Writers dealing with that knottiest of problems in fiction – to what extent can they describe cultures and societies not their own without appropriation, an insulting level of ignorance and/or launching a social media storm – are going about it in different ways. The latest novel by Sebastian Faulks is set in the future (where, pleasingly, everyone still needs a coat, phew). Val McDermid has gone the other way and returned to smoky, bottom-pinching years, starting with 1979.
Francis Spufford’s solution to writing about race – and race in America at that – is to propose an alternate reality, invent an intensely detailed city to do it in, and extrapolate new words from the remnants of an ancient language known as Mobilian trade jargon. It’s certainly an original approach. So, in his new book, black people are taklousa, white people are takata and Native Americans are takouma.
How this will work for you in practice depends very much on how you read. If you are an every-word reveller, you will have no problem, and indeed will love this lush, luxuriant book. But if you are a vertical speed king, you may find yourself cursing, constantly turning back to the explanatory note, and eventually making up a mnemonic about what means what, which is conceivably worse than remembering the words Spufford uses in the first place. (I would strongly recommend this sort of reader to get hold of a physical copy rather than reading on download.)
How the approach works on the larger canvas of sensitivity – where people can spit ‘You filthy takouma’ with impunity – is an interesting question, as we follow Spufford’s mixed-race detective through a racially motivated crime. In the fictional city of Cahokia (near the real St Louis), the smallpox virus that wiped out much of the native population in America did not evolve into its most serious variant, leaving the takouma more in charge of their own affairs than elsewhere.
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