints, Mr Theroux. If there's one thing worse than a writer who tells instead of shows, it's one who shows and then tells in case he hasn't shown well enough.

The subject of writing is clearly something Theroux knows very well, although given his prolific nature one suspects the pains of writer's block are less familiar to him. In the second part of the book, the narrator is introduced to another writer visiting India - a certain Paul Theroux which is kind of amusing but it also comes across as a bit self-congratulating - although this Mr Theroux is talked about in less than complimentary terms. It's amusing but adds little to the story.

The mystery of the murder is only really dealt with in the final part of the book (in the first two parts, Delfont is too busy being obsessed to bother too much with sleuthing so if you were wanting a mystery book, this probably isn't it) - and things pick up a lot here. The writer finds the dismembered hand of the victim - ie a dead hand. And if you hadn't made the connection with that and the writers `dead hand' or writer's block - again it is explicitly spelt out for you.

Of course, there are some lovely Theroux touches as well - and the Indian characters are without fail more interesting than the American characters in the book. But it's a long, long way from his best work.

An interesting and highly enjoyable book, the first Theroux I have read. The back cover states "The most gifted, the most prodigal writer of his generation". On the evidence of this narrative, I can't help feeling that this praise is slightly hyperbolic.

What you think you might be getting, after the opening pages and with reference to the title, is a crime or mystery story. You aren't, really. What you are getting more of is the depiction of a love affair between a needy writer and an all-powerful goddess-like woman. The book is excellent in this portrayal, examining the nature of the balance of power in a nascent love affair. Mrs Unger, the novel's central figure is a fascinating creation and Theroux does a good job of highlighting the narrator's naivety in entrusting his soul to her.

It's a complex juggling act, as there is much about the narrator that can be identified with Theroux, both well-known travel writers. In order to distance himself still further from the narrator, Theroux introduces himself as a character - and a seemingly unpleasant one at that. The effect is of a cracked mirror; indeed this novel is full of reflective strategies that make it impossible for the reader to know where the truth lies in this very self-referential contrivance.

But it isn't a five-star novel. For a start, it is a little thin on plot and the book tends to meander along with only the fascination of its central character to hold it up. The unease that the reader first feels on meeting Mrs Unger for the first time is later vindicated but even this is skilful. As the narrator becomes increasingly besotted, so the reader gradually shares his infatuation. The descriptions and atmosphere of India are also vibrant and fascinating, truly bringing places alive.

I suspect I will read more of Theroux's work. The one thing that might hold me back is that writers who tend to focus on writing might well have run out of things to say. At the end of the novel, it is hard to know what is the point that Theroux wants to make. Mrs Unger remains ambiguous, as does India. Perhaps that is all he wanted to convey.

Paul Theroux (PT) is an acute observer with awesome descriptive powers and able to write from almost any perspective. His capacity to evoke context(London's squatter scene, US diplomats and aid workers, American businessmen at home and abroad)is unsurpassed. Apart from many novels PT also wrote best-selling travel books, collections of reviews and short stories and even a quite good science-fiction novel called "O-Zone"(1986).
This reader found "A Dead Hand" hard to finish to the end because of the suffocating, adulatory writing style of the alter ego author, prompting memories of PT's rather awful "Millroy the Magician".
Since 1968, when his second novel "Fong and the Indians" was published, PT has been fascinated by India and Indians. He has portrayed V.S. Naipaul twice, positively in the early 1970s, very negatively almost three decades later. To date, about ten of PTs books of different genres have focused on India. In his novels, Americans visiting India often succumb to this dirty, noisy, smelly, rat- and germ-infested subcontinent, by ignoring the gap between privilege and destitution.
The raconteur of this novel is a middle-aged US globetrotting travel writer with writer's block ("a dead hand"). Early in the novel he describes rich American ladies as vulnerable to falling victim to a goddess complex. In Calcutta he is contacted by the enchanting, mysterious Mrs. Merrill Unger, a fellow American, who seeks his help in a murder case. They meet. They hardly discuss the case, but Mrs. Unger, a major entrepreneur and philanthropist clad in Indian dress takes instant control of the sorry travel writer's life by enchanting him first, massaging him in the tantric tradition the next day, then taking him to dinner to a shop serving only cooked green vegetables and brown rice. No salt or spices, no fat, no meat. He is smitten beyond rescue. And greater enchantments follow...

Has PT run out of themes? Is he recycling earlier work? Does PT still eat hamburgers and steak or has he been on yoghurt, brawn, green vegetables, brown rice and nuts for decades? Is this novel a warning or more propaganda? What bothers this reader is repetitiveness in PT's writings on the subject of food, because where have we read this before? Dr. Lauren Slaughter in "Half Moon Street"(1984), serial killer Parker Jagoda in "Chicago Loop"(1990) and the prophet of pure, healthful food glorified in "Millroy the Magician"(1996)all performed rather crazily after indulging in such weird diets for extended periods of time.
As for Mrs. Unger's murder mystery, towards the end of Part 1 the book's raconteur receives evidence in the form of a small hand in a plastic bag. Another "dead hand".
For readers the novel's main problem is that it is written from the point of view of a boring, intrusive, feeble, dissembling male, hard to bond with. But he is Paul Theroux's alter ego. They meet face to face in chapter 9 when the raconteur's name is finally dropped, Jerry Delfont (JD). JD shivers at the prospect of meeting this devious Theroux character, who is reputed to use each and every contact and meeting as material for his books. Like Howard from the US Calcutta consulate, PT is curious to learn more about the saintly Mrs. Unger and JD is a prime source... As for Paul Theroux, his cameo appearance is evidence of his penchant for living a double life: if his career had taken an early wrong turn, PT would have been Jerry.
For readers to find out about Mrs. Unger's true objectives, it is necessary to suffer through a book written by an a disciple, a follower. It is the account of the only kind of person she would trust and allow to come close, a desperate believer in a saint, a magician to save at least a small part of horrible India .