Book Review: Hideous Kinky (Esther Freud)

Hideous Kinky is another of those books that seems to have pressed a lasting mark on this reader’s mind: though truth be told, the many years between the first and most recent readings has left a ghost imprint rather than an abundance of specific detail. Perhaps there is some comfort for the writer in knowing that their book has left just such an imprint: we are, as readers, not blessed with unlimited memory after all. Esther Freud’s achievement here, however, is to place this book in its own time, imbuing it with its own sense of memory (it is an account from a child’s perspective): it is not perfect, but its second reading does confirm the impressions of the first.

Freud’s title comes from words apparently uttered by Maretta, a somewhat fey and moping character who joins the unnamed young child narrator and her slightly older sister, Bea, with their mother and Maretta’s partner John on a road trip, en route for Morocco, in what we can assume to be the late 1960s or early 1970s. Maretta’s whole raison d’être at the start of the book (before Freud ships her back to England again and out of the way) is to set up the children’s burgeoning grappling at the meaning of words and ways of life. Freud writes, early on, following the travellers’ meeting with what the children’s mother calls an ‘undesirable’ at the port in Tangier:

‘Is it very hideous to be an undesirable?’ Bea asked.
Hideous was Bea’s and my favourite word. ‘Hideous’ and ‘kinky’. They were the only words we could remember Maretta ever having said.
‘Hideous kinky. Hideous kinky,’ I chanted to myself.

The words, and later other words that seem to fit the mould of trying to come to terms with where they are, are used by the children in their private games of chase/tap. This process of trying to come to terms is a continuing thread throughout the book. Hideous Kinky (Penguin Books, 1993; first published by Hamish Hamilton, 1992) carefully and gradually draws a picture of a somewhat self-serving (albeit undoubtedly loving) mother who takes her two young children on the road to Marrakech in search of self-fulfilment, immersion in the culture, and later a hankering to convert to Sufi Islam. On the way, she seems to forget her responsibilities towards the children who, in their own ways, both try to immerse and hanker after the ‘normality’ of mashed potato, school, fizzy drinks and sweets.

Such is Freud’s skill at writing from the younger child’s perspective (not in saccharine sweet stereotyped ways) that she manages to convince us of the magic of place at the same time as slowly unfolding the frustrating mother, who is also madly loved, before our eyes. The younger narrator child, for example, is taken by the mother on a hastily concocted hitch-hike from Marrakech to Algiers to visit and live at a mosque, the Zaouia, where the Sufi holy man Sheikh Bentounes lives; Bea, the older sibling, doesn’t want to go and is left behind with someone we’re only just introduced to, and later, we find that she’s been shifted around various unknown or unsavoury types and found in a hospice for polio sufferers. Bea is understandably upset at her mother (though in the narrative it must be pointed out that the damage that should have been done by this escapade is not played out for as long as one might expect). All the while, the child narrator suffers nightmares and bed-wetting. She fears the ‘Black Hand’ will come to strangle her mother and leave her lost. The child puts her own hand to her mother’s neck to try to protect her as she sleeps.

Her mother is an unpredictable force, albeit one who meditates, and the children can only hold on as best they can. Freud weaves in some beautiful imagery and sensory assemblages of market places and the crowded players in the Djemaa El Fna (the main square in Marrakech). There is an assortment of peripheral characters such as the dancing Senegalese Gnaoua, the Henna Ladies/Nappy Thieves from across the way in the Hotel Moulay Idriss where the family sometimes stay, the Fool who follows the children and their mother home on dark nights and who the children take a shining to in the Djemaa El Fna, the beggar girls of the square, and especially Khadija (in whose service, later in the book, the narrator’s mother partly reclaims some karmic respect by taking her to the Hammam — public baths — along with the other beggar girls before buying new caftans for them: although, of course, we find that the girls don’t then wear them because, we assume, they have to work after all).

Along the way, the mostly self-concerned mother is portrayed as someone who meets confusing strangers and does confusing things (the enigmatic Pedro the guitarist and his fellow travellers, for example, who the children wake to, unexpectedly bundled up warm in the garden, finding them running around naked and semi-naked). The adults tell a story of an earthquake and its sudden surprise. The children’s mother meets the suave and wealthy Luigi Mancini, who they’re impressed with, and who they hope their mother will continue a relationship with. He disappears, however, along with his estate: a place of magic that moves of its own accord, the girls surmise, because they can’t find it again. Mancini, or the epitome of him, hovers from time to time in the children’s thoughts as the story goes on, though we and they don’t meet again.

The most dominate non-family member in the book appears as a deeper driving force though, similarly in his absence, for the child narrator. Bilal works for the travelling Hadaoui, some form of ‘magic man’, early on, and takes the child as his flower girl in performances. The younger girl seems to love him very dearly and, indeed, Bilal and her mother seem set to continue their relationship until, too confusingly and suddenly for the child to grasp, he must leave to find further work. Bilal’s long hoped-for return is a ghost that hangs in the pages throughout. It is as if he represents some form of stability that the children desperately need, though won’t quite express.

Freud’s story is a journey, though one without defined plot. This doesn’t matter because what we’re presented with is a tale of subtle love and frustration, abandonments, confusions, immersions and beauty. What these subtleties ought also to be provided with, however, is a closer editorial insistence on correctly finished sentences. There is a proliferation of partly constructed sentences throughout the book, which does have a tendency to distract the discerning eye. This minor gripe aside though, Hideous Kinky is a weave of colour, love and an attentive eye on what it is to be a child in an adult’s slipstream of dreams.

Freud has pressed Hideous Kinky in time, and as such it continues to impress itself upon the reader’s mind.
 
 

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