By Domnica Radulescu
A riveting novel approximately women--one Serbian, one Bosnian--whose friendship spans a long time and continents, conflict and peace, love and estrangement, within the vein of Elena Ferrante and Julia Alvarez. nearer than sisters, Lara and Marija proportion every thing, from stolen fruit and Hollywood video clips as women to ideologies or even fanatics as younger women. but if the Bosnian battle pits their homelands opposed to one another in a massacre, Lara and Marija are compelled to split: romantic Lara heads to the USA together with her Hollywood-handsome husband, and fierce Marija is going to her local Sarajevo to wrestle the warfare via journalism. In the US, Lara seeks success via paintings and relations, but if information from Marija ceases, the uncertainty torments Lara, riding her on a quest to discover her buddy. As Lara travels via war-torn Serbia, following clues which can but result in the flesh-and-blood Marija, she should also combat with truths approximately her personal identification. advised in lush, shiny prose, kingdom OF pink AZALEAS is a poignant testomony to either the ability of friendship and our skill to discover which means and wonder within the face of devastation.
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Extra resources for Country of Red Azaleas
As soon as I saw him, I would pull on my mother’s sleeve. At this signal, she would cast a few furtive glances, spot him, and then put her natural pride on display. This show of pride, so blatant, was our only weapon against him, our only way of warning him, sternly, to keep his distance: my mother would raise her chin and ﬁx her stare upon some far-off horizon, which could not compete with the blue of her eyes. She would thrust out her chest, expanding her magniﬁcent décolleté, and as she walked along, the skirt of her dress would swish magically, fanning her arrogance all the way down to the devil.
I was on my way home from Poznan. Among other things, I’d visited the Gothic cathedral where Walesa’s union activists had once held their secret meetings; I don’t know why but it had given me cold shivers. Maybe because of its crypt or its gray nave where the lonely echo of the least little word reminded me of my own social condition, which was rather vague—in fact, quite undeﬁned. So I looked out the window of the plane to contemplate the landscape and try to understand whether the connection between man and nature is one of intellect or simply naive intuition.
A second later, I turned again, but the old woman had already vanished. For years and years afterward, the voice of Fate continued to echo in my mind. Madame Ephtiqui’s house, where we went nearly twice a week, was on a quiet lane that seemed isolated from the rest of the world, even though it opened onto the city’s busiest street. It was a small house, built low and shaded all around by rich vegetation. On hot summer days, the cool, shaded lane leading to the porch made one believe that both house and yard were set against a backdrop of dark, green forest.
Country of Red Azaleas by Domnica Radulescu