It is an inexplicable, unrelenting ache for someone or someplace, so that even when you are in their presence you mourn their absence. It is a heart hunger to go deeper, to consume or be consumed by the object of your desire until it becomes a part of your blood. We don’t have a word in English that quite fits this feeling of longing for something that may never have existed in the first place, a spiritual anguish for the ideal. Toska might be the Russian equivalent; the Welsh hiraeth comes close, but that speaks more of place than person. But it’s really the Portuguese saudade that says it for me.
Portuguese writer Manuel de Melo defines saudade as: "a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy." Rules of the Wild weeps and whispers of saudade. Saudade for East Africa. Saudade for impossible love.
Francesca Marciano takes us into the heart of a privileged enclave in Kenya, made up of white Kenyans and white expats, and shows us their layered lives that are both dependent upon and out of reach of black Africans. It is the early 90s, on the eve of war in Somalia and genocide in Rwanda. Despite Kenya’s vast territory and Nairobi’s millions, the white community clings and swirls in its own small orbit. These are the second and third generation sons and daughters of wealthy plantation owners, the jaded relief workers and journalists, the thrill seekers. And they are, like narrator Esmé—the Italian born-and-bred daughter of a celebrated poet— wanderers perpetually in search of a better “other.”
Esmé has chanced upon Africa, wandering in with a lover. Kenya’s heat and searing sun have broken through the haze of her grief over her father’s death and she decides to stay on, while her bewildered lover returns to Italy. She has come from the Old World, heavy with history and expectations, and finds weightlessness in a place where she can float above history and rules, if only because she is ignorant of them. And for a while a new lover, Adam—a second generation Kenyan of northern European descent who leads wealthy tourists on extravagant safaris—is her buffer against Africa’s unrelenting dangers. He adores her without expectation and slips through snafus with an irrepressible bonhomie. He is of this place, and yet still regards it with wonder.
Ah, but isn’t the title Rules of the Wild? The expat tribe Esmé joins maintains a complicated set of mores and customs and Marciano’s story reveals how it is to live in a place, but to never really be a part of it. The expat community feeds on itself for survival. As Esmé explains, ''We have very strict rules here. We sniff new entries suspiciously, evaluating the consequences that their arrival may bring into the group. Fear of possible unbalance, excitement about potential mating, according to the gender. Always a silent stir. In turn each one of us becomes the outcast and new alliances are struck. Everyone lies. . . . It's all about territory and conquest, an endless competition to cover ground and gain control.'' Esmé is horrified by the colonial attitudes and behaviors that pervade every connection between whites and blacks, yet she too gives in and follows the rules of engagement, after pointlessly trying to prove she is better than the jaded whites around her.
Esmé, despite her initial cool reserve and irony, and then her embrace of Adam’s protection, is still soul-hungry and lonely. East Africa has no need of her and perhaps that is why she falls so heedlessly in love with the place; it is like a lover who seduces and then leaves, and she clings to any sign that her love may be reciprocated. Marciano parallels Esmé’s unrequited passion for Africa with a doomed love affair. The character of Hunter Reed, a journalist with a nihilistic world view, becomes the narrative’s dark conscience, the voice that points out all that is wrong with the Western world’s meddling in African affairs, the one who brings the terrible realities of war and genocide into the expats' protected, rarefied world. Esmé becomes obsessed with his wild and cruel beauty, seeking in Hunter the same release and meaning she’d hoped to find in Africa.
Ultimately, however, Esmé cannot escape herself. No matter how different and challenging this new world is, she remains as she ever was. This is the core brilliance of this novel. Marciano understands the heart of the traveller—that insatiable quest for the new self in new places—and the deep disappointment when one turns around to find the old self has tagged along.
And yet, once a place works its way into your soul, you will never be able to leave. That song of saudade—the “pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy” plays in a continuous loop, a siren song that chants, “Come back, come back.” Rules of the Wild is a call and response to that siren song, a deft portrayal of how place can influence character, and a gorgeous, raw, loving homage to East Africa.