The Red Balcony
In March 1933, a Jewish resident of Palestine is murdered for political motives. Ivor Castle, a British Jew who has come to Palestine against his better judgment, is assigned to help defend two suspects. Accordingly, he must interview Tsiona Kerem, an artist who frequents a café where the accused claim they were drinking when the murder took place. But she flatly refuses to tell Ivor anything, and when they begin an affair, declares straight out that he’ll never get what he wants from her. Does that refer to love, the legal evidence he’s seeking, or both?
The Red Balcony often reads like a thriller, and though worlds aren’t at stake, the pages turn rapidly, as reversals come thick and fast. I like the wry humor, as Ivor repeatedly gets himself in hot water, a Jewish innocent abroad who can’t figure out his identity, even in the one place in the world where he might feel whole. The narrative offers a pitch-perfect portrayal of colonial attitudes, British anti-Semitism, and fractiousness within the Jewish community.
However, Ivor’s bumbling and inability to speak up for himself eventually wear thin. The Yiddish word nebbish fits; he’s practically spineless, helpless to meet demands. I got tired of how he hides his feelings when anyone asks, then apologizes for having failed to provide what’s wanted. I also wish the narrative didn’t resort to archness so often, which, after a while, feels like a pose. Similarly, Wilson sometimes favors arcane words when a familiar one will do—a shame, because he’s an excellent prose stylist who needs no tricks.
Overall, though, The Red Balcony offers a marvelously evocative and seemingly authentic portrait of Palestine during the British Mandate, from an author who clearly knows the era, the place, and the people.
