John La Galite's Nirvana is a novel with a raison d'être. In fact, I suspect it has several of them.

Outwardly this is the story (told in the first personal singular) of a young Frenchman (Paul) living in Arles who is married to and apparently fascinated by an enigmatic woman who suddenly disappears after attending a party. The police suspect that he did her in and relentlessly question him until they receive a missive from the French consul in Bombay that her wallet and identity papers have been found on a train thus proving that she is alive. Paul then launches himself into the Indian sub continent in an intense search to retrieve his wife who, incidentally, had grown cold and aloof to him.

What ensues, however, and what I believe are some of the "raisons", are urges to create fascinating descriptions of Indian superstitions, filthy living conditions, beautiful Indian scenes, and dizzying forays into Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and lots and lots of Karma. These subjects, I believe, are a burden on Mr. La Galite's psyche which he must share and perhaps unload. In addition one gets a sprinkling of chaos theory which is intricately woven into the narrative.

Mr. La Galite's protagonist travels to Bombay, Goa, Delhi , the holy city of Banaras, and a multitude of other exotic (and ghastly) places.

What makes this novel a page turner (I read it in one evening) is Mr. La Galite’s unquestionable talent for startlingly vibrant imagery. It is fascinating that he is able to describe the filthiest environments and the most beautiful scenic moments with equal panache. Some examples:

In the distance I noted languid fragments of smoke climbing from far away outdoor fires sending their ashes floating in the air like some silver butterflies. The odor became clear and certain. It was organic matter decomposing.

The two phrases are not separate but contained in one paragraph. It would seem that Mr. La Galite can not really accept any vision of beauty without balancing it with a pungent description of filth, which he does admirably and with relish.

And again describing a Bombay area:

On the shores of a black lake a monstrous metropolis made of wooden planks and of corrugated iron spread itself into a maze of splattered narrow alleys, depots of filth smelling of misery and crime swimming in an odiferous swamp of excrement and decomposing animal hides, the whole immersed in chemical waste. Men and women defecated in the middle of this smoldering volcano.

As Paul follows the trail of his wife, he encounters complex characters all of whom, except the Europeans, carry the burden of mysticism or religion which pits them against each other in a mixture of hate and physical assault, described in grisly detail. Bit by bit Paul enmeshes himself, yet not quite believing, in the convoluted Indian traditions of reincarnation, Karma, and pantheistic imagery. But, make no mistake, Paul's adventures are anything but self absorbed ruminations, Mr. La Galite keeps us flipping the pages as Paul skirts danger in ways ranging from a near drowning (a mystical dolphin saves him) to violent food poisoning to being torn apart by feral dogs.

It is to be noted that most French novels regardless of subject matter dwell considerably on food and this one does not break the rule. Paul's many assignations are usually in restaurants where we are treated to rich descriptions of his gastronomic experiences both good and bad. One key meeting takes place in a café where it is the norm to spit on the floor what is not fully masticated. In fact the spitting theme reoccurs often throughout the novel in taxis, busses and in ablutions on the shores of the Ganges. Mr. La Galite wants to make sure we are not lulled by exotic India.

Sex is sprinkled throughout the story if somewhat inelegantly. One conquest, an astrological seer, is a transsexual, albeit a beautiful one. Others fall into his bed rather casually. Since Mr. La Galite correctly uses the French passé défini, often found in classic literature, I thought it hilarious when he describes oral sex as: "elle me prit dans sa bouche". Paul does finally find his wife who is now mesmerized by the man of her dreams, a Nordic guru god. The confrontation is anti climatic and rather banal, but that may have been the point all along. His wife correctly predicts the death of her new lover but was it a prediction or did she kill him? She joins the ranks of widows who wish to be burned on a funeral pyre and asks Paul to spread her ashes in the Ganges to assure her a better next life. Her father was supposed to have been mad and perhaps she inherited his insanity.

Paul arranges with local authorities to certify her death so that he will be free of the Arles' police predilection for suspecting him of murder. He decides to live with the beautiful transvestite seer in an old colonial mansion in Goa, but he does return to Arles for a visit to his ailing mother and, while taking "a verre" in a local pub, runs into the now retired police inquisitor who systematically shatters Paul's entire story.

In focusing on the plot lines, I may be doing the work an injustice. It is a much layered and beautifully written book. The weaving of Indian mysticism and strong characterization is subtly involving. One senses that Mr. La Galite is a cynic but a reluctant one. In one episode, Paul meets a street-wise boy who disdainfully describes religious trappings and traditions as "Bakwas"..i.e., a connerie” in French,” nonsense” in English, perhaps “bullshit” in American.

Mr. La Galite leaves us to wonder : was Paul’s story about his wife clever “Bakwas”?

Frank May