Mark Helprin, Freddy and Fredericka (Penguin Press, 2005)
Mark Helprin's new novel (his first in a decade) is about two characters who may be very intelligent (or very stupid); it details their adventures when they are forced into an unfamiliar land (or it does not); it is a pure farce with humor bordering occasionally on slapstick (or it is a withering social commentary); it is a delicate romance (or it is a powerful statement on contemporary politics in not one but two nations); it is a book that celebrates the English monarchy (or skewers it with almost angry glee); it is a book that lovingly pokes fun at American presidential politics (or ruthlessly savages them); it maddeningly indulges linguistic wordplay for pages at a time (or it showcases some of the most beautiful pure language I've read in quite some time); it contains magic (or it does not); it's a book that had me often wondering why the hell I was reading it at all (and then would, within five pages, remind me).
Freddy and Fredericka is all of those things.
The book's title refers to Britain's Prince and Princess of Wales, the King and Queen in waiting. They are so unbelievably self-absorbed that they don't even have a connection with one another, much less with the subjects they are to one day "rule." Their public behavior, though, borders on the erratic, and the British tabloid press has simply convinced the British that their future King and Queen are lunatics. This leads to a secret ceremony, somewhat like Arthur's pulling Excalibur from the stone, in which Freddy is rejected as King by a bird. This rejection, clearly, puts the institution of the monarchy in jeopardy, and it is thus decided by the reigning Queen, Philippa, and her enigmatic adviser Mr. Neil, that Freddy and Fredericka are to be given a mission. And that mission is this: they are to parachute at night into the United States, where they are to reconquer America for the British. And they are to do this whilst traveling penniless and incognito.
So it is that after a hundred fifty pages or so of parodying the British Royal Family and the British tabloids, Helprin turns his eyes on America, when he puts his characters through such adventures as parachuting into industrial New Jersey, running afoul of the police and some neo-Nazis, losing their front teeth, hitching rides on freight trains, fleeing wildfires in the west, becoming dentists, taking over the main production at a "Medieval Times" type restaurant, and eventually becoming embroiled in a Presidential campaign, culminating in Freddy addressing the delegates at the Republican National Convention while still incognito (the delegates believe his name to be "Moofoomooach").
And after all that, they return home. Did Freddy and Fredericka succeed? Did they reconquer America and become King and Queen? In truth, I don't know if they did. And I read the book.
Are Freddy and Fredericka patterned on Charles and Diana? Well, yes. And well, no. The parallels seem obvious at times, less so at other times. And other possible parallels abound: Dewey Knott's quixotic campaign for the Presidency of the United States might be an analogue to Bob Dole's 1996 campaign against President Clinton (Helprin actually wrote Dole's farewell address to the United States Senate), a parallel that is made sharper by the fact that the incumbent's name is Self.
Helprin has always had an enormous gift for language, and he indulges it to an occasionally absurd degree in this book. One motif that recurs throughout is that two characters, one of whom is almost always Freddy, will have a conversation based on a misunderstanding of a single word that always calls to mind the "Who's on First" routine. This device got a bit old, I must admit, and in any event it probably should have stopped after the over-the-top shenanigans involving Freddy wandering around small-town Britain shouting the name of his dog, Pha-Kew, at the top of his lungs. (Say that name out loud.) But then there are moments of pure beauty in this book, when Helprin's prose eschews the ludicrous farce in favor of moving poeticism. I'd love to quote an example or two of these, but given the nature of this novel, I'm afraid that if I tried to look those examples up, I'd find that they aren't there anymore.
That's my main reaction to Freddy and Fredericka: for a book of over five hundred pages, it almost has no substance at all. Reading it was, for me, the literary equivalent of eating a fine chocolate mousse. I had the distinct aftertaste of chocolate, but the sensation was more one of consuming air. Freddy and Fredericka defies any attempt at judging it one way or the other. I'd recommend it strongly, if I wasn't also sure that you might just hate it. But you can't take my word for it. After all, I may or may not have read it.
