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The premise of the tale, such as it is, is that a man\u2014advanced in years, though his exact age is unclear\u2014goes to a deprived mountainous village, somewhere around the Ukraine-Romania border, in search of his \u201cadopted son,\u201d who he hasn\u2019t seen in a long time. The \u201cwayfarer,\u201d as he defines himself, is randomly met at the train station by an \u201colive-brown\u201d man with a \u201csoft, greasy voice.\u201d The dog tag on a chain around his neck says Nikifor Tescovina, but he doesn\u2019t wish to know the name of his new acquaintance\u2014\u201che even fended off a handshake.\u201d Papers should be discarded, Tescovina explains, since a new identity would soon be provided by the mountain infantry commander, the \u201cColonel.\u201d With no outward concern, the wayfarer accedes, and is thus absorbed into the Sinistra Zone. Governed according to a vaguely portrayed but Ceau\u0219escu-esque system, the zone\u2019s small population exist in the grimmest rural poverty. Work is assigned by the Colonel, a role at first filled by a corrupt yet benevolent man, and later by a no-nonsense woman emanating \u201cthe sour-bitter stink of bugs,\u201d who issues charcoal-scribbled summonses via \u201cscraps of paper bags rustling on utility poles, tacked to fences, and tied to tree branches.\u201d<\/p>\n
Andrei, the alias given to the narrator, uncomplainingly accepts various jobs, each more dismal than the last. First he is stationed at the \u201cfruit depot,\u201d where he coordinates the harvesting of blueberries and blackberries destined not for trade or local kitchens, but for the bears \u201clocked up in the ruins of a chapel and caged in abandoned, caved in mines.\u201d Next he is moved to the morgue as a coroner\u2019s assistant, \u201cto sit in a room with the deceased and keep an eye out to be sure that the subject does not stir during his shift.\u201d This promotion of sorts comes with a perk: he can pick any village woman to be his lover. That his choice, Elvira Spiridon, is married is of no consequence; she arrives to live with Andrei, who commences their romance by pouring out some brandy provided by Mr. Spiridon, then waving a hand toward Elvira \u201cto signal that it was time to go ahead, get to it, get undressed.\u201d<\/p>\n
Still, at least they were indoors at the time. Later, Andrei is skiing along a subterranean stream, having casually stabbed someone to death while carrying out his latest barbarous work assignment: plugging up cave openings with cement to seal in \u201cunauthorized recluses . . . hiding from the mountain infantry.\u201d Elvira appears at the edge of a clearing, so he simply stands her on the skis in front of him, tears off her dress \u201cwith my nails and my teeth,\u201d and has sex with her as the forest flits by \u201con both sides of us, gliding away backward ever faster.\u201d<\/p>\n
Other surreal scenes depict sexual relationships even more freakishly: Nikifor Tescovina\u2019s eight-year-old daughter, Bebe\u2014who is famous for her red hair and eyes that \u201cglow at night like a lynx,\u201d and whom he walks around on a leash\u2014is said to be in love with the fifty-year-old meteorologist (characters are repeatedly referred to by their professions, presumably as a satiric comment on the dehumanization of the authoritarian regime). Andrei stumbles upon the child washing herself in a spring while her aged, pipe-smoking paramour \u201cscrutinized the slight body of Bebe Tescovina and the circuitous trails of blood on those scrawny, water-glistening thighs.\u201d Whether the blood is from premature menstruation or premature sex is unclear, but the man greets Andrei as though nothing whatsoever is awry.<\/p>\n
The extreme primitiveness of the characters\u2019 lives\u2014there\u2019s no plumbing, everyone eats foraged scraps and drinks lethal-sounding moonshine, clothes are often ragged or \u201cglossy with dirt\u201d\u2014makes you wonder exactly which era we\u2019re in, as do occasional references to historical Eastern European regions such as Galicia and Moldavia. One woman earns a living making art for \u201cJews from Chernivtsi and Lviv\u201d\u2014hardly a viable business model in the post-war era. And yet, other details\u2014Andrei naming his birth year as 1936, truckers who consume modern brands of candy\u2014imply a 1990s setting. Nor does narrative time unfold logically: each chapter begins at a seemingly arbitrary and discontinuous point, while descriptions and explanations are endlessly repeated, or withheld when they\u2019re actually needed. Just to exacerbate the reader\u2019s utter discombobulation, the mostly first-person perspective sometimes slips, inexplicably and mid-chapter, into third-person.<\/p>\n
As for whether the ostensible goal of the protagonist\u2014Andrei\u2019s quest to find his adopted son, Bela\u2014is fulfilled, it is assuredly not a plot-spoiler to reveal that yes, Bela is found, but at a random point in the proceedings and with no release of tension. Not only has there been little suspense to begin with, but Bela, bereft of \u201cjoy or surprise,\u201d wants nothing to do with Andrei, who, fifteen pages later, unemotionally describes the younger man\u2019s demise. His burning body is swept away in a stream, or possibly carried off \u201cbit by bit by the wind over the course of a week or two, during which time he sizzled and smoldered among the blossoming gentians like a wet log in a fire\u201d\u2014observers differ on the specifics, but in this fictional milieu, even the latter manner of death fails to raise an eyebrow. The only rational element of the \u201cSinistra Zone,\u201d named for the river running through the area, is that it\u2019s sinister indeed. Like its imaginary locale, Bodor\u2019s novel possesses all the coherence and predictability of a malarial delirium: accordingly, you\u2019ll either experience it as an exhilarating thrill, or a ghastly ordeal that can\u2019t end soon enough.<\/p>\n