Murder on the Polar Express
On reading Martin Suter's Allmen and the Dragonflies
As the year winds to a close and the holidays loom, it will soon be time to start watching Christmas movies. We’ll hit some sentimental favorites like Miracle on 34th Street, some holiday classic comedies like Home Alone and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, and round out the cinematic cheer with some Christmas horror gems, including my new favorite, Rare Exports. There’s one Christmas movie, though, that will be scheduled for family viewing when I’m not home; I’ve been banned from watching The Polar Express with the family ever again. It seems I just can’t shut the fuck up and enjoy the movie without ruining everybody’s good time, instead insisting on giving them the running commentary playing out inside my head, where what many see as a charming little story about a kid learning to believe in Santa reads like horrifying, thinly-veiled totalitarian propaganda.
I’d probably be a lot happier if I could just, you know, shut the fuck up and enjoy the movie. But, though I’m no Marxist, my blue-collar angst and cantankerous nature make it all but impossible not to apply the lens of class struggle and thought control to pretty much anything I read. Or watch. Right from the start, I knew I’d better try to rein that in while reading Martin Suter’s Allmen and the Dragonflies, the pick for Switzerland. J
Johan Von Allmen, the gentleman thief who becomes, in later installments in this series, a detective specializing in art heists, is exactly the kind of protagonist I’m set up to hate. He’s a wealthy trust fund baby, now nearing middle age, who’s blown through his inheritance with a lifestyle of Old World luxury and conspicuous consumption, now living in the cottage of the grand villa he was forced to sell. To keep up appearances and season tickets to the opera, he begins to dabble in petty theft, pinching antique vases and such to sell to unscrupulous dealers. It’s relatively small potatoes until a chance fling gives him the chance to lift a nearly priceless set of art nouveau bowls finely decorated with dragonflies. Trouble is, it turns out those bowls were already stolen. which sets off a series of events that puts Allmen and his faithful servant (ugh, there goes my inner Marxist again) Carlos in mortal danger.
I do a lot of (over?)thinking when I read. Surely the examined life is the only one worth living. But sometimes, it’s best to turn that off and just enjoy a story for what it is. Allmen and the Dragonflies is a taut little crime thriller; I tried to let it be just that, a diversion via audiobook to keep my mind off the drudgery of interstate driving to and from work. It’s a testament to Suter’s pacing and skill at developing character that I was mostly able to succeed. I devoured this short novel (4 hours as narrated) in just a handful of commutes, and I only grumbled to myself about wanting to eat the rich once or twice. If I wasn’t knee deep in this project, I might well spend some more time with Allmen soon. I’m curious to see how the character grows as he turns a new leaf and works as a detective rather than a thief. I suspect I might like him more as thief. Maybe I should examine that.
