“The Constant Gardener” by John le Carr
In his darkest novel yet, the master of literary espionage pits a mild-mannered diplomat against a greedy pharmaceutical company that tortures and murders its critics.
Topics: John Le Carre, Thrillers, Books, Entertainment News
The Dostoevskian pessimism that has marked the greatest work of John le Carré reaches a new level in his latest book, “The Constant Gardener.” And once it’s over, the reader is astonished to read this disclaimer in an afterword from the famously opaque author: “By comparison with the reality, my story [is] as tame as a holiday postcard.”
In the book, a pharmaceutical conglomerate tests an unstable new drug on a large number of Africans, with deadly results; crushes opposition from doctors who question the testing process; suborns the governments of nations large and small; operates its own secret service; and, not least, creatively tortures and murders those who might work against it.
This Robert Ludlum-scale conception is tame? It may be true that certain international pharmaceuticals are behaving this badly, but this unthrilling thriller so lacks momentum and grace that it’s not going to force the issue into the public consciousness.
I’m going to discuss the plot in detail, so stop reading if you don’t want it ruined. Le Carré’s message, unsubtle here, is despairing: that in the face of such nefarious corporate power there’s little to be done. Indeed, even the hero of a spy novel — in this case, Justin Quayle, a minor British diplomat stationed in Nairobi, Kenya — can’t hope to compete.
The book opens with the report that Quayle’s wife has been found murdered in a remote northern outpost of the country. She and an activist African doctor had been investigating the deleterious effects of a new tuberculosis drug on patients. The British government, ensnared with the pharmaceutical companies, declines to investigate, leaving the death to look like the to-be-expected end of a political troublemaker on a sex sojourn with a black doctor. Her husband ends up going AWOL and roams the world trying to track down her killers.
That’s the basic story, but it’s much more confusing than that, even by le Carré’s standards. We see the first act through the eyes of Woodrow, another British diplomat. Woodrow is a mess of angst, desire and guilt — he’d written the dead woman a love letter. Woodrow turns out be a red herring, but his persona is vivid enough that when the somewhat indistinct Quayle becomes the tale’s focus, the book seems to drift; it’s difficult to accept his feckless persona as the major character. The wife’s relationship with the doctor is a red herring as well. (There’s nothing wrong with red herrings, of course, but here they are handled bloodlessly: Just a few pages go by, for example, between when Quayle finds the love letter and when he learns that his wife had rejected the advance.)
Bill Wyman is the former arts editor of Salon and National Public Radio. More Bill Wyman.




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