Homeland: A Novel

by Fernando Aramburu Narrated by David Pittu

Overview

Fernando Aramburu's internationally acclaimed novel evokes an unresolved history of violence, giving a fictional account of lives shattered by Basque terrorism even as it rekindles debate about truth and reconciliation.

Lifetime friends become bitter enemies when the father of one family is killed by militants-one of whom is a son from the other family. Told in short sections highlighting a rich multiplicity*of characters from all walks of life, Homeland*brilliantly unfolds in nonlinear fashion as it traces the moral dilemmas faced by the families of murder victim and perpetrator alike. Aramburu alludes only obliquely to the historical context while he focuses on the psychological complexity of his characters and builds nearly unbearable suspense.

Editorial Reviews

APRIL 2019 - AudioFile

This story of estrangement and forgiveness will move listeners. In a smooth voice and steady pace, David Pittu narrates the plight of two families as they confront the devastating effects of the Basque-Spanish conflict. In a Basque country village occupied by militants, Bittori and Miren are lifelong friends. But when Bittori’s husband is gunned down by Basque separatists, a group Miren’s son belongs to, the families drift apart. Pittu manages to convey the audiobook’s narrative despite its nonlinear structure. The greatest challenge is to give each character a unique voice, an aspect Pittu struggles with a bit due to the multitudes involved. Nonetheless, this is an important listen. A.C. © AudioFile 2019, Portland, Maine

Publishers Weekly

★ 01/28/2019

With a single broadcast in 2011, the ETA Basque separatist group abandoned its campaign for an independent Basque homeland, ending more than 50 years of armed conflict with the Spanish government. Its legacy—wounded families and broken communities—is the heart of Aramburu’s magnificent novel, his first to be translated into English. The ceasefire allows Bittori, an elderly widow whose husband was assassinated by an ETA gunman, to return to her provincial village, setting off a reckoning with her childhood best friend Miren, a fervent nationalist who distanced herself from Bittori after her eldest son joined the ETA. Bittori is welcomed back by Miren’s daughter, Aranxta, who sets out to find them a measure of peace. Aramburu spends decades with the families as the conflict contorts their lives. The cast is sprawling—with both matriarchs, husbands, five children, spouses, grandchildren—but each’s story is realized masterfully, as the characters look to escape violence however they can, be it exile, alcohol, or love. Aramburu’s remarkable novel is an honest and empathetic portrait of suffering and forgiveness, home and family. (Mar.)

From the Publisher

It's been a long time since I've read a book so persuasive and moving, so intelligently conceived, a fiction that is also an eloquent testament to a historical reality.” —Mario Vargas Llosa, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature

“Deftly plotted . . . full of suspense . . . rich with detail.” —The New York Review of Books

“A powerful novel which has a strong claim to be the definitive fictional account of the Basque troubles. . . . Aramburu skilfully spins . . . short, punchy chapters that dart back and forth in time” —The Economist

“A story of personal and tribal loyalty. . . . It is an uplifting tale, beautifully crafted and full of feeling.” —The Guardian

“Magnificent. . . . The cast is sprawling—with both matriarchs, husbands, five children, spouses, grandchildren—but each’s story is realized masterfully, as the characters look to escape violence however they can, be it exile, alcohol, or love. Aramburu’s remarkable novel is an honest and empathetic portrait of suffering and forgiveness, home and family.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
 
“Once I caught the rhythm, I came to think of [Homeland] as exhibiting a kind of sophisticated tidal pattern, with each ebb and flow—present to past, past to present, splayed over 125 chapters and nearly 600 pages—leaving behind new clues in the sand.” —Manuel Roig-Franzia, The Washington Post
 
“Homelandhas reminded Spain of the dormant power of literature to shake up society.” —Politico Europe
 
“A humane, memorable work of literature. . . . Aramburu recounts the lives of ordinary people shattered by events that are ongoing in Spain today even years after ETA has suspended its armed campaign.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
 
“Monumental. . . . As humorous as it is heartbreaking, Homelandexplores how various factions of Basque and Spanish society were violently pitted against one another for 50 years.” —The Millions
 
“[A] literary plea for regional reconciliation. . . . The psychological complexity of [Aramburu’s] characters, especially the women, creates dramatic intensity. One of the first literary novels to directly address the ongoing consequences of Basque sectarian violence.” —Booklist

APRIL 2019 - AudioFile

This story of estrangement and forgiveness will move listeners. In a smooth voice and steady pace, David Pittu narrates the plight of two families as they confront the devastating effects of the Basque-Spanish conflict. In a Basque country village occupied by militants, Bittori and Miren are lifelong friends. But when Bittori’s husband is gunned down by Basque separatists, a group Miren’s son belongs to, the families drift apart. Pittu manages to convey the audiobook’s narrative despite its nonlinear structure. The greatest challenge is to give each character a unique voice, an aspect Pittu struggles with a bit due to the multitudes involved. Nonetheless, this is an important listen. A.C. © AudioFile 2019, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2018-12-11

Complex tale of the long-lingering effects of political murder in a Basque town.

"Before what happened with Txato," writes San Sebastián native Aramburu, "Bittori had been a believer." What happened with Txato is revealed, bit by bit, over the course of 125 short chapters that focus on the many players involved, but the basic facts emerge early on: A businessman, Txato, has been murdered by a member of the Basque separatist group ETA, who are criminals or freedom fighters depending on one's point of view. Bittori, Txato's widow, knows what side she falls on; she has to be dissuaded from including a denunciation of the movement on Txato's tombstone, for fear that there will be further trouble. "They already killed him once," Bittori replies. "I don't think they'll kill him again." But death and sorrow ensue all the same: Bittori loses both her faith and the friendship of her childhood companion, Miren, even as her own children slip away, unable to face the tragedy; her daughter, Nerea, does not even attend the funeral, perhaps for fear of being targeted herself, while Bittori leaves her village so that she "wouldn't have to go on suffering the menacing stares of the neighbors—friendly for so many years and then, suddenly, just the opposite." For her part, Miren undergoes trials of her own: One of her sons has been imprisoned as an ETA terrorist, while her own daughter, Arantxa, has been paralyzed by a stroke. For all their shared tribulations, Miren and Bittori, once the closest of friends, now stand on opposite sides of a vast gulf, and if life goes on, it goes on without them; the novel's closing words make clear that their wounds will never be healed. Aramburu recounts the lives of ordinary people shattered by events that are ongoing in Spain today even years after ETA has suspended its armed campaign; the reader needs no background in that tangled history to understand that basic, terrible truth.

A humane, memorable work of literature.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169211702
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	03/05/2019
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

1. HIGH HEELS ON PARQUET
 
 
Poor thing, there she goes: about to crash into him the way a wave crashes into rocks. A little foam and goodbye. Doesn’t she realize he doesn’t even bother to open the door for her? His slave and more than his slave.
 
And those heels, those red lips when she’s already forty-five years old: what for? With your standing, girl, with your position and education, what would make you carry on like a teenager? If aita were here to see . . . 
 
Getting into the car, Nerea glanced up at the window where she assumed her mother would, as usual, be spying on her through the curtain. Even if she couldn’t see her from the street, she knew Bittori was staring at her, whispering to herself, there goes the poor thing, a trophy for that egoist who never thought for a second about making someone happy. Doesn’t she realize that a woman must be really desperate if she has to seduce her husband after twelve years of marriage? It’s a good thing they never had children.
 
Nerea waved goodbye before getting into the taxi. Her mother, on the fourth floor, hidden behind the curtain, looked away. Beyond the tiled roofs was a wide strip of ocean, the lighthouse on Santa Clara Island, tenuous clouds in the distance. The weather lady pre­dicted sunshine. And her mother looked again toward the street and the taxi, which was now out of sight.
 
She stared beyond the roof tiles, beyond the island and the blue horizon line, beyond the remote clouds, and even beyond that into the past forever lost, searching for scenes from her daughter’s wedding. And she saw Nerea once again in the Good Shepherd Cathedral, dressed in white, with her bouquet and her excessive happiness. Watching her daughter leave—so slim, such a smile, so pretty—Bittori felt a premonition come over her. At night, when she went back to her house alone, she was on the verge of confess­ing her fears to her photograph of Txato. But she had a headache, and besides, when it came to family matters, especially his daughter, Txato was sentimental. Tears came easily to his eyes, and even though photos don’t cry, I know what I’m talking about.
 
The high heels were supposed to make Quique voracious. Click, click, click—she’d dented the parquet. Let’s see if she punches holes in it. To keep peace in the house, she didn’t scold her. They were only going to be there for a minute. They’d come to say goodbye. And him, it was nine o’clock in the morning and his breath stank of whiskey or of one of those drinks he sold.
 
“Ama, are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?”
 
“Why don’t you take the bus to the airport? The taxi from here to Bilbao is going to cost a fortune.”
 
He: “Don’t worry about that.”
 
He pointed out they had baggage, that the bus would be uncom­fortable, slow.
 
“Right, but you have enough time, don’t you?”
 
“Ama, don’t make a big deal out of it. We decided to take a taxi. It’s the easiest way to get there.”
 
Quique was beginning to lose patience. “It’s the only comfort­able way to get there.”
 
He added that he was going to step outside to smoke a cigarette—“while you two talk.” That man reeked of perfume. But his mouth stank of liquor, and it was only nine in the morning. He said good­bye checking his face in the living-room mirror. Conceited ass. And then—was he being authoritarian, cordial but curt?—to Nerea: “Don’t take too long.”
 
Five minutes, she promised. Which turned into fifteen. Alone, she said to her mother that this trip to London meant a lot to her.
 
“I just don’t see what you have to do with your husband’s clients. Or is it that you’ve started working in his business without telling me?”
 
“In London I’m going to make a serious attempt to save our marriage.”
 
“Another?” 
 
“The last one.”
 
“So what’s the plan this time? Going to stay close to him so he doesn’t take off with the first woman he sees?”
 
“Ama, please. Don’t make it harder for me.”
 
“You look great. Going to a new hairdresser?”
 
“I still go to the same one.”
 
Nerea suddenly lowered her voice. As soon as she started whis­pering, her mother turned to look toward the front door, as if she were afraid some stranger was spying on her. No, nothing. They’d given up on the idea of adopting a baby. How they had talked about it! Maybe a Chinese baby, a Russian, a little black one. Boy or girl. Nerea still held on to her illusion, but Quique had given up. He wants his own child, flesh of his flesh.
 
Bittori: “So he’s quoting the Bible now?”
 
“He thinks he’s up-to-date, but he’s more traditional than rice pudding.”
 
On her own, Nerea had investigated all the legal formalities involved in adoption and, yes, they satisfied all of them. The money involved was no problem. She was willing to travel to the other end of the world to be a mother. But Quique had cut off the conversa­tion. No, no, and more no.
 
“That boy’s a bit lacking in sensitivity, don’t you think?”
 
“He wants a little boy of his own, who looks like him, who will play for La Real some day. He’s obsessed, ama. And he’ll get what he wants. Wow! When he digs in on something! I don’t know with what woman. Some volunteer. Don’t ask me. I don’t have the slight­est idea. He’ll rent out some womb, pay whatever you have to pay. As far as I’m concerned, I’d help him find a healthy woman who’d make his wish come true.”
 
“You’re nuts.”
 
“I haven’t told him yet, but I imagine I might get a chance in London. I’ve thought it through. I don’t have any right to make him be unhappy.”
 
They touched cheeks by the front door.
 
Bittori: okay, she’d be fine on her own, have a great trip. Nerea, out in the hall as she waited for the elevator, said something about bad luck but that we should never give up happiness. Then she suggested her mother change the doormat.

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