Later, seeing his brother after many years apart, it's not his face or voice that reveals him, but "his tight, venomous movements. He was a miracle of vicious movement, a dervish of perfected violence."
There's a good sprinkling of humour throughout, too, yet it butts up against gravitas when necessary. The aforementioned Tokomairiro is a story where the two qualities are starkly contrasted, not to make light of a tragedy but to provide some slight relief from it, enabling the characters to "get through" quite literally, in this case, to a safer destination.
There are a couple of false starts and, unfortunately, they occur at the outset. Much has been made of Patchett's use of fantastic realism, but to me, the first two lengthy tales which mix time frames - they cross centuries, with figures from the past inhabiting the present/near future - that blend of the real and the imagined, became a slightly lumpy soup. I think, ultimately, I found them contrived, which, once I'd made my way past them to the glories beyond, was a word I found myself surprised to use.
Because one of Patchett's strengths is how credible and genuine these tales are, and how easily you become drawn in to occupy an empathetic seat, whether on the sinking ship the Penguin, at the Manly Baths for an endurance swim or relishing the simple joys of watching a step-son kick a rugby ball. Wonderful.
Michael Larsen is an Auckland writer.
