Verdigris

A curious teenager's conversations with an odd groundskeeper yield far more than he'd bargained for. In 1969 in rural Italy, 13-year-old Michelino whiles away the early August days by peppering Felice, the groundskeeper of his grandfather's estate, with questions about the place and pestering him to stop killing the red slugs that populate the property. Plagued by the premature onset of hereditary memory loss, Felice agrees to pause his molluscan massacre in exchange for Michelino's help in developing mnemonic devices to remember basic facts of everyday life: fleece flower by the bedside to remember his name, black arrows directing him to the outhouse. But as Michelino's "maieutic maneuvers" grow ever more convoluted (a hammer and sickle somehow come to signify a rotten sausage?), the narrative takes a disturbing tilt. Felice reveals his knowledge of a secret room above a hayloft, and buried truths emerge involving Nazi officers, the manor's mysterious previous owners, and Felice's own enigmatic identity. Mari's signature approach to memory and childhood serves the storytelling well, and idiosyncratic elements intensify the novel's underlying tension: Felice's strangely endearing speech habits ("Firs', we have t' be fin'in' ou' me age"), Michelino's eclectic philosophical references (Lukács, Adorno, and Aristotle among them), and actual historical events described with painstaking specificity, such as a reference to an infamous football match that turned violent and the "swollen eye of Néstor Combin," a professional footballer. Kudos to translator Moore, whose consummate conversion allows readers to luxuriate in the language of even deceptively minor moments: "amid the heads of lettuce, languished the halved cadavers of red slugs." A gripping, beguiling, occasionally discomfiting, and utterly fascinating tour de force. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.