Don't you dip your madeleine with me, Mr Mashed Potato

In the Absence of Men By Philippe Besson (Heinneman) £ 9.99 pounds

Independent on Sunday 24/11/02

By Mark Simpson

I am Vincent and I am 16. It is Paris 1916, the belle epoque has run aground. France is at war, and losing. The guns sound like thunderous cliches in the distance. I am as old as the century, which is rather significant, don't you think? I am very beautiful. I have black hair, almond-shaped green eyes and, so I am told, a girl's complexion. I am, however, a boy, and a rather precocious, intelligent, captivating one at that. I am, in fact, the belle epoque. I am the invert hero of this declarative, very French first novel by Monsieur Besson, in which most of the sentences seem to begin with the word "I".

Little wonder then that after being introduced to Marcel you-know-who in a Parisian salon, I find he has become besotted, writing me long, gushing letters. And wouldn't we all want to be in receipt of intimate lettres from the man who has become the symbol of a lost literary world? I am, as I think I mentioned, very beautiful, but it is unclear whether I ever actually allow Marcel to dip his madeleine with me, even though he received me once in his cork-lined bedroom.

You see, Marcel the-middle-aged-literary-genius has to represent a paternal- platonic love, poor bastard, even though in reality such people who live by their brains are of course always dying to get their leg over - even more than, say, soldiers on leave. Funnily enough, at the same time as captivating Marcel, I am actually having an affair with a soldier, much younger and more virile than Mr Mashed Potato. And of course, because he's a soldier and is the body of France whereas Marcel is her mind, there is no question but that I fall into his arms, every night of his week's leave. He is madly in love with me and, it transpires, has been for years, but then, I am very beautiful and I do my best to heal his terrible psychological battle-wounds with my beautiful body and girlish skin.

In addition to making me feel rather special, this metaphorical spit- roasting between the man of arms and the man of letters affords me lots of deliciously poignant and painful contrasts, bouncing back and forth between passion and pathos, carnality and cerebrality, and, of course, the glittering, polite society of Paris in the belle epoque and the death and slaughter, mud and mayhem of the war which threatens to wipe it out forever. There is even some upstairs-downstairs class conflict thrown in: the soldier's mother was my governess - though it is unclear who is his father.

I have to say, however, that the title of this novel, The Absence of Men, which I think is supposed to be a reference to all the omi palones being away at war, makes little sense to me: I seem to be doing very well. Really, it should have been called "The Absence of Women": the only lady here, not counting Marcel when he's acting up, is a mother who does little else but weep. You can probably guess the fate of the poor soldier on the front, but there's another twist to this tale which I can't reveal, but which you would see coming a kilometre off if it wasn't so neatly symbolic as to be too obvious for the reader to contemplate. On the whole, I rather enjoyed being the hero of this novel, especially the ending which was very moving and dramatic and made me seem suddenly not just beautiful but tortured and profound. I have to admit, however, that, fun as it is, this book isn't quite as classy or clever as I deserve, or as it thinks it is - even if it is absolutely as pretentious as France expects.

© Mark Simpson 2002