it’s what’s happening in the background — the slippage of democratic decency, the tightening of state control, the inflaming of ethnic tensions — that most grips you. Harking back to the 1960s in a period piece suffused with foreboding, Gunesekera captures the first rumblings of the cataclysm that would ruinously engulf his nation and that has always compulsively engaged him.
Glimpses of a lyrical and soulful voice flicker occasionally – Gunesekera touches universality when he writes “I was convinced that we were more than what we seemed: that we were boys whose bodies were dross, whose bodies would one day be discarded”. Ultimately, though, Suncatcher gives off the strangest air of not actually being a novel. It’s the plot of a teen movie reheated, all detail planed away to make room for the conventions of genre. It makes one ask what stories are actually for – aren’t novels called novels because they should contain something new?
It’s no crime that Gunesekera puts sensibility over plot; so did Proust. Still, there’s always machinery, and the sprockets are rusty here. Kairo keeps overhearing the secrets that shape his life; he’s forever at his ‘listening post’ on the landing, or wandering into earshot of hapless adult chat. And few people in Gunesekera’s novels talk like creatures of flesh and blood. Kairo, for example, doesn’t like seeing Niromi with Jay: ‘The heart, I’d learnt, was the size of a fist: it pummelled the young dove I’d nurtured inside.’
But Suncatcher can be sumptuous too, painting the ‘slowly blistering air’ in the paddy fields and the wild colours of jungle life. And why not luxuriate? Childhood, like empire, was never a naturalistic thing.