The Flower Boy

Zusatztext Picaresquelovely. Everyone in this novel, although they live close together in one house, has an astonishingly different notion of 'home.' The Washington Post Book World A wonderfully calm book. [I]t has a truly lyrical and musical quality.Penelope Fitzgerald Informationen zum Autor Karen is the owner of RQuest, LLC, editorial services Klappentext An accomplished debut, The Flower Boy" is the tragically romantic story of people from two cultures, one ruling the other, and the human passions that defy and nearly overcome social taboos. In the colonial society of 1930s Ceylon, the separation between servant and master is clearly drawn. Young Chandi, however, knows that the baby born to his mother's mistress will be his friend. And, indeed, their friendship blossoms in the lush gardens of the tea plantation on which they live. Many, English and Ceylonese, are troubled by the friendship, but the English planter is charmed by the children's bond, and ultimately by Chandi's mother, Premawathi. But the world encroaches on their Eden. Beautifully observed, compellingly plotted, The Flower Boy is a compassionate novel of a lost world and those who struggled to hold on to it. Leseprobe Chapter 1 It rained the day Lizzie was born. Not the gentle benediction god showers on newborn babies, but a screaming, sheeting downpour that turned the neatly mown lawns into squelching seas of mud. The rain god was angry. When they had built the projecting roof to protect the whitewashed walls of the bungalow, they had not taken his fury into consideration. Or maybe they had. Maybe the rain god didn't like the idea of anything stopping him from making his fury felt. Maybe there wasn't a rain god at all. Chandi flattened himself against the wall and thought these thoughts, while trying to lick raindrops that dripped off the end of his nose. For all its violence, the rain tasted sweet. The white walls were splattered with gray spots of damp that would remain like a faint accusation long after the rain had stopped. It wasn't only Chandi's nose that the raindrops dripped off. They ran like tiny tributaries down the back of his neck, down the sides of his head where they dipped lazily into the whorls of his ears before continuing downward to join the streams running down his legs. He wondered if the drain at his feet ran into a river that ran into the sea. He'd never seen the sea, for the towering mountains effectively blocked any view of it, but he knew it was there because he'd heard stories about it. People in these parts called it the lake that roared. The hogana pokuna. His too-small shirt was drenched, and stuck wetly to his skin like the slug on the wall behind him. He pulled it away from his stomach, but when he let go, it got sucked right back. A little pool of rainwater had collected in his navel, and he squeezed its edges together so the rain could creep out and join the river that ran into the sea. His shorts were too big. They kept slipping down and he kept hitching them up. They had belonged to the Sudu Mahattaya's son, the one who was away in England. They had red and green checks and a mock belt. They were his favorite shorts and he wished he weren't wearing them today. He was afraid that the red and green checks would wash away in the rain, like the whitewash. They hadn't as yet, but he was still worried. Chandi remembered why he had worn his favorite shorts. It was his fourth birthday, although no one had remembered except him. He wondered when he could go back inside. They hadn't said anything, and he had forgotten to ask. He wondered if they realized it was raining. He sneezed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, examining the transparent streak of snot on it with interest. He held his hand out into the rain and watched it slide away. He wondered if it would eventually end up in th...

“Picaresque…lovely…. Everyone in this novel, although they live close together in one house, has an astonishingly different notion of ‘home.’”–*The Washington Post Book World

*“A wonderfully calm book…. [I]t has a truly lyrical and musical quality.”–Penelope Fitzgerald

Autorentext

Karen is the owner of RQuest, LLC, editorial services

Klappentext

An accomplished debut, The Flower Boy" is the tragically romantic story of people from two cultures, one ruling the other, and the human passions that defy and nearly overcome social taboos.
In the colonial society of 1930s Ceylon, the separation between servant and master is clearly drawn. Young Chandi, however, knows that the baby born to his mother's mistress will be his friend. And, indeed, their friendship blossoms in the lush gardens of the tea plantation on which they live. Many, English and Ceylonese, are troubled by the friendship, but the English planter is charmed by the children's bond, and ultimately by Chandi's mother, Premawathi. But the world encroaches on their Eden. Beautifully observed, compellingly plotted, The Flower Boy is a compassionate novel of a lost world and those who struggled to hold on to it.

Zusammenfassung
An accomplished debut, The Flower Boy **is the tragically romantic story of people from two cultures, one ruling the other, and the human passions that defy and nearly overcome social taboos.

In the colonial society of 1930s Ceylon, the separation between servant and master is clearly drawn. Young Chandi, however, knows that the baby born to his mother’s mistress will be his friend. And, indeed, their friendship blossoms in the lush gardens of the tea plantation on which they live. Many, English and Ceylonese, are troubled by the friendship, but the English planter is charmed by the children’s bond, and ultimately by Chandi’s mother, Premawathi. But the world encroaches on their Eden. Beautifully observed, compellingly plotted, The Flower Boy is a compassionate novel of a lost world and those who struggled to hold on to it.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1
It rained the day Lizzie was born. Not the gentle benediction god showers on newborn babies, but a screaming, sheeting downpour that turned the neatly mown lawns into squelching seas of mud.
The rain god was angry.
When they had built the projecting roof to protect the whitewashed walls of the bungalow, they had not taken his fury into consideration. Or maybe they had.
Maybe the rain god didn't like the idea of anything stopping him from making his fury felt. Maybe there wasn't a rain god at all.
Chandi flattened himself against the wall and thought these thoughts, while trying to lick raindrops that dripped off the end of his nose.
For all its violence, the rain tasted sweet.
The white walls were splattered with gray spots of damp that would remain like a faint accusation long after the rain had stopped.
It wasn't only Chandi's nose that the raindrops dripped off. They ran like tiny tributaries down the back of his neck, down the sides of his head where they dipped lazily into the whorls of his ears before continuing downward to join the streams running down his legs.
He wondered if the drain at his feet ran into a river that ran into the sea. He'd never seen the sea, for the towering mountains effectively blocked any view of it, but he knew it was there because he'd heard stories about it.
People in these parts called it the lake that roared. The hogana pokuna.
His too-small shirt was drenched, and stuck wetly to his skin like the slug on the wall behind him. He pulled it away from his stomach, but when he let go, it got sucked right back. A little pool of rainwater had collected in his navel, and he squeezed its edges together so the rain could creep out and join the river that ran into the sea.
His shorts were too big. They kept slipping down and he kept hitching them up. They had belonged to the Sudu Mahattaya's son, the one…