World Like and Unlike Ours
Review of Jason Erik Lundberg’s A Fickle and Restless Weapon (Singapore: Epigram Books, 2020)
By Samantha Neugebauer
This review contains spoilers and a mention of sexual violence.
Fifteen years have passed since the time Jason Erik Lundberg wrote down the first words of what would become A Fickle and Restless Weapon, published last June. Lundberg’s fantastical novel is set in the Republic of Tinhau, a fictional Southeast Asian island-nation resembling Singapore in many ways, and perhaps this makes sense considering Lundberg, an American, has called Singapore home for more than a dozen years. A prolific author and editor, Lundberg has penned a fantasy of epic proportions with A Fickle and Restless Weapon; its story encapsulates the intimidations of the surveillance state; the horrors of domestic terrorism, mysterious environmental destruction, ghosts, bodily mutations; and the experience of personal loss and heartbreak.
Lundberg’s choice to structure the book around multiple points of views helps accentuate the complex nature of navigating a culturally and politically complex and oppressive society like Tinhau. Furthermore, the various characters advance different ideas about how to improve society; therefore, the book never becomes too didactic or prescriptive. The first protagonist we meet is Zed, a wealthy dramaturge and famous performance artist, who has been living abroad and is returning home to Tinhau for his sister’s funeral. Zed is a swee, a human with superhuman powers. Zed’s power is shapeshifting: he can transform his face and body into the face and body of other people. One of the most heart-wrenching scenes in the book takes place in front of his sister’s casket when Zed accidentally transforms his face into his deceased sister’s face, horrifying his mother.
Like many folks who leave their homeland, Zed is more critical than ever of Tinhau and its government when he repatriates. He calls his country’s march of progress “relentless,” and he criticizes the state’s encroachment into the lives of people; however, Zed does not seem to be any sort of a revolutionary figure until three months after his sister’s funeral, when his new government-sponsored show opens. Without warning, an unexplained explosion occurs near The Orpheum Theatre, where the performance is taking place, and during this moment of confusion and destruction, the Ministry of Culture insists that Zed must carry on with the show. A government agent goes so far as to say that if Zed cancels the show, he will humiliate the ministry. Zed refuses to continue and overnight becomes blacklisted in his society. This is the beginning of Zed’s political awakening.
Zed’s character growth does not follow a linear path, however. Despite Zed’s later admirable involvement in destabilizing a corrupt government, a distressing scene of sexual violence between Zed and a young fan named Huang Sin haunts Zed’s portion of the story. Lundberg’s account of that night highlights Zed’s callousness towards others, the privilege he accords his own desires at the expense of other people’s needs and feelings. Particularly effective is the bland manner in which Zed hopes that “he hadn’t hurt her [Huang Sin] too much.” Lundberg’s use of the adverb “too much” damningly reveals how Zed is actually willing to hurt and disregard the women he sleeps with. Later, when Zed falls for Tara, the book’s second protagonist, it becomes difficult to root for their love story. Lundberg takes a laudable, creative risk with Zed’s character, because readers must wait until Book Two to see Zed and Huang Sin meet again. This author not only trusts his reader to understand the seriousness of that scene, but also he trusts that they will wait it out to see if Zed can be redeemed for his past actions. Ultimately, Zed’s shapeshifting ability forces him to reckon with his mistakes.
The strongest, most compelling protagonist in the book is Tara, who is originally from Goa, but has spent a long time in the North American Union (the former United States of America). Like Zed, Tara is a swee. Tara is green-skinned (something Zed really likes about her) and she has a special mental ability as well. When we meet Tara she is strategically balancing compliance with the government (she does freelance design for the Ministry of Culture) with her own art-making (she designs typefaces) and her involvement in an underground resistance group called Red Dhole. Tara is anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, and one step away from being ordained a Buddhist monk. She shaves her head, and she is not afraid to stand-up for her convictions. On a train, she observes with disquiet the total absence of the Pohonorang, the indigenous people of Tinhau. Her politics are, however, complicated by her desires: “Tara found her thoughts of Red Dhole and revolution being pushed to a back corner of her brain as Zuma’s [Zed’s] hand touched the small of her back.”
Vahid, the third protagonist, is a marionettist, but his puppets do not have strings; instead, they are controlled by his swee ability to animate inanimate objects or elements of nature. Much like Zed with his sister, Vahid is also suffering from the loss of someone close, his best friend. Unlike Zed’s sister, Vahid’s best friend is still very present in the story as a walking and talking ghost. Vahid is the most politically radical of the characters; he is queer, he is friends with a swee prostitute, and he is a confident rebel. Like Tara, Vahid is a migrant; he has Iranian and British roots. Vahid already knows Zed when the story begins, but he gets to know Tara as all three become more involved in the resistance movement, and with each other.
While Lundberg poises his leading characters to confront the government, many other themes in the novel also emerge. The question of personal identity and accountability becomes more poignant in tandem with the rising action in Book Two. For example, when Zed accepts his friend Vahid’s act of rebellion, his swee ability becomes hyperactive. In one of the best bits of prose in the book, Zed goes on a meditative walk, which develops into a “fever of ever-shifting forms,” as he becomes “lost in a maelstrom of multiple identities, more than a hundred, far more…. Zed couldn’t keep a coherent thought in his head for more than five seconds, it was as if he literally was the entire population of Tinhau all at once.” Seen through a political lens, Zed’s meltdown is a consequence of his growing social consciousness. No longer able to care about himself only, he is overtaken by a keen awareness of the social, environmental, and racial injustices occurring in his homeland.
One of the more frightening elements of this fantasy novel is The Range, introduced in the prologue of the novel. An average family is driving on the highway towards Disneyland when, out of nowhere, an arc of emerald lightning appears from the sky and strikes the theme park, annihilating it. This is only the first of many appearances of this mysterious, deadly cloud weapon and it both drives the plot and shapes the world of this novel. What’s fascinating is how Lundberg manages to make all the threats in the novel—government surveillance, The Range, sexual assault, and betrayal—equally destructive and deserving of the reader’s attention. Much like our own world, there is no one threat and no single, easy answer to our problems.
It is impossible to discuss A Fickle and Restless Weapon without ruminating on its structure. The novel is arranged in two Books, with the different protagonists narrating different chapters. Additionally, there is a Prelude, an Intermezzo, and a Coda; these operatic delineations add significant gravitas and scope to the main characters’ stories. In particular, the Intermezzo is detail-rich and thrilling to read. It appears after the conclusion of Book One when the terrible explosion occurs. The Intermezzo zooms out of the individual viewpoints of the protagonists to see this moment of destruction from the perspectives of all kinds of people in Tinhau, rich and poor, the unknown and the infamous. In truth, Lundberg’s Intermezzo operates exactly like John Hersey’s celebrated, 1946 New Yorker article-turned-book Hiroshima, where Hersey’s narrative eye swoops in on several citizens of Japan right before, during, and after the horrific dropping of the atomic bomb.
Mention must be made of another pleasurable feature of Lundberg’s novel: the map of Tinhau given at the start of the book. The map includes many of the places on the island where our characters travel to and where the main events happen; it even includes train lines cutting through the island. As the story becomes more layered, especially in Book Two, the map provides necessary guidance and familiarity.
With so many characters, themes and motifs, some story development is lost in the drama. For instance, knowing more about the rules and history of swee abilities would be useful. However, some of the longer descriptions of clothing, specifically the women’s outfits, drag. Overall, like Vahid with his puppets, Lundberg brings the Republic of Tinhau to life with his words. An unexpected paean to public transportation (subway, train, and taxi rides are all featured) and to art-making of various kinds, Lundberg’s story brims with larger-than-life events and heroic actions, but most impressive are the three, imperfect protagonists, trying to figure out their identities in a complex, shifting society. Lundberg’s Tinhau is a vibrant, deadly, and creative world, much like our own.
Samantha Neugebauer is an MFA candidate and Instructor at Johns Hopkins University. She is on the editorial board of the Painted Bride Quarterly and a contributor and co-producer of the podcast Slush Pile. Samantha has presented on experiential learning, English monolingualism in higher education, and first-year student experiences throughout the world, most recently in Beirut, Lebanon. Previously, she taught at New York University Abu Dhabi and worked in student affairs. She has stories and poetry in The Offing, Columbia Journal, and other places.