Reviewed by Carlyn Schellenberg from uncorrected galley proof
When attempting to place Catherine Bush’s fourth novel Accusation into a larger context (by situating it next to a similar book) I come up blank. Accusation is like no other novel I have read.
Accusation, which takes place in a time around the late ’90s, places a magnifying glass to organizations that help at-risk children, and begs the question of the true goals of these organizations, and whether exploitation is one of them.
Sara, a well-travelled Canadian journalist, finds herself intrigued by an Ethiopian children’s circus show overseas, and encourages her fellow Toronto friend Juliet to make a documentary on the group and its mysterious director, Raymond Renaud.
When I say that Accusation is dissimilar to any novel I’ve read, that’s for a number of reasons. Most of the novel employs confusing, vague language, which muddles the interest of readers. For example, with the very first words of the novel: “She pushed her chair back from the desk as the awful word on the screen entered her, and the name of the man linked to the word.” Furthermore, there are essentially no quotation marks used throughout the book, which makes for seamless reading for the most part, but sometimes it is hard to tell who is speaking to whom, or if it’s just Sara thinking in her head. It’s all part of the mystery, though. Plot points are flipped back in time, so that language will make sense at some point in the story, but just not as we read it. We’ll jump ahead to a conversation in Melbourne, Australia when we thought we were in Toronto, and then a few pages later we’ll actually travel to Australia.
Another reason why this story is unique is that the novel consists of Sara, our protagonist, conversing with strangers. This is very rare in a story, and is somewhat unbelievable. However, this may be a consequence of the few personal relationships she has: she’s essentially estranged from her parents, and we only get her unsteady friendship with Juliet as well as the one with her (married) lover, David, so perhaps Sara is the ideal character to chase after and obsess over African strangers.
Sara offers Raymond Renaud a ride to Montreal without explanation, and from that point, she needs to understand why he had to leave Toronto that night, because his explanation of a child injuring himself in Addis Ababa during a circus rehearsal isn’t good enough. After accusations of Raymond’s abuse, it is clear that Sara must travel to Addis Ababa to find him because she believes she deserves the truth, whatever that may be. Perhaps it’s her journalistic nature that justifies this unwarranted, spontaneous, and presumably expensive trip to Addis Ababa. Or maybe it’s because she’s been wrongly accused of theft in the past that primes her for this curious path of destruction. These are Sara’s fatal flaws: stopping at nothing, maneuvering anywhere around a country, calling and intruding on whomever, in an attempt to find the truth.
Teaching literary seminars in Kenya and writing in the 1980s about performance may have helped to inspire this novel. Bush’s non-fiction has also appeared in the Globe and Mail and the New York Times Magazine, so there is a chance she shares a portion of Sara’s journalistic woes: being unable to escape from the memories of the things she’s seen; experiencing the power of an allegation; asking the question of “are people telling the truth?”
At first glance, Raymond reeks of a foreign-accented, cheap cologne-wearing jewelry salesman who you are both intrigued and turned off by. His dialogue always sounds like he’s in an interview, and here he is indescribable, which demonstrates his mysteriousness: “There was his placeless accent and occasionally odd diction.” Like the circus children, Raymond Renaud is always on display, always entertaining (he juggles for tired coffee shop customers in the middle of the night on the way to Montreal), and is addicted to the applause. He’s captivating for both Juliet and Sara. While Bush keeps Raymond as this mysterious character when Sara encounters him, he becomes an absent figure throughout the greater part of the novel: Sara’s hunt for him across the world is dominated by others’ memories of him; he does not make another physical appearance.
The suspense of the story is what drove me to read on with enthusiasm. As uninteresting as the language is at times, the suspense is so strong because of that language; this is all purposeful on Bush’s part so as not to create the full picture. Even close to the beginning, the circus is described as dark, and the children as dangerous: “The boy in blue reappeared on a unicycle, arms waggling, chased by the boys in yellow and red, then by an older, menacing boy on stilts.” After the accusation, suspense is employed more frequently, and here is an example that refers to another accusation of a ring of child abusers at an orphanage: “Gerard’s words kept springing from under her feet: a ring of them.” The idea of an abuse ring is haunting, and Sara’s thoughts here provide the readers with some hope that she will get to the bottom of it.
While Sara’s life is left unresolved at the end, readers are satisfied because the circus and its children are truly the driving force of the story, what we are invested in. “This is what is coming out of Ethiopia, not starving children, but this energy, this accomplishment.” In orphanages where children come spilling out to Sara, hungry and wanting to escape, the circus is their golden ticket. While children may or may not have been exploited through this circus, a greater good shines its light at the end, and we can hope and be confident for the future of these children. Bush captures whatever is so seductive about the circus. Ultimately, the power of the circus is louder than the effects of any abuse. Its spirit begins again, because “anyone who wants to should be given the chance to try the trapeze.”
As its title demonstrates, Accusation is about just that: the power of accusing someone without full knowledge of the truth and the implications of running with that accusation. As Raymond says to Sara early on in the story: “When they believe something is true, it is hard to make them believe it isn’t.” Moreover, the novel’s front cover, of a woman tiptoeing on a stool peeping just above an edge, demonstrates that search for an elusive truth – and then the accusation reverberates and is here to stay.
Goose Lane | 360 pages | $32.95 | cloth | ISBN #978-0864929006
‘Accusation’ by Catherine Bush
Book Reviews
When attempting to place Catherine Bush’s fourth novel Accusation into a larger context (by situating it next to a similar book) I come up blank. Accusation is like no other novel I have read.
Accusation, which takes place in a time around the late ’90s, places a magnifying glass to organizations that help at-risk children, and begs the question of the true goals of these organizations, and whether exploitation is one of them.
Sara, a well-travelled Canadian journalist, finds herself intrigued by an Ethiopian children’s circus show overseas, and encourages her fellow Toronto friend Juliet to make a documentary on the group and its mysterious director, Raymond Renaud.
When I say that Accusation is dissimilar to any novel I’ve read, that’s for a number of reasons. Most of the novel employs confusing, vague language, which muddles the interest of readers. For example, with the very first words of the novel: “She pushed her chair back from the desk as the awful word on the screen entered her, and the name of the man linked to the word.” Furthermore, there are essentially no quotation marks used throughout the book, which makes for seamless reading for the most part, but sometimes it is hard to tell who is speaking to whom, or if it’s just Sara thinking in her head. It’s all part of the mystery, though. Plot points are flipped back in time, so that language will make sense at some point in the story, but just not as we read it. We’ll jump ahead to a conversation in Melbourne, Australia when we thought we were in Toronto, and then a few pages later we’ll actually travel to Australia.
Another reason why this story is unique is that the novel consists of Sara, our protagonist, conversing with strangers. This is very rare in a story, and is somewhat unbelievable. However, this may be a consequence of the few personal relationships she has: she’s essentially estranged from her parents, and we only get her unsteady friendship with Juliet as well as the one with her (married) lover, David, so perhaps Sara is the ideal character to chase after and obsess over African strangers.
Sara offers Raymond Renaud a ride to Montreal without explanation, and from that point, she needs to understand why he had to leave Toronto that night, because his explanation of a child injuring himself in Addis Ababa during a circus rehearsal isn’t good enough. After accusations of Raymond’s abuse, it is clear that Sara must travel to Addis Ababa to find him because she believes she deserves the truth, whatever that may be. Perhaps it’s her journalistic nature that justifies this unwarranted, spontaneous, and presumably expensive trip to Addis Ababa. Or maybe it’s because she’s been wrongly accused of theft in the past that primes her for this curious path of destruction. These are Sara’s fatal flaws: stopping at nothing, maneuvering anywhere around a country, calling and intruding on whomever, in an attempt to find the truth.
Teaching literary seminars in Kenya and writing in the 1980s about performance may have helped to inspire this novel. Bush’s non-fiction has also appeared in the Globe and Mail and the New York Times Magazine, so there is a chance she shares a portion of Sara’s journalistic woes: being unable to escape from the memories of the things she’s seen; experiencing the power of an allegation; asking the question of “are people telling the truth?”
At first glance, Raymond reeks of a foreign-accented, cheap cologne-wearing jewelry salesman who you are both intrigued and turned off by. His dialogue always sounds like he’s in an interview, and here he is indescribable, which demonstrates his mysteriousness: “There was his placeless accent and occasionally odd diction.” Like the circus children, Raymond Renaud is always on display, always entertaining (he juggles for tired coffee shop customers in the middle of the night on the way to Montreal), and is addicted to the applause. He’s captivating for both Juliet and Sara. While Bush keeps Raymond as this mysterious character when Sara encounters him, he becomes an absent figure throughout the greater part of the novel: Sara’s hunt for him across the world is dominated by others’ memories of him; he does not make another physical appearance.
The suspense of the story is what drove me to read on with enthusiasm. As uninteresting as the language is at times, the suspense is so strong because of that language; this is all purposeful on Bush’s part so as not to create the full picture. Even close to the beginning, the circus is described as dark, and the children as dangerous: “The boy in blue reappeared on a unicycle, arms waggling, chased by the boys in yellow and red, then by an older, menacing boy on stilts.” After the accusation, suspense is employed more frequently, and here is an example that refers to another accusation of a ring of child abusers at an orphanage: “Gerard’s words kept springing from under her feet: a ring of them.” The idea of an abuse ring is haunting, and Sara’s thoughts here provide the readers with some hope that she will get to the bottom of it.
While Sara’s life is left unresolved at the end, readers are satisfied because the circus and its children are truly the driving force of the story, what we are invested in. “This is what is coming out of Ethiopia, not starving children, but this energy, this accomplishment.” In orphanages where children come spilling out to Sara, hungry and wanting to escape, the circus is their golden ticket. While children may or may not have been exploited through this circus, a greater good shines its light at the end, and we can hope and be confident for the future of these children. Bush captures whatever is so seductive about the circus. Ultimately, the power of the circus is louder than the effects of any abuse. Its spirit begins again, because “anyone who wants to should be given the chance to try the trapeze.”
As its title demonstrates, Accusation is about just that: the power of accusing someone without full knowledge of the truth and the implications of running with that accusation. As Raymond says to Sara early on in the story: “When they believe something is true, it is hard to make them believe it isn’t.” Moreover, the novel’s front cover, of a woman tiptoeing on a stool peeping just above an edge, demonstrates that search for an elusive truth – and then the accusation reverberates and is here to stay.
Goose Lane | 360 pages | $32.95 | cloth | ISBN #978-0864929006