Fiston Mwanza Mujila, the award-winning Congolese author of “Tram 83,” writes novels and poetry that move to an infectious, syncopated rhythm. His latest work, THE VILLAIN’S DANCE (Deep Vellum, 279 pp., paperback, $16.95), especially revels in this spirit. In 1990s Zaire, where Mobutu Sese Seko’s reign is on its last legs, survival is itself an elaborate hustle. The Kinshasa nightclubs are packed, the streets teeming with teenage runaways and rumors of insurrection. Just across the border, in an Angola racked by civil war, the diamond mines are a magnet for get-rich dreamers.
All the characters have their own dilemmas to work out: Sanza, who has fallen in with a glue-sniffing street gang; Molakisi, eager to reinvent himself in Angola; Franz, an Austrian writer who spends more time at the Mambo de la Fête than working on his “African” novel. The plots and vendettas zig and zag, eventually intersecting. Throughout, the voices of the children strike some of the book’s most compelling notes. “We had the experience of the street — glue, rivalries with opposing gangs, rain, tangles with soldiers — yet people always insisted on saddling us with the pompous, dreary label of child,” bemoans Sanza.
Mujila’s frenetic energy is captured in rapturous language by Roland Glasser, translating from the French. Recalling the gritty, exuberant novels of the South African Zakes Mda (“Ways of Dying”) and the Congolese Alain Mabanckou (“African Psycho”), Mujila has brought to life a feverish tale of Africa’s underclass, whose demands — like the author’s — are hard to resist. As one character remarks, “We want reality, the mines, the glue, the Villain’s Dance!”
If “The Villain’s Dance” is immersed in Congolese reality, Balsam Karam’s THE SINGULARITY (Feminist Press, 219 pp., paperback, $16.95) — though also concerned with the marginalized and ignored — hovers at a distance from its material.
In an unnamed coastal city, children congregate in sweltering alleyways and abandoned lots, far from the tourists who flock to the seaside cafes. The youths and their families are migrants from an embattled foreign land, unsure how to navigate this new world. Young women are disappearing — possibly abducted — including a girl simply called the Missing One. Her mother desperately looks for her everywhere, while her grandmother quietly keeps vigil: “From here she can see the movement of loss and doesn’t know what to do; she sees it all the time and fears it as she sits there watching over the alley.”
Karam — who is of Kurdish ancestry and moved to Sweden as a young child — has an eye for poignant shifts in perspectives. The story of a mother searching for her daughter runs parallel to that of a visitor, herself a former refugee and soon-to-be mother, wrestling with her own history of displacement. The two narratives refract and then come together in a poetic convergence. There is a haunting, hushed tone to the novel, neatly evoked by Saskia Vogel’s translation from the Swedish, that probes the disorienting effects of exile. As Karam writes of the bereft mother of the Missing One: “The inner distances are greater — between memory and memory and from experience to experience time no longer passes, and the woman does not know where she is or why.”
The Bolivian writer Liliana Colanzi’s debut story collection, YOU GLOW IN THE DARK (New Directions, 112 pp., paperback, $14.95), in a lively translation by Chris Andrews, is an eerie mix of the familiar and unreal. The stories take place in prehistoric caves and peasant villages, but also feature nuclear power plants, interstellar travel and drones.
Colanzi writes with a sense of menace about power clashes in a landscape that often resembles the Bolivian Altiplano. Her characters speak versions of Spanish and Aymara, and are preoccupied with threats both real and imagined (radiation, poison, the Devil). The title story, based on a radiological accident in Brazil in 1987, takes on an otherworldly quality in Colanzi’s hands. Local citizens, engulfed by “the glow of death, the phosphorescence of sin,” are left to ponder the existential meaning of this unnatural disaster.
In another story, “The Narrow Way,” teenage sisters dream of escaping their father’s religious cult; they’re held captive in a compound where “beyond the perimeter lies the jungle with its shadows, and beyond that, the city with its illusions.” An “obedience collar” keeps them from crossing a magnetic field that delivers increasingly powerful shocks. Will they ever experience freedom, and what will be its consequences?
Like other Latin American writers such as Samanta Schweblin, Fernanda Melchor and Mónica Ojeda, Colanzi is intent on blending genres (horror, cyberpunk, literary fiction). Her reality is a warped one, shifting between a violent past and frightening future, where the heat and toxic radiation — and the babble of inner voices — combine to create a hallucinatory vision.
The Kashmiri writer Hari Krishna Kaul’s stories, on the other hand, are firmly rooted in his contested homeland in the late 20th century. Kaul, who died in exile in 2009 at the age of 75, left an intricate body of work that amounts to sly, detailed portraits of domestic life set against the backdrop of religious and political tensions.
But even when Kaul’s tales focus on the mundane, fault lines open up. Several stories in his collection FOR NOW, IT IS NIGHT (Archipelago, 205 pp., paperback, $22) involve crushing bouts of loneliness and despair, often prompted by the isolation of curfews and avalanches. “For now, it is night. For now, it is dark. For now, it is cold. In this darkness and this cold, I am alone,” reflects a housebound character in the title story. In “Tomorrow — A Never-Ending Story,” things take a surreal turn as two boys repeat their grade-school class for decades, failing to age as the town around them transforms.
“For Now, It Is Night” is an enthralling — and welcome — reclamation of Kaul’s fiction by a team of four translators (including his niece, Kalpana Raina). Kaul’s work shimmers with questions of reality and illusion, home and exile. “Just like the stalled traffic which had begun to move,” thinks a Kashmiri adrift in Delhi in “A Moment of Madness,” “his stagnant life would be revitalized if he allowed himself to think about Kashmir again.” But, as Kaul reminds us, it’s never that easy. “A person may walk or take a flight,” the character later muses, “but can a destination ever be reached?”
