Something completely different

I try to keep this blog pretty focussed on my writing, but during the Christmas period I put up a lot of posts about my work and why you should buy it, so I thought I'd post a bit about something completely different.

I have said that I was in Argentina last October. I was there in part to research another book, but mainly, if truth be told, I was there to dance tango.

I wrote notes on some of the amazing venues where you can dance in Buenos Aires and some people suggested that they were interesting enough to show to a wider audience. So, over the next few days, I'll be posting a series of blogs about milongas of Buenos Aires. They're based on my own experience, often of just one night in one month in 2012. Every night is different and everyone wants different things and views the milongas differently. So this is by no means a definitive guide. Look on them as traveller's tales.

This is the first one.

Milongas of Buenos Aires: the Confiteria Ideal

A lot of people sneer at the Ideal. It's a tourist's idea of what an Argentine dance hall should be. It's featured in so many films about Buenos Aires that it seems familiar as soon as you get in and it's avoided by many of the smart young set who have made tango trendy again. In fact, many of the dancers are so old that you wonder if they'll make it to the end of the session.

Despite all this, the Ideal is one of my favourite places to dance. Its tourist trap reputation means that people expect to see foreigners there and they are indulged more than they might be in some other places. It's easier to get dances with strangers there than in most venues and you can relax on the dance floor in a way that you might not feel able to in some of the cooler clubs.

The Ideal hides its faded grandeur behind a grubby façade beyond which a grand but gloomy staircase rises to the ballroom on the first floor. The stairs climb around a splendid old lift, latticed in iron, which I have never once seen working. As you climb, the music grows louder until you emerge into a columned room where the sight of the dancers draws your attention away from the shabbiness of the decor. Until smoking was banned a few years ago, the air in Buenos Aires dance halls was heavy with smoke and a room this high is impossible to clean.

Locals dance here in the afternoons, rather than the evenings, which are given over more to tourists. Fridays and Sundays are the days to go, when it is packed and waiters desperately bring extra chairs to the tables where I sit with the men sipping tiny cups of black coffee. Our attention is divided between the dancers on the floor and the women sitting out across the room. The tangos stop and the dancers leave the floor while some other music plays. (A few years ago, the Star Wars theme was a popular choice.) This cortina music is like a sorbet, allowing us to rest between courses of tango, served up four dances at a time as a tanda of music in a similar style. As the cortina ends and the new tanda begins, men catch women's eyes and almost imperceptible nods or smiles signal acceptance of the offer of a dance. The men walk to their partners' tables and the women rise to be led onto the floor. There will be a few pleasantries before they start to dance, but then they move in silence, the women often with their eyes closed, as both give themselves over to the music and the intricate interweaving of their steps.

As a foreigner, new to Buenos Aires, I find myself dancing with some of the older women: people who would be dismissed in London as far past their dancing days. And I discover the secret of the Ideal. Here are people who have danced in the place, not for years, but for decades. As they glide across the floor, their limbs remember the days when they were first here and they dance in your embrace with elegance and charm.

The building is, like its patrons, visibly crumbling after years of neglect, yet still somehow one of the great dance venues of the world. One afternoon I turned up and the place seemed even busier than usual. "Didn't you know?" I was asked. "It's the Ideal's birthday. It opened 100 years ago today." Downstairs, in the cafe that is the confiteria of the Confiteria Ideal, a band is entertaining a gaggle of tourists who are there for the anniversary. Upstairs, though, there is a remarkable absence of ceremony. The cortina ends, a new tanda begins and a room full of tangueros and tangueras rise to their feet and start to dance the Ideal into its eleventh decade.

Cawnpore

This is a reprint of a post that first appeared on my publisher's blog last month. It's about the story of Cawnpore and how I came to write it.

One wet weekend, I found myself in an isolated house in Wales with a large library and no television. After I had tired of watching the rain run down the windowpanes, I started picking out books at random. For some reason, there were lots of titles about the events that shook India in 1857. Nowadays, people talk about the Indian War of Independence or the Revolt, but these books all talked about the Indian Mutiny.

What struck me about all these stories was how much the events of the mutiny were defined by the characters the people who fought there. There were heroes and villains on both sides, and the people of India often chose the side they would fight for based on personal or family loyalty to local leaders. It was a time of larger than life figures, whose personal strengths and weaknesses shaped the course of history in India for the next hundred years.

I wrote The White Rajah as a single novel, with no idea of producing a sequel. But when JMS Books suggested that they would like to publish another one, I realised that the events of the first novel had left my narrator, John Williamson, in Singapore with just time to take a ship to India ready to plunge into the events that led to the Mutiny.

Of all the incidents during the Mutiny, the massacre at Cawnpore was one of the most dramatic. Its horror became a byword for savagery across the world. More interestingly, from the point of view of a writer, it highlighted the confusions and mixed loyalties that had led to the Mutiny in the first place.

John Williamson is the ideal person to tell this story. As a homosexual, in the days when sodomy was "the sin that dare not speak its name," he was always an outsider to the rigid English society that characterised the stations of the East India Company. His experiences in Borneo meant he had a natural sympathy with the natives and had become adept at learning their languages. Thus, Williamson allows us to see the events at Cawnpore from both sides of the conflict.

Working out the details of the plot took some time. They had to fit what we know happened at Cawnpore and what we understand about the leading actors in that tragedy. At the same time, they had to allow Williamson to travel between the British and Indian lines and communicate with both sides. I have had criticisms that his disguising himself as a native is unrealistic, but the history of the Mutiny shows that he was not alone in doing this. Most of the detail in the story is accurate and, unlikely as it is, John Williamson's tale is not at all impossible.

Once I had the plot, I found the writing much easier than in The White Rajah. By now, Williamson was a well-established and fully rounded character in my head and this time his lover was another fictional character, so that I was not continually constrained by what history tells us about him. I found myself carried along with Williamson's enthusiasm for the country he was working in and then caught up in his horror as he realised how badly things were going to end.

Cawnpore is not a cheerful book, nor does it end with simple rights and wrongs. The story of colonialism, whether that of the British in the 19th century or the new Great Powers of the 21st is neither pretty nor straightforward. The joy of fiction is that it allows us to look at these issues from a different angle, free of the prejudices that we have about the world we are in today. So I can more or less guarantee that Cawnpore will, at some point or other, make you cry. But it's also a love story which, like every love story, has moments of humour and beauty. And it takes you back to an impossibly romantic world of rajahs and holy men and beggars; a world where a general could still lead his army into war on an elephant, where cavalrymen were dashing and heroic figures, and where a few hundred men, women and children held out against thousands of enemy troops in one of history's most desperate sieges.

Pirates ahoy!

2013 has started with the news that another fiction enthusiast has decided that they will show their love of my books by giving them away on an illegal download site.

I can't summon up the bile and fury that lots of authors produce when faced with this, but it's not really very nice. The e-book of 'The White Rajah' costs $5.91 on Amazon (£3.66 on amazon.co.uk). Amazon takes a chunk of that and the rest is split between me and JMS Books, who put a lot of work into getting my books out there. All I get from the exercise is a very small amount of money and the satisfaction of seeing how many people have bought my book. Illegal download sites deprive me of both of those things.

This means my week has started with my writing to the site owner pointing out that what they are doing is illegal and that I'd like them to stop.

There are lots of legal ways to get free books. (JMS were giving away copies of 'Cawnpore' only last month.) And I'm happy for people who have bought my books to let their friends read them on their own devices. That usually involves illegal stripping out of DRM and I really don't care. But please don't support illegal download sites and let writers and publishers know if their work is being stolen in this way.

Thanks.

Christmas 1855

As we're coming up Christmas, I thought I'd post the opening paragraphs of Cawnpore, which are set in December 1855.

It was in December of 1855 that I left Singapore. My time with James Brooke was generously re­warded and I found myself if not a wealthy man, then certainly in a position to return to England and live out my days quietly and in comfort. 

I was by now approaching my middle years but I felt that I was still too young to retire to some country village. My time in the South China Seas had given me a taste for life in the Orient and James' stories of his experiences in India had left me curious about that country. So it was that when I took ship in the Swallow I paid my passage just as far as Calcutta.

We celebrated Christmas at sea. The captain served a goose at his table and the crew entertained us with an impromptu concert that combined sea shanties and some carols but otherwise there was little to mark Our Saviour's natal day. The sea looked much the same as the day before. There was a stiff breeze and, just before dark, there was a touch of rain.

I hope that all my readers enjoy a more festive Christmas in 2012.

An Andean Adventure

Attentive readers of this blog will know that I recently spent a few days in the Andes, researching for a novel in which my hero, James Burke, makes a crossing rather later in the year than was wise. He's accompanied by his valet, William Brown, and Apala, his guide.

I've just been rewriting this bit in the light of my own experience. My travelling companion read it and says that Burke's trip bore uncanny parallels to ours. (I have to say that we turned back before the pass and spent the night in a stone hut rather than under canvas. But we know exactly how Burke felt.)

Though the trip across the mountains promised to be an adventure, he still found himself reluctant to leave Mendoza. Magnificent as they were, the Andes were unmistakably hostile. The days remained reasonably warm but there was already a nip in the morning air that reminded James that winter was on its way. He put off their departure for one last day of civilised comforts, and then the expedition set out.

As they left the town, they were hardly aware of making any sort of ascent at all. The ground seemed as flat and featureless as it had for days before, but, as their horses trudged onward, Burke was aware of a slight, but steady, gradient. Nothing, though, prepared him for the sudden change from the plains to the mountains. For hours they had moved across the flat, if gently sloping, countryside. Now, suddenly, they were in the hills. The hills, to be fair, were not that high, but the contrast between the plain they had ridden on for so long and this new mountainous terrain was dramatic. 

Apala struck out confidently along a valley which twisted and turned until they were surrounded by hills on all sides. There was enough grass for cattle and horses to be grazing but there were cacti too, yellow and red flowers bursting from their green fleshy bodies. 

After only half an hour, they were at the head of the valley, and in front of them, they could see the towering heights of the Andes. The track that their guide followed rose more steeply, angling up slopes covered with tumbled rock. For a while, they followed the course of a stream carrying meltwater that would feed Mendoza's irrigation channels, but then they struck off, zigging and zagging up a track that was little more than a dusty trail on the bare rock of the mountain. The Andean peaks closed around them. Facing back down the track, sheer walls of red rock blocked off their view, while ahead they saw the ominous white of the early snows already covering the mountain peaks. The sense of isolation was reinforced by the sight of the condors, circling in the brilliant blue of the sky. 

"What do they eat?" asked William.

"They scavenge the dead," Burke told him.

"They're following us."

"We'd best remember not to die, then."

It had been hot in the valley, but, already, Burke was noticing the chill of the air. He called to the guide to stop, so that he could unpack his greatcoat from one of the bundles of baggage hanging precariously from the mules' saddles. Apala, though, insisted that they press on.

"Soon we must stop. We cannot wait for the cold and dark before we make our camp. We will stop in less than an hour. There will be time for you to dress more warmly then."

For another mile, they climbed still more steeply, the track doubling back on itself as they made their way up the mountain. At last it levelled off and, rounding a rocky ridge, they saw a patch of level ground with a shallow stream splashing across the rocky surface.

"Here we will camp," their guide announced. Their porters set to unloading the tents, unused on their travel across the plains. Soon, the sound of mallets on tent pegs was echoing from the rocks as they did their best to secure their guy ropes in the stony soil.

Burke had freed his greatcoat from one of the baggage rolls but, as the sun vanished below the peaks, he felt himself shiver. "We need a fire."

Apala shrugged. "Of course, senor. But first I will have to collect something for us to burn." 

Burke looked about him. There were no trees, not even any shrubs. The only greenery in sight was occasional clumps of what looked like moss clinging to some of the rocks.

He watched, astonished, as Apala strode to the nearest of these mossy clumps and tugged at it. Beneath the green coating some straggly wooden stems grew down into cracks in the stone. Burke heard them snap and realised that they were dry and brittle.

"They will not burn for long," said his guide. "We will need a lot. Do you want to come and help me collect it?"

Though he was tired from his day in the saddle, Burke was more than happy to explore the area around their camp. He remounted and set off with Apala, leading one of the pack mules with them. Every time that they saw any of the mossy shrub, they would dismount. The young bushes were no use to them but most had at least some older, dry parts that could be ripped from the ground and roped onto the mule's saddle. Each clump was small, though, and protected by sharp thorns that tore at their hands. It seemed to take forever to collect enough and it was almost dark when they turned back toward their camp, the mule almost hidden under a great pile of brush.

The brushwood needed no kindling, burning fast and brilliantly. For several minutes they all huddled round the fire, enjoying the blaze. But, all too soon, the fierce heat was dying and they threw on more wood to protect themselves against the cold of the night. In less than an hour, what had seemed like a huge pile of fuel was almost exhausted. Reluctantly, they abandoned the fire. They took the sheepskins from their saddles to spread on the ground inside their tents and, wrapping themselves in blankets, lay down to sleep.

James did not sleep well. Several times, he woke and lay shivering in the thin mountain air. At last, the sky began to lighten and he heard the crackle of the flames as porters relit the fire to brew coffee and warm themselves before they started that day's ride.

When he left the tent, it was to find that it had snowed during the night. There was only a thin scattering of white on the ground, but it was a reminder of the dangers of travelling this late in the season.

"We must push on hard," said Apala. "We have to cross the pass before nightfall. It will be too cold to camp up there."

The porters were already packing away the tents while James and William sipped at their coffee. Barely an hour after sunrise, they were back on the horses and pushing on up into the mountains.

There was no snow falling now but, as they climbed, the snow lying on the ground grew thicker. The path rose steeply and, after an hour, the landscape was distinctly wintry. As they neared the pass, the wind, moving through the gap in the mountain range, grew stronger and the snow covering was blown about. In some places reddish or black rock lay bare to the sky while, in others, the snow was banking to the point where the horses would stumble, unable to see their footing beneath the white covering.

"We can't stay on the track," Apala said.

He was right. The snow was drifting off the steeper rocks at the side of the track and banking on the path to the point where there was too much danger of a horse falling and breaking its leg. They urged their reluctant mounts from the apparent smoothness of the path onto the ragged rocks alongside it. Though these were steeper and, under other circumstances, would have made for more difficult riding, the snow lay thinly here and the horses could pick their way in comparative safety. Inevitably, though, leaving the path slowed them down and Burke saw Apala casting increasingly worried eyes upward as the day progressed. 

Looking in the same direction, Burke could see nothing. Mist covered the top of the mountains and merged with the snow to make it a blank wilderness of white. He was astonished that their guide could navigate confidently through this emptiness but Apala push them on with no hesitation as to their route. His sole concern was that night might fall while they were still too high on the mountain.

The horses struggled as the snow grew thicker. Sometimes they would stumble in the steeper drifts and everyone would dismount to lead their beasts, which were less likely to fall when relieved of their weight. Climbing through the snow, even for short distances, was exhausting, though. The damp began to leak into Burke's boots and he found himself panting for breath in the thin air. He longed to rest and make a fire to be warm and dry, if only for a few minutes, but Apala drove them on.

Now the mountains closed around them and they were struggling through deeper snow, against a wind that howled through the gap between the peaks ahead of them.

Then the wind fell and Burke was aware that the path was dropping beneath them as steeply as is had been rising before. They were through the pass.

A scary story

I have been plugging more blatantly than usual just recently, mainly because Christmas is coming and, if my books don't sell at Christmas, when will they sell?

I hate pushing my books at people. I keep hoping that one day I'll be a big successful author with a major publisher and I won't have to do this. So this story was quite scary.

I had persuaded an independent bookseller to take a couple of copies of my books and he remarked that he had a friend whose novel had made the Times best-seller list, somewhere in the Top 20. Yet bookshops were often out of stock of his book. In order to make sure that his book was there for people to buy, this really successful writer would spend his time visiting bookshops and asking them to reorder his books.

It never stops.

Please buy my books. Otherwise I'll have to go down to Waterstones and grovel again.

Snow scene

The Winter edition of our local magazine, My St Margarets, has just come out and the cover photograph is one of mine. Readers who remember last year's effort might feel that I need to get out and take winter pictures that don't just show this bit of London looking lovely in the snow. It is very seasonal, though, isn't it?