'Man Overboard' — by Tim Binding

This book was reviewed recently in either the Economist or the Financial Times; regardless, I ordered it from amazon U.K. after the rapturous comments of the reviewer.

Just now, as I was seeing if any of the author's other books are available at amazon U.S., did I notice that I could've simply ordered "Man Overboard" there, since it was published in this country on June 3.

Really, though, it doesn't make a whole lot of difference from my end: amazon has so removed the formerly almost insurmountable difficulty of/barriers to buying from the U.K. that when you order and all, it's really pretty much the same.

And as I've noted here before delivery from amazon U.K. seems every bit as fast as from the states.

This remains a mystery to me since in my previous experience buying from other U.K. merchants it seemed like months would elapse before the item arrived.

But enough idle chit–chat.

Commander Lionel Crabb was a highly–decorated British Navy World War II frogman who disappeared under mysterious circumstances during the historic visit of Communist Party leader Nikita Krushchev to London in 1956 aboard his country's then–revolutionary warship, the Ordzhonikidze.

Its capabilities surpassed any ship in the Western world and intelligence agencies were under intense pressure to learn more about it.

Tim Binding has taken what's known of Crabb's extraordinary life and woven a tale full of mystery, philosophical depth and extraordinarily excellent writing, deeply touching at times and hilarious at others.

From the novel:

On days like this, sitting in front of the long pane of glass, staring to the distant hills, I wonder if it's true, that there was another me before this time began. I feel as if there cannot have been, that I am merely a flaw suspended in a perfect crystal of green, raised up in a world bereft of sense. I am submerged, drowned in the shadow of my own enigma, discordant chants my only companions. I hear a multitude of them calling me, muted sounds of admonishment, Minella singing out across the water, the bell chimes of the Holy ministries, voices that grow clearer as I rise up to break the surface, my ears popping with the hiss of the airlock and the click of the door.


That's how it's done, see. They don't call you in, hand out orders, the way you might imagine. That's not their way. It's not that they don't believe in a rigid hierarchy, the structure of duty. It's just that once you're in, they simply nudge you in the right direction, let you come to the task under your own breath.


Conspiracy is a marvelous thing, the way it hunches the body, lowers the tone. He looked over his shoulder once and laid his elbows on the table. Any moment now, I thought, he'd start pulling at his ear. He loved his work, and when his ginger was up, it showed.


"Don't you read the papers any more?" he said, his voice rising despite himself. "Don't you know what's happening this week?"
"Grace Kelly's getting married."
"And?"
"And it's not to me."
"I mean in London."
"Got me there, Smithy."
"Bulganin and Khruschev? Their first visit to the West? Ring any bells?"
"Yes, and all of them cracked ones."
"They're coming in on the Ordzhonikidze."
Ah. The Ordzhonikidze. The murky waters were clearing.


I felt a sudden chill wash over me, as if the Thames had just pulled me in and the tide was running fast. I could feel its grip dragging me out to sea, the land slipping through my fingers like dry sand. I wanted to say no, but the words came out wrong.


On the way back cabin life became even more combustible. I jumped ship at Singapore, thinking I might stay and learn the lingo, but it was no good. I was keen but I was also tone deaf. If there's one thing you need when you want to talk turkey to a Chinaman, it's a sense of pitch. Otherwise you'll say something you shouldn't and end up floating down the Yangtze with your throat cut from ear to ear, and quite right too.


I tried other oddities, anything that came to hand. I didn't want a normal job, something in an office, running after bits of paper, wiping my shoes on the back of my trousers for fear of what the boss might think. I wanted something out of the ordinary, something that had no right to work, something ridiculous, or downright dangerous. Wasn't that a bit like the world was anyway, a bit ridiculous, a bit dangerous, a bit bloody marvelous? Isn't that how it is for us? The world all in bits? I could see how the rest of London coped, on trains and buses, sharing the everyday burden, but I couldn't see myself joining in. Not that I thought any the less of them. If anything I thought the less of me. A square peg if ever there was one.

Consider that the above excerpts come from the first 20 pages of the 245–page book and you can see how I would fall in love with it.