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- <text id=91TT0148>
- <title>
- Jan. 21, 1991: Heat And Lust
- </title>
- <history>
- TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991
- Jan. 21, 1991 January 15:Deadline For War
- </history>
- <article>
- <source>Time Magazine</source>
- <hdr>
- BOOKS, Page 62
- Heat and Lust
- </hdr><body>
- <p>By Pico Iyer
- </p>
- <qt>
- <l>EVENINGS AT MONGINI'S AND OTHER STORIES</l>
- <l>by Russell Lucas</l>
- <l>Summit; 262 pages; $18.95</l>
- </qt>
- <p> Did you hear the one about the half-Armenian woman in
- Bombay, with a weakness for baklava, who was introduced by her
- lover, the procuress, to a gigolo from the Seychelles known as
- Raper George? When her husband--a 7-ft., entirely bald
- Azerbaijani all-in wrestler with gold-capped teeth--heard
- about how his wife was spending her lazy afternoons, he hurried
- over to the small hotel where she was finding her pleasure and...
- </p>
- <p> If you didn't happen to catch that tale, but would like to,
- you are probably the kind of reader who would savor the
- unlikely hybrids and saucy aromas of Russell Lucas' Bombay
- streets. A London bank manager for many of his 61 years, the
- Anglo-Indian Lucas makes his literary debut with a collection
- of 10 stories as tightly constructed as bejeweled Indian
- snuffboxes, all odd springs and curious kinks. Nearly every one
- is pungent with the "damp hessian, methylated spirits and
- freshly planed deal" of Bombay in the '40s, and colorful
- families "big in rawolfia serpentina and chinchona bark"; the
- protagonists are mystics, madmen and hermaphrodites. And nearly
- all describe episodes of heat and lust, watched through
- homemade cracks by randy teenage boys. Inside the cunning boxes
- lie spicy sweetmeats.
- </p>
- <p> Beneath the surface exoticism, Lucas still betrays quite a
- few rough edges. Would any British memsahib, in 1936, refer to
- an Indian stranger as "cute"? Or any native of Poughkeepsie,
- N.Y., talk of "open[ing] your schmucky gob"? Does the world
- really need another lecherous British officer dithering, "I
- say, Lorna, I'm terribly keen on you"? At times, with their
- perfumed dissolutes and frustrated shrinks, the stories read
- like crude distillations of the Anglo-Indo-American vignettes
- of screenwriter-novelist Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, or even like
- bite-size appetizers for the full-course feast of a Salman
- Rushdie novel.
- </p>
- <p> If Lucas has yet to show real subtlety or depth, he does,
- in a couple of instances, come upon a pathos deeper than mere
- appetite, and reveal, beneath the plump lubriciousness, regrets
- and surprising pleasures. Characters find themselves reproved
- by expectation, exiles on all fronts. At their best, his
- stories have the everyday magic of tall tales overheard at the
- local tea stall. It is no coincidence, perhaps, that the
- neighbor who runs away with the Irish fireman's wife in one
- yarn--to an ashram in Pondicherry, no less--goes by the name
- of Scheherazade.
- </p>
-
- </body></article>
- </text>
-
-