Somehow Lisbon has haunted my 2017. Inscrutably, it exists--befogged--but entices with only a half remembered tune. Of course Pessoa is to blame for this condition as is his refracted double Tabucchi but Jim Gauer is responsible as well.

This is Sebald type excursion, though one more personable and less visual. Two journalists arrive in Lisbon to cover a murder trial. Each has baggage.

The protagonist is a bit of a shit.

I relate to him.

The debris of romance-gone-wrong litters not only their past but their present activities, perhaps polluting their agenda. I was smitten. The fact that the asshole protagonist is translating an obscure exiled author connected personally. I only wish there was more drinking. This is a classic cleverly vague European novel, one which offers modernist ambiguity and thus market appeal. ( )