Nearing the end of David Szalay’s Booker-shortlisted novel Flesh, its protagonist István recalls his long-ago adolescence, when the bodily changes he was going through left him “…afraid and disgusted. And all that burgeoning physicality is held within yourself as a sort of secret, even as it is also the actual surface you present to the world, so that you’re left absurdly exposed, unsure whether the world knows everything about you or nothing, because you have no way of knowing whether these experiences that you’re having are universal or entirely specific to you.”
This is an unusual passage for Flesh. For one, in a book that consists largely of short, precise sentences and often monosyllabic dialogue, it is exceptionally long. Secondly, it is unusually introspective. The bulk of this book is a straightforward story, following István’s life from a teenager to later middle age. There is little time or energy spent on philosophies of life, reflections on existence and human nature, and other weighty matters.
The story is one that is echoed in other forms, by other writers. Not quite a ‘whole-life’ novel a la Jude the Obscure, it yet takes on the ambitious task of delineating most of a life. We meet István for the first time when, as a 15-year-old in Hungary, he is coming to terms with his own sexuality. From that point on, sex plays an important part in István’s life. He is rejected by a girl to whom a friend introduces him; shortly after, however, a neighbour—old enough to be his mother—begins a tentative relationship with him, which burgeons into a full-blown affair.
It’s an affair that has the most unforeseen of repercussions, leading István down a path that takes him to prison and the army, finally leading him to England. Here, he ends up as bodyguard to the wealthy Karl Nyman, and (in an echo of the teenage affair with his neighbour?) is propositioned by Mrs Nyman. István’s relationship with Helen Nyman becomes the pivotal part of this story, forming the most crucial element of István’s life.
On the surface of it, Flesh comes across as a straightforward story—at least in the first half—of István’s sexual adventures (or non-adventures, in some cases). Past the halfway mark, after his clandestine affair with Helen Nyman takes its course, the sex becomes rather less a part of the narrative, and other issues take center stage, but this still remains what looks like a simple story, told plainly. There are a few embellishments, little description, staccato dialogues:
“‘Why don’t you do something with him? Spend some time with him.’
‘Do you think he’d want to do that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t seem to like me very much,’ István says.
‘He’s just not sure how to deal with you,’ she says.”
But the sparse nature of the narrative actually serves to underline the depth of the story. As in the dialogue above: few words, but revealing emotion, even when that emotion is not overtly expressed. A lot is said in the silences, and a canny reader can read between the lines.
This is true, too, of the narrative as a whole. The straightforwardness is deceptive; underneath it lies a wealth of meaning. How are we to interpret István’s sexual relationships? Is there a pattern here, or is it merely a coincidence (both of his most crucial affairs take place with married women older than himself, and both involve the death of the woman’s husband)? Is the personal political? Both his neighbour and Helen Nyman take the lead in the relationship, and both happen to be older as well as better off than István. How much agency does someone, even one as charismatic and attractive as István, but poor, have in the most intimate of relationships? How intimate, after all, are sexual relationships where the intimacy is only skin-deep?
The nuances that can be seen in István’s sexual relationships are there, equally, in his other relationships. With his mother, for instance, or with his son Jacob. Interestingly, one of the most intelligently portrayed relationships is the fraught one between István and Helen’s son, Thomas: a boy, and later a young man, resentful of his mother’s lover, but unable to express it. The suppression of emotion, the way we keep silent even when our feelings are obvious: this comes through vividly, again and again, in Szalay’s book.
Flesh is a profound, thought-provoking book that shines the light squarely on what, who, humans are. Through a skilfully crafted and subtly understated narrative, Szalay manages to create a story that one can, at some level or the other, relate to. A story, ultimately not of sexual politics, but of humanness: of relations, emotions, and human nature.