Andorraby Peter Cameron
For mysterious reasons, a man forsakes his American life and arrives in a strange country called Andorra. He settles into the grand--and only--hotel in its seaside capital, and gradually makes the aquaintance of this tiny city's most prominent residents: the ancient Mrs. Reinhardt, who has a lifetime lease on the penthouse in the hotel; Sophonsobia Quay, the/i>
For mysterious reasons, a man forsakes his American life and arrives in a strange country called Andorra. He settles into the grand--and only--hotel in its seaside capital, and gradually makes the aquaintance of this tiny city's most prominent residents: the ancient Mrs. Reinhardt, who has a lifetime lease on the penthouse in the hotel; Sophonsobia Quay, the kayaking matriarch of an Andorran dynasty; and the Ricky Dents, an Australian couple who share a first name, a gigantic dog, and a volatile secret. As the stranger reveals himself to his new friends, and becomes entangled in their lives, the mystery of his own origin deepens. What is he hiding, and why? And when a mutilated dead body appears in the harbor, everyone is a suspect, including our narrator. Part thriller, part comedy of manners, part surrealistic dream, Andorra is "a work of remarkable and sustained invention and imagination . . . a nearly perfect book" (Robert Drake, The Philadelphia Inquirer).
“This marvelous mood piece about lying and truth telling, escape and discovery, and the weird calm at the heart of desperation.” The New Yorker
“Andorra does everything you want fiction to do--entertain, turn tricks, surge with unexpected feeling, send you transformed back into your life--but it does it with that delightfully un-American virtue, a light touch.” John Weir, The Village Voice
“Wonderful . . . Like so many good novels, Andorra ends badly for the characters but well for the reader. Mr. Cameron steers us through the final, fantastical events of Alex's story with an unfaltering hand.” Margot Livesey, The New York Times Book Review
“As eerily beautiful as it is laced with threat . . . Andorra is a revelation.” Michael Upchurch, San Francisco Chronicle
“Controlled, precise, pellucid, Mr. Cameron's prose brilliantly transmits the moment-by-moment feel of his protagonist's sojourn in a country that finally does not allow him to escape from himself.” Merle Rubin, The Wall Street Journal
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Many years ago I read a book that was set in Andorra and it introduced to me a notion of that country that remained in my mind, so that when I was compelled by circumstances to begin my life again in some new place, I knew immediately where I wanted to go. And it was not difficult to get there, the world being how it is these days, and I went; I left behind all that I needed to leave behind. Which is to say everything. It is remarkable, the ease with which one can change one's life, if one wants, or needs, to.
Yet of course I didn't actually change my life. I am living the same life, only in a different country: Andorra.
Andorra's dramatic topography makes it unapproachable by air, so I arrived via train from Paris, having flown that far. As a general ruleand I am afraid I am the kind of person who believes in general rulesI like to arrive in new places by train. There is something about literally crossing borders, traversing frontiers, watching the countryside hurtle by the window and become exurban, and then the gradual diminution of speed as the train approaches a city, that allows one to arrive with an experience of place that flying disallows.
Andorra is a small country and her cityfor there is only one: the capital, La Platais proportionately small. The train station at which I found myself was not the chaotic grand temple one expects in European cities, but simply several glass-roofed platforms separated by as many tracks, a whitewashed waiting room with worn wicker furniture and a ceiling fan that rotated at a speed that succeeded only in proving that it wasoperational. I was the sole passenger to detrain at La Plata; I thought this an odd, but perhaps good, omen: I liked the idea I was going to a place not frequented by others.
Until I had found a suitable place to rent I had decided to stay in a hotel, and I told the cabdriver to take me to the city's best hotel. As I later discovered, La Plata has only one hotel, but it was of a quality that suggested the best in any case. (La Plata, in fact, was a peculiarly singular city, I was to find: it had just one of almost everything, save churches and restaurants, of which it had only a few.)
The hotel was called the Excelsior, and the best room they had available was a large circular one on the top floor, in a turret. Its dramatic placement in the building made it almost inaccessible: I followed the bellhop from the elevator up a flight of stairs to the base of the turret. We ascended a wrought-iron spiral staircase to a little foyer with a grillwork floor. The bellhop unlocked the door and opened it into the room, moving aside so that I could enter first. The room was full of sunlight, and its rounded walls prevented the furniture from being arranged in a conventional pattern: the sofa and bed and desk and chairs were scattered almost haphazardly about.
A narrow wrought-iron balcony encircled the turret, and I stepped through the open French doors, which were slightly beveled to accommodate the curving walls. Directly below me, in front of the hotel, there lay a broad cobblestoned plaza, with a fountain at its center. Three bronze fishermen stood on a pile of rocks, casting lines of sparkling water into the air; flying fish rose up from the fountain's basin, exhaling spumes of water back at the fishermen. On the far side of the plaza, past a row of palm trees, a freshly raked red-gravel promenade surrounded the small harbor, which was full of small and colorful boats and a few ostentatious yachts. This promenade led in one direction to a flight of stone steps, at the top of which was a large, low building from whose open facade spilled an assortment of cafe tables and chairs. As I watched, a young man emerged from the restaurant and moved about the tables, unfurling red-and-white-striped umbrellas above them.
I thought I might have my lunch there.
At one end of the plaza stood a majestic building adorned with flags that suggested government, and facing it, at the opposite end, stood a correspondingly majestic building with an ornate glass-and-iron marquee that suggested entertainment. Assorted shops and some market stalls completed the square.
I walked a few steps along the balcony and a new and entirely different vista came into view: the stone houses of the town, which rose up from the plaza in a series of terraces. Each terrace was a subtly different shade of red, varying from terra cotta to maroon. Behind the last row of houses was a rather sheer cliff traversed by a funicular railway, the cars presently motionless, resting on the face of the cliff in vivid dots of red. There seemed to be a plateau at the top of the cliff, but I could not make out its character. Beyond that, though, higher up still, shimmering in the strong morning light, stood snow-capped mountains, and behind them, at the top of all this world, a sky of almost unnerving blue.
I had arrived with only one trunk, waiting until I was properly settled to have my belongings shipped. When I returned to the room I found a valet unpacking the trunk, which the bellboy had left at the foot of the bed. "Does the view agree with you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, searching for a more enthusiastic affirmation. "It's very beautiful. Not at all what I expected."
"People are always surprised by Andorra," he said. "It is part of its charm." He unfolded my shirts, shook them crisply in the air, and then hung them in an armoire. Both mirrored doors of the armoire were flung open, so that there seemed to be several of him, and as many shirts. I stood and watched the spectacle of this. "Will you be having lunch with us?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I thought I might try that place across the plaza. With the tables outside."
"The cantina," he said, "is delightful for lunch. Less formal than the hotel dining room. Although you might have a very nice lunch in the hotel garden. I could reserve you a table in the shade, if you would like."
"I think I'll venture out," I said.
"Of course." He took my shoes out of their cloth bags and lined them up across the bottom of the armoire. Then he closed the doors, latched my trunk, and said, "I'll bring this down to the cellar. Is there anything you need?"
"No," I said. "I'm very happily settled. Thank you." I gave him what seemed to me a large tip, which he accepted without comment.
"Enjoy your stay in Andorra," he said.
"Thank you," I said. "I intend to."
When the valet had departed I examined my interior world. The room had none of the lack of character one usually associates with a hotel. It was full not only of furniture but also of objects: Chinese porcelain bowls, alabaster eggs, a large leather-bound book on a wooden stand that I assumed was a Bible but was in fact a beautiful collection of sixteenth-century maps, with yesteryear's obsolete countries oddly elongated or squat, delicately colored in pastel hues. There were no cheap paintings bolted to the walls; in fact, the slight yet constant curve of the walls forbade paintings. They were decorated instead by a gilded cornice that encircled the ceiling, and a fresco painted in triptych, with a panel occurring in the few expanses of wall that the doors and windows allowed. Upon closer inspection I realized it was a depiction of Joan of Arc: a visionary Joan, a militant Joan, a Joan in flames.
I stood in the center of the room for a long time, allowing the glorious feeling of arrival to wash over me. Because we never know if we will get where we are going, it is always a relief to arrive there. I felt that I could live contentedly in this turret room of the Hotel Excelsior; perhaps I would stay there forever and allow my things to rot in storage, for after all, they were the things of my old life and I was starting anew.
Before I ventured out I took a bath in the large red granite tub in the bathroom, which had one window high up the wall, a window through which sunlight poured down into the bathwater, onto my body. I washed away the dust and grime of the past and I felt anointed, and welcomed; I felt that tragedy can be transcended, forgotten, annulled.
For the first time in a very long while, I felt calm.
Meet the Author
PETER CAMERON is the author of several novels,including Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You and The Weekend. He lives in New York City.
Peter Cameron is the author of Andorra (FSG, 1997), The City of Your Final Destination (FSG, 2002), and Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You (FSG, 2007). His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Grand Street, and The Paris Review. He lives in New York City.
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(This here is an excerpt from my story, Raining Fire, located at pol all results) AIISHA I was starting to get worried. Jasmine was still missing, and had been for a few days now. Her dad and brother were frantic. Rob, though, used common sense and said that she could take care of herself, that she would be ok. But that didn't stop him from worrying himself sick about it. Confused, I bundled up and walked across the street to Ryder's house, hoping to discuss with a sane person. No dice. According to the tearful woman who answered the door wailing about her missing "babies", Ryder and his younger sister, Penny, had also vanished. Just disappeared while she was at work. I politely asked if I could look around, and she agreed. The sofa was turned over, stuffing poured out and strewn around the room. DVDs were tossed everywhere. The TV was smashed. The window was broken, letting freezing air in. And, scariest of all, a shockingly large rusty red stain on the carpet. I shivered, and not just because of the cold. There were definitely signs of a struggle. I thanked Mrs. Dinsdale and went back home, thoughts swirling through my head. Who could I talk to that wouldn't think I was nuts? Pierce? Maybe. At the very least, I knew he would listen; he was so quiet. My friends from my old home? They barely even returned my texts anymore. As if they would listen to my rambles. Mom? No. Just no. I flopped down on my bed and grabbed my journal from under my mattress. Dear Diary, People are disappearing, and most of them seem to be the people I've met. I'm starting to wonder if it is connected to me coming here. Maybe it's my fault. But I can't think that way. The police have been notified, but I still am worried. I guess I'll have to search myself. I turned the page and made a quick list. •Hooded figures •Different colored robes •Red •White •Black •Green •Yellow •After me? •Get the girl •Trap is set •Here, midgey midgey •Friends, family, anything we can use as leverage My pen hovered over the last bullet thoughtfully, and I shot to my feet. "Oh no!" I whispered, and raced out the door without taking a coat. A cold pit of worry settled in my stomach as I ran around my yard in the snow, trying to shake off the nervousness I was feeling. I seriously needed to learn to think without my brain getting in the way. Huh. That sounded odd. Oh well. Just when I turned to go inside, something flashed between the trees. I whirled around. Nothing. Narrowing my eyes, I turned again and opened the door. A definite rustle, coming from my left. I spun, tensing. Again, nothing. I shook it off, but couldn't resist calling out, "Who's there?" No answer. That was it. I opened the door, shivering(going out without a coat was a serious mistake, but hey, I couldn't think straight), just as something slammed between my shoulder blades, making me fall face-first into a foot of snow. (You like what you see here? Read more at pol all results!) ~Diana
Read Blackmail, by Brooklyn. Comment on it please! 3 comments and I'll write the next chapter. The search is gfb result one. See you there!
I really want to make a steampunk book adventure series...
Go threr plzz
The snow and wind was blinding on a cold December night. A silvery blue kitten with eyes like a black void trudged through the snow, catching a mouse or two every so often. A white laced scarf hung from her neck and touched her paws. Her name was Silver, and she was a shapeshifter. She was going to a fallen oak, the only place where she was accepted. She hadn't realized someone was already there. And waiting for her.
Good....it was pretty funny. I like the idea of LOTR in the 21st century...so keep it up! Good work! But yes, I do agree your spelling (or editing) needs a little work. Nice!
It was dark and she loved it. It was not dark as in pitch black but a soft light coming from the moon and stars with dark sorrounding it. She loved these kinds of days where she was not in danger of dying and could just relax. Spoke too soon. Here she was fighting again. Luckily it was just some basic toas which were fish guys with some ram and horse thrown in. She started fighting, and of course she won. Nothing not anything could stop Luna the princess of midnight.
PS lotr stands for Lord of the Rings <br> "Chug chug chug chug!" Merry, Frodo, and Sam chant to Pippin as he gulped down a 1/2 gallon of milk. "Ha i beat your record Sam!" Pippin shouted at Sams face. Sam got mad so behind Pippins back he posted a "IM A LOSER" sticky note and stuck it on the back of Pippins shirt. Frodo and sam snickered while Merry high fived Sam. Just the usual weekend at Shire University. Just then outside the sky grew dark and there was a loud pounding at the door. "Which loser would do a prank at 9:30pm!" Merry exclaimed as he reached the door. He started to open the door but froze. The doorknob was as cold as ice and merry started to have a bad feeling...... Merry opened the door but all he saw was a note stuck on the door and a black figure running around the corner. "Merry whats wrong?" Pippin asked. "Is everything all right? U look a little pale" Sam amd frodo nodded in agreement. Frodo looked a little pale himself. Merry said "No it-it was nothing" Merry stammerred. He couldnt freak out his friends now. "Ok if u say so" Sam said suspiciously as he closed the door. "Hey whats that note in your hand Merry?" Sam asked. Merry then realized he'd been clenching the note. "It says...." <p> WE KNOW YOU HAVE IT. <p> "Thats all it says?" Pippin exclaima. "Yeah. What about this thing? Sam did u steal any more of Fattys magazines?" Merry exclaimed. Sam replied "Nope but i did steal some candy from the store. I hope no ones after us. Hey frodo you've been kind of quiet is something wrong?" Frodo slowly stood up shaking. "Gu-Guys im really sorry about this. I didnt mean to involve u in this but these people are after me. They found me. The Black shadows." <p> CHAPTER 2 posted hopefully pretty soon.
I burst through the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Thudding, pounding noises sound from behind me and I let out a yell of fear. *Who.Are.These.People!?* I think frustratedly. One minute I'm in the middle of my History class, actually paying attention for once, and the next three middle-aged looking guys knock down the door, locking an accusing look on me like I just killed their dog. Oh, and they all had drawn guns, had I mentioned that? I don't think I did. I bang open the door leading outside and dart through, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. I slow to a jog as I near the inner part of my small town, RavenBrook. Achingly slow, I calm down and my heart returns to a normal pace. I start to wander around, wondering what I'm going to do until school is over and I can go home. Suddenly a hand shoots out from an alley and wraps itself around my neck, yanking me into the dark passage. I start to scream but another hand quickly covers my mouth. "Do not scream. I am not with the people who were chasing you. But I will warn you, you cannot scream if I move my hand. I am here to help." Says a low voice close to my ear. I nod, breathing quickly through my noise. Slowly the hand moves. "Now I have very important news to tell you. Will you allow me to?" The voice asks, as I am too afraid to turn around so I do not know who it is. "Y-Yes..." I say in a quiet voice. "You are a Shifter." The voice says solemnly, no trace of nonsense.
FU<3>CK THE WORLD.
That sounds really cool! I am currently writing a fantasy action novel, although I am not far enough into it to include a lot of action.
I bought this book because of the interesting premise...an American man decides to move to a small European country to start over. However, I was annoyed by how the main character didn't seem Amercian...he spoke more like a prim and proper Englishman of yesteryear than a modern day American. Aside from that, the story held my interest, but I was never gripped by it. Two stars. And the second was that although the story supposedly takes place in the modern age, most of the main characters
Cameron's novel was simply one of the best I have ever read. The enigmatic narrator Alex Fox is as delightful as he is deceptive and his disturbing descent to the twist ending will keep readers guessing as to the true nature of his past. The wonderful descriptions of the imaginary La Plata were the highlight of the book, and will make you want to pack your suitcase immediately to take the overnight express from Paris to Andorra. This is a book to recommend to friends and will give you something to contemplate days after you've finished.