The strength of Nadezhda Belenkaya’s Рыбы молчат по-испански—which
is listed in English on the Elkost
literary agency’s Web site as Children
of Rogozhin by author Nadia Guerman—lies in the novel’s gritty,
character-based observations of international adoption. Belenkaya’s close narrative
tells the story of Nina Koretskaya, a promising grad student who teaches Spanish
and translates: Belenkaya follows psychological and external changes in Nina’s life
after she begins translating and interpreting for an adoption agent named
Ksenia, who collaborates with Kirill, a Canadian citizen who seldom makes
appearances.
Though Children of
Rogozhin is what I think of as a portrait novel and it’s a little lumpy with its tight focus on Nina, I can’t help but agree with Elkost that
the book does develop into a “psychological suspense thriller,” if only toward the
end. Belenkaya weaves in threads of naturalism, through horrifying stories of individual
orphaned children that, along with the book’s dim view of the adoption industry,
Nina’s tribulations, and Ksenia’s assertion that children are a natural
resource, left me with the distinct feeling of a cautionary tale. I’ve seen little
bits of adoption both as an occasional volunteer at a children’s shelter and an
orphanage in Moscow, and as a Russian tutor and telephone interpreter for adopting
families in my community. Which means I believe Elkost’s statement that Children of Rogozhin is based on a true
story.
As for plot, Nina and Ksenia frequently travel from Moscow to
Rogozhin, a small city within driving distance. Nina interprets for Spanish
families, they butter up local administrators, and the two become frolleagues by
spending more and more time together shopping, eating out, and even snacking on
chips and caviar. Of course not all is cheery: their driver has some prejudices
that trouble Nina, some families are offered children with serious problems,
and documents are sometimes fabricated. Things really start to go out of
control when Nina and Ksenia push Kirill out of the picture; this is where the suspense,
thrills, and paranoia come in. Meanwhile, Belenkaya works in passages (and these
are where the book sometimes gets lumpy) about Nina’s respect for her mentor, a
woman who lives in an apartment in the House on the
Embankment and has a beautiful view, as well as Nina’s hope to wrote a book
about Salvador Dalí. All sorts of contrasts develop: Nina’s past and present,
Ksenia’s materialness and Nina’s braininess, and an overlay of honesty versus
bribery and corruption.
When I look at the notes I scribbled inside the book’s back
cover, I can see why Belenkaya held my interest despite my usual ambivalence to
portrait novels and despite the moments when the book felt a little melodramatic
for my taste, as when Nina sees herself in the mirror as a Hitchcock blonde. Where
Belenkaya excels is working in details of international adoption: a description
of orphanage smells (urine, burnt milk, and unwashed children), foreign
families’ dependence on local assistance, and the larger problem of
indifference that an old friend of Nina’s, a woman who also formerly worked in
adoption, sees as bigger than cruelty. And then there are those naturalistic stories
of children’s lives, mini case histories that feel all too real...
One note on the book’s Russian title, which would translate literally
into English as something like Fish Keep Quiet
in Spanish. The title comes from a slogan on a Cervantes Institute bookmark
that Nina has kept: the slogan begins with “В Испании” (“In Spain”) but it’s the shortened version, the words used
as the book’s title, that goes through Nina’s head when she lies awake at night.
Disclaimers: I
received a copy of Children of Rogozhin
from the Read Russia booth at BookExpo America, thank you very much! I have also
collaborated on projects with Elkost literary agency.
Up Next: I just
started Evgenii Chizhov’s Перевод с
подстрочника (literally Translation
from a Literal Translation), a finalist for this year’s Big Book Award…
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