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"Cal Hooper thought a fixer-upper in a bucolic Irish village would be the perfect escape. After twenty-five years in the Chicago police force and a bruising divorce, he just wants to build a new life in a pretty spot with a good pub where nothing much happens. But when a local kid whose brother has gone missing arm-twists him into investigating, Cal uncovers layers of darkness beneath his picturesque retreat, and starts to realize that even small towns shelter dangerous secrets"--… (mehr)
Ein eigentlich noch junger, aber dennoch bereits pensionierter amerikanischer Cop lässt sich im ländlichen Irland nieder. Schnell findet er Kontakt und freundet sich vor allem mit seinem Nachbarn an. Doch dann kommt ein Kind auf sein Grundstück, das ihn bittet, seinen verschwundenen Bruder Brendan zu suchen. Cal lässt sich darauf ein und stösst in Wespennest. Ich war etwas überrascht, ein so typisches Männerbuch bei Tana French zu lesen. Mich hat es fast an Stephen Kings "Billy Summers" erinnert, diese "Ein Mann muss tun, was ein Mann tun muss"-Attitüde mit Waffen, Pubbesuch und Einsamkeit. Aber das Buch war natürlich dennoch spannend und atmosphärisch dicht. ( )
Cal Hooper war lange ein Cop in Chicago. Nun ist er nach Irland gekommen und kauft sich ein heruntergekommenes Haus in einem kleinen Dorf. Eigentlich ist alles in Ordnung – bis zu dem Moment, als er sich beobachtet fühlt. Dann taucht immer wieder ein Junge bei ihm auf, der in schließlich um Hilfe bittet. Er will seinen verschwundenen Bruder finden. Im Innersten ist Cal immer noch ein Cop und so beginnt er zu recherchieren. Aber damit macht er sich keine Freunde. Obwohl die Autorin Tana French schon eine Reihe Bücher geschrieben hat, kannte ich bisher nur „Der Dunkle Garten“. Mir hat der bildhafte Schreibstil gut gefallen, denn ich konnte mir die Umgebung dadurch vorstellen. Allerdings wurde alles sehr ausführlich geschildert, so dass es Längen gab. Gut dargestellt sind allerdings die außergewöhnlichen Charaktere, auch wenn mir kaum jemand sympathisch war. Die Dörfler nehmen Cal zunächst freundlich auf, doch als er versucht herauszufinden, was geschehen ist, finden sie das nicht so gut. Zunehmend wird die Geschichte düsterer, dazu tragen auch die getöteten Schafe auf den umliegenden Höfen bei. Je mehr Cal nachforscht, umso mehr Abgründiges taucht auf, das viele am liebsten im Dunkeln gelassen hätten. Es ist eine düstere und etwas langatmige Geschichte, der meiner Meinung nach Spannung fehlt. ( )
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
For Anne-Marie
Erste Worte
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
When Cal comes out of the house, the rooks have got hold of something.
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All Cal gets off him is urgency, so concentrated that it shimmers the air around him like heat coming off a road.
Her belief is built purely out of hope, piled on top of nothing, solid as smoke.
"Nah," Cal says. "I gotta recover." He doesn't feel any desire to go to Sean Og's, tonight or in general. He always liked the glint and speed of the men there, of their talk and their shifting expressions, but now, when he thinks back, all that looks different: light flashing on a river, with who knows what underneath.
"Teacher was giving me hassle today. For not paying attention. I told her I don't give a shite." "Well, that's not bad," Cal says. "It's unmannerly, and you shouldn'ta done it. But it's not a question of morals." The kid is giving him that look again. "That's not manners. Manners is like chew with your mouth closed." "Nah. That's just etiquette." "What's the difference?" "Etiquette is the stuff you gotta do just 'cause that's how everyone does it. Like holding your fork in your left hand, or saying 'Bless you' if someone sneezes. Manners is treating people with respect." "I don't always," Trey says. "Well, there you go," Cal says. "Maybe it's your manners that need work. You could do with keeping your mouth shut when you chew, too." Trey ignores that. "Then what's a question of morals, so?" Cal finds himself uncomfortable with this conversation. It brings back things that put a bad taste in his mouth. Over the last few years it's been brought home to him that the boundaries between morals, manners and etiquette, which have always seemed crytal-clear to him, may not look the same to everyone else.
"Morals," he says in the end, "is the stuff that doesn't change. The stuff you do no matter what other people do."
"If you don't have your code," Cal says, "you've got nothing to hold you down. You just drift any way things blow you."
"I just try to do right by people," Cal says. "Is all."
Alyssa spent months trying to strike up a relationship with their neighborhood pigeons, who as far as Cal could tell were too dumb even to identify her as a living creature rather than a weird-shaped food dispenser.
Wind, wearing to halfhearted gusts, ruffles the fire. It's burning low again, the heart of it darkening to a deep orange glow.
Outside, the small birds are starting to toss our scraps of morning conversation, and the rooks are bitching at them to shut up.
Cal learned a long time ago never to underestimate the spectacular natural wonder that is people's stupidity.
"You figure they woulda kilt you?" "Who knows," Cal says. "I'm fine with not finding out."
Cal finds himself with no feelings and no thoughts. He's moved into a place that he knows well from the job: a circle where even the air doesn't move, nothing exists but the story he's hearing and the person telling it, and he himself has dissolved away to nothing but watching and listening and readiness. Even his aches and pains seem like distant things.
"Life seems like a big thing when it takes four days for all of it to leave a man. When it's gone in a few seconds, it looks awful small all of a sudden."
She looks like a cruel tension is leaching out of her, notch by notch, leaving her whole body slack to the point of helplessness.
The idea of a world with no quest in it has left her lost.
Above his garden, the sky is a mess of high sharp stars.
The mischievous grin in her voice make Cal grin back, right across half the world. "Hey," he says, mock-offended. "I could run. If I wanted to."
All her confidence and competence blow Cal clean away. His baby girl is, somehow, a grown adult who knows how to get shit done and done well; who knows things, and has skills, that he doesn't.
The land has left its luring autumn self behind and put on a new, aloof beauty. The greens and golds have thinned to watercolor; the sky is one scoured sweep of pale blue, and the mountains are so clear it seems like Cal can see each distant clump of browning heather, sharp and distinct.
It catches him with a twist of loneliness.
On the flat grassland below, the fields spread out shorn and pale in the sharp sunlight, divided by walls that lie along reasons that were forgotten centuries ago.
As they climb higher the cold sharpens, slicing through Cal's layers and pressing its edge into his skin.
All around them the plateau lies flat and wide. Long grass and heather bend, autumn-bleached. Small shadows drift across them, from wisps of clouds.
They pass fragments of old stone-wall field boundaries, and sheep's hoofprints in muddy patches, but they don't see another living creature anywhere on the way. The day has disoriented Cal enough that he finds himself wondering if Mart has somehow warned everyone and everything in the townland to stay hidden today, or if he and Mart have wandered into some time-free zone and they'll come out into a world that's moved on a hundred years without them.
He lifts his crook in a salute and hobbles off, with the low winter sunlight laying his shadow a long way down the road behind him.
It's a beautiful wintry day, with wispy brushstrokes of clouds in a thin blue sky. The afternoon sun lies lightly on the fields.
Letzte Worte
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
After a while he opens the cake, and they break off a chunk each and sit on the grass to eat it, listening to the rooks exchange views and watching the shadows of clouds drift across the mountainsides.
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"Cal Hooper thought a fixer-upper in a bucolic Irish village would be the perfect escape. After twenty-five years in the Chicago police force and a bruising divorce, he just wants to build a new life in a pretty spot with a good pub where nothing much happens. But when a local kid whose brother has gone missing arm-twists him into investigating, Cal uncovers layers of darkness beneath his picturesque retreat, and starts to realize that even small towns shelter dangerous secrets"--
)
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Doch dann kommt ein Kind auf sein Grundstück, das ihn bittet, seinen verschwundenen Bruder Brendan zu suchen.
Cal lässt sich darauf ein und stösst in Wespennest.
Ich war etwas überrascht, ein so typisches Männerbuch bei Tana French zu lesen. Mich hat es fast an Stephen Kings "Billy Summers" erinnert, diese "Ein Mann muss tun, was ein Mann tun muss"-Attitüde mit Waffen, Pubbesuch und Einsamkeit. Aber das Buch war natürlich dennoch spannend und atmosphärisch dicht. (