Book Report: Night Train to Lisbon

8. Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon (2004) (5/11/22)

I don't know why I thought this book was a mystery and would be the perfect diversion during any spare moments on our recent trip to Portugal, and more specifically Lisbon—because like any good mystery set in a particular place, it would illuminate the shadowy, secret corners of that city. Ha ha: wrong! It's not a mystery, unless you consider life a mystery. Which it is. But I think this author thought he was concocting a deeply philosophical examination of just what that mystery might mean. And maybe he succeeded—if you weren't hoping for a... mystery. Light and plot-driven...

Anyway, this book, clumsily translated from the German (which didn't help), features a Classics teacher in a Swiss Gymnasium, Raimund Gregorius, who one day sees a woman who—oh no! appears to be about to leap from a bridge! He saves her, of course, and she, who turns out to be Portuguese, gratefully accepts his help, then... writes her phone number on his forehead. He then goes to a used bookstore and, rather randomly, buys a book in Portuguese by a physician named Amadeu Prado, quits his classroom, and takes the night train to Lisbon. Of course! Wouldn't you? 

Once in Lisbon, he obsessively sets out to meet anyone and everyone who knew said Dr. Prado: sisters, friends, a childhood sweetheart, colleagues. He also meets local inhabitants who help him on his quest. And throughout it all, he reads Prado's book, and then is introduced to other writings of Prado. So we get Prado's perspective on life and its confounded mysteries, from his words, and the varied perspectives of those around him.

It's an interesting artifice, but I have to say: Prado went on... (the philosophizing! oy! I confess I sometimes skipped ahead). (It may not have helped that I was reading this book via Kindle. I don't like Kindle. The typefaces are not conducive to pleasure...)

At this point—it took me almost two months to read this book—I don't even remember if Mundus, as he's called, ever tried dialing the number that was scribbled on his forehead. If he did, he got no answer: the woman on the bridge never figures into the story again. The juxtaposition of Mundus's predictable, reliable, boring life as a Classics teacher and the (relative) wackiness of his just lighting out for parts unknown for no real reason at all is sort of dealt with, but always as a background to Prado—who is a sort of mirror to Mundus, but less entertainingly so. Prado is just fraught. At least Mundus is alive.

Mundus eventually goes home, because he's having dizzy spells and needs some medical attention. But maybe he'll return to Lisbon? We don't know. And we're not sure we care.

(Sorry: this report is more a rant, but I'm just so ready to be done with this book. I think a good juicy mystery is what's needed next!)