THE POLE

A droll novel that skips lightly across serious matters—art and death and love.

There’s a playfulness from the outset of this slim work by the Nobel Prize–winning Coetzee. “The woman is the first to give him trouble, followed soon afterwards by the man,” it begins. The woman, we soon learn, is Beatriz, a board member of the music series that has brought the man to Barcelona. The man is the title character, a Polish pianist “whose name has so many w’s and z’s in it that no one on the board even tries to pronounce it—they refer to him simply as ‘the Pole.’ ” Which leaves “him,” and that would be the novelist, who presents himself as not creating these two characters but chronicling them, perhaps channeling them, as if they have hearts of their own. The pianist is known for his idiosyncratic readings of his countryman Chopin, though he falls well short of a virtuoso’s renown. Just as he is not an extraordinary musician, she is not an extraordinary listener. She seems to be doing her civic duty, as some women of a certain age and income might. She will soon be turning 50; he’s almost a quarter-century older. “Surely, at his age, he will not expect sex,” she thinks, even before her obligatory first meeting with him, which appears inconsequential. But why is she even thinking of that? She is a married woman, though she and her husband pretty much lead separate, sexless lives. And when the Pole subsequently reveals that she has become his obsession, she isn’t sure how she feels or how to respond. Why her? He seems to have something of a Dante-Beatrice fixation, and his obsession with her changes his life. And hers too. Love and art can do that.

Coetzee seems to be having some compassionate fun, and so will the reader.