Dark at the Crossing
A novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
Haris Abadi is an Arab American with a conflicted past, now in Turkey attempting to cross into Syria and join the fight. He meets Amir, a charismatic Syrian refugee and former revolutionary, and his wife, Daphne, a sophisticated beauty haunted by grief....
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Haris Abadi is an Arab American with a conflicted past, now in Turkey attempting to cross into Syria and join the fight. He meets Amir, a charismatic Syrian refugee and former revolutionary, and his wife, Daphne, a sophisticated beauty haunted by grief. Haris's choices become more wrenching: Whose side is he really on? An exploration of loss, second chances, and why we choose to believe.
Klappentext zu „Dark at the Crossing “
NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST"Transports readers into a world few Americans know" -Washington Post
A timely new novel of stunning humanity and tension: a contemporary love story set on the Turkish border with Syria.
Haris Abadi is a man in search of a cause. An Arab American with a conflicted past, he is now in Turkey, attempting to cross into Syria and join the fight against Bashar al-Assad's regime. But he is robbed before he can make it, and is taken in by Amir, a charismatic Syrian refugee and former revolutionary, and Amir's wife, Daphne, a sophisticated beauty haunted by grief. As it becomes clear that Daphne is also desperate to return to Syria, Haris's choices become ever more wrenching: Whose side is he really on? Is he a true radical or simply an idealist? And will he be able to bring meaning to a life of increasing frustration and helplessness? Told with compassion and a deft hand, Dark at the Crossing is an exploration of loss, of second chances, and of why we choose to believe--a trenchantly observed novel of raw urgency and power.
"Promises to be one of the most essential books of 2017" -Esquire
Lese-Probe zu „Dark at the Crossing “
IThe morning he went off to his second war, Haris Abadi spent twenty minutes in the sauna of the Tugcan Hotel. Cleaned by his sweat, he swaddled himself in a complimentary bathrobe, went up to his room and took a long shower. Then he went back to sleep, waking naked on his bed an hour later. Downstairs for a late breakfast, he ate three buttered croissants with jam.
The concierge found Haris in the large, empty dining room, its circular tables set with fine crystal as if waiting for a party that would never come. Leaning over Haris, the concierge grasped the lapels of his suit jacket, where he wore a pinned insignia of crossed gold keys. He asked Haris something in Turkish. Haris didn't speak Turkish and shrugged back, his mouth still full of flaky croissant.
The concierge tried Arabic: "How has your stay been?"
"Good, thank you," said Haris.
"Business or pleasure?"
"Business," answered Haris. There was no other reason to come to Antep, an industrial backwater along Turkey's southern border with Syria.
The concierge looked at the stuffed hiking pack propped against the leg of Haris's chair. "Checking out then?"
Haris reached into a deep internal pocket on the pack, fishing around for his cash. He pulled out a mixed roll of Turkish lira, American dollars and Syrian pounds. He held the wad beneath the table, counting it bill by bill. The concierge hovered above him.
"Two hundred a night, yes?" asked Haris, peeling six hundred lira off his roll.
The concierge nodded, eyeing Haris's dollars. "You're American?" he asked.
Haris handed over the money for three nights. "Here, six hundred."
He felt the concierge taking a closer look at him: his pack, his desert--suede combat boots.
"I'd prefer you pay in dollars," said the concierge.
As hard as he'd worked to become an American, Haris hated the way his new clothes and strong currency betrayed him abroad. He paid in dollars, and the concierge tucked the tight fold of twenties into
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his vest's front pocket.
"Allow me to find you a cab."
Haris nodded, then got up and went to the bathroom, leaving his heavy pack unattended in the opulent dining room. He didn't seem to care if everything was taken from him.
It had rained the night before, and that morning the late autumn sky cleared, turning the air cold, freezing the sidewalks. Outside the Tugcan, an old man, a Syrian, swept the slush from the hotel's marble front step with a rolled copy of the daily paper, Milliyet. His eyes were sheathed in wrinkles and on his head he wore a keffiyeh. It was held in place by an igal, a coiled wreath, which sat on him like the crown of perpetual defeat. Hunched over, the old man worked slowly, positioning himself so someone from the hotel might notice his pains and offer a bit of charity.
The revolving door spun a turn, and the concierge and Haris stepped outside. The old man looked up at them, holding his face toward the sun. He offered a toothy, rotten grin. His eyes shifted from them to his work, clearing the last of the slush from their path. Haris reached into his pocket. His fingers felt for a coin or folded lira note. Before he could find either, the concierge flicked the toe of a polished oxford at the old man, shooing him away. The old man said nothing. He took a few steps from the Tugcan's marble front and wandered onto the frozen sidewalk, where he stood like a broken piece of furniture set out in the street.
The concierge reached into his vest pocket and blew a small silver whistle. A yellow taxi with the Tugcan's logo--a setting or rising sun, it was difficult to tell which--pulled in front of the hotel. Unfolding a map of Syria and southern Turkey, Haris walked to the driver's window. The driver rubbed his thickly stubbled cheeks as Haris traced the route from Antep to the border crossing thirty miles south, in a town called Kilis.
The concierge insisted on loading Haris's hiking pack into the taxi. He sl
"Allow me to find you a cab."
Haris nodded, then got up and went to the bathroom, leaving his heavy pack unattended in the opulent dining room. He didn't seem to care if everything was taken from him.
It had rained the night before, and that morning the late autumn sky cleared, turning the air cold, freezing the sidewalks. Outside the Tugcan, an old man, a Syrian, swept the slush from the hotel's marble front step with a rolled copy of the daily paper, Milliyet. His eyes were sheathed in wrinkles and on his head he wore a keffiyeh. It was held in place by an igal, a coiled wreath, which sat on him like the crown of perpetual defeat. Hunched over, the old man worked slowly, positioning himself so someone from the hotel might notice his pains and offer a bit of charity.
The revolving door spun a turn, and the concierge and Haris stepped outside. The old man looked up at them, holding his face toward the sun. He offered a toothy, rotten grin. His eyes shifted from them to his work, clearing the last of the slush from their path. Haris reached into his pocket. His fingers felt for a coin or folded lira note. Before he could find either, the concierge flicked the toe of a polished oxford at the old man, shooing him away. The old man said nothing. He took a few steps from the Tugcan's marble front and wandered onto the frozen sidewalk, where he stood like a broken piece of furniture set out in the street.
The concierge reached into his vest pocket and blew a small silver whistle. A yellow taxi with the Tugcan's logo--a setting or rising sun, it was difficult to tell which--pulled in front of the hotel. Unfolding a map of Syria and southern Turkey, Haris walked to the driver's window. The driver rubbed his thickly stubbled cheeks as Haris traced the route from Antep to the border crossing thirty miles south, in a town called Kilis.
The concierge insisted on loading Haris's hiking pack into the taxi. He sl
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Autoren-Porträt von Elliot Ackerman
ELLIOT ACKERMAN, author of the critically acclaimed novel Green on Blue, is based out of Istanbul, where he has covered the Syrian Civil War since 2013. His writings have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The New Republic, and The New York Times Magazine, among other publications, and his stories have been included in The Best American Short Stories. He is both a former White House Fellow and Marine, and served five tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan where he received the Silver Star, the Bronze Star for Valor, and the Purple Heart.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Elliot Ackerman
- 2017, 256 Seiten, Maße: 13,9 x 23,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: KNOPF
- ISBN-10: 1524711039
- ISBN-13: 9781524711030
- Erscheinungsdatum: 16.01.2017
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"One could argue that the most vital literary terrain in America's overseas wars is now occupied not by journalists but by novelists...Elliot Ackerman is certainly one of those novelists...He has created people who are not the equivalents of the locally exotic subjects in your average NPR story, and he has used them to populate a fascinating and topical novel."-Lawrence Osborne, New York Times Book Review
"Ackerman, who lives in Istanbul and has written some fine reportage from the Turkish borderlands, knows Gaziantep well and sharply depicts its incongruities . . . He shows boldness and empathy in trying to envision modern conflagrations from foreign vantage points."
-Sam Sacks, Wall Street Journal
"Ackerman's eye for detail grounds this novel in a space that quickly transports readers into a world few Americans know . . . Dark at the Crossing is not only a fictional meditation on remorse, betrayal, love and loss, but also a journey that returns us to the beautiful and broken world we live in."
-Washington Post
"Dark at the Crossing promises to be one of the most essential books of 2017."
-Esquire
"Visceral, unsentimental and in a style that begs to be underlined and savored, this is a novel about how people carry the emotional and physical scars of war through their lives, and how war both demolishes and becomes home . . . The many references to actual street and district names, smells and unique predicaments, such as underfunded, understaffed hospitals that are teeming with refugees, heighten the book's authenticity and earnestness."
-Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Dark at the Crossing is every bit as taut and harrowing as the place it depicts, a region where fifteen years of relentless war play out in filthy refugee camps and upscale shopping malls. Elliot Ackerman has written a brilliant, admirably merciless novel of broken lives, broken places, and good intentions gone awry."
-Ben Fountain, author of Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk
"Infused
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with profound knowledge, empathy, and chutzpah, Ackerman's writing is hauntingly evocative and beautiful. It is a rare writer who is not afraid to deal with the toughest conflicts, ask the hardest questions, show the darkest side of even heroes, and still manage to renew our faith in humanity."
-Elif Shafak, author of The Bastard of Istanbul
"Here is a thriller, psychological fiction, political intrigue, and even a love story all wrapped into a stunningly realistic and sometimes horrifying package. Put Ackerman on the A-list."
-Library Journal (starred)
"Elliot Ackerman's quietly subversive sensibilities make him one of the most potent and original writers to emerge from that elite platoon of men and women who, since 9/11, have laid down their guns to pick up a pen. Once again, here in his second novel, Dark at the Crossing, Ackerman insists American readers immerse themselves in the humanity of their country's enemies and victims. His work is a unique and bittersweet blessing of raw grace and naked, bleeding empathy."
-Bob Shacochis, author of The Woman Who Lost Her Soul
"Once again, Elliot Ackerman dares to imagine his way into the minds, lives, and fates of people too many American writers would judge as inaccessible-perhaps even forbidden. The result is a book whose emotional acuity is matched only by its literary artistry. They don't award medals of valor to novelists, but while reading this book I often thought, Maybe they should."
-Tom Bissell, author of Apostle: Travels Among the Tombs of the Twelve
"Ackerman has done a masterful job of creating a novel of ideas that invites thoughtful consideration of the folly and futility of war and the failure of idealism . . . The text is beautifully written, and the rendering of the setting is superb. Dark at the Crossing makes a significant contribution to the literature of war."
-Booklist (starred)
"Ackerman is a magnificent storyteller. Dark at the Crossing is a quietly but intensely profound nov
-Elif Shafak, author of The Bastard of Istanbul
"Here is a thriller, psychological fiction, political intrigue, and even a love story all wrapped into a stunningly realistic and sometimes horrifying package. Put Ackerman on the A-list."
-Library Journal (starred)
"Elliot Ackerman's quietly subversive sensibilities make him one of the most potent and original writers to emerge from that elite platoon of men and women who, since 9/11, have laid down their guns to pick up a pen. Once again, here in his second novel, Dark at the Crossing, Ackerman insists American readers immerse themselves in the humanity of their country's enemies and victims. His work is a unique and bittersweet blessing of raw grace and naked, bleeding empathy."
-Bob Shacochis, author of The Woman Who Lost Her Soul
"Once again, Elliot Ackerman dares to imagine his way into the minds, lives, and fates of people too many American writers would judge as inaccessible-perhaps even forbidden. The result is a book whose emotional acuity is matched only by its literary artistry. They don't award medals of valor to novelists, but while reading this book I often thought, Maybe they should."
-Tom Bissell, author of Apostle: Travels Among the Tombs of the Twelve
"Ackerman has done a masterful job of creating a novel of ideas that invites thoughtful consideration of the folly and futility of war and the failure of idealism . . . The text is beautifully written, and the rendering of the setting is superb. Dark at the Crossing makes a significant contribution to the literature of war."
-Booklist (starred)
"Ackerman is a magnificent storyteller. Dark at the Crossing is a quietly but intensely profound nov
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