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Review: The Salt Cartographer by Marit Solheim
Marit Solheim's third novel opens with a premise that sounds, on paper, faintly precious: a retired surveyor, Anselm Rook, sets out to redraw the coastline of an island that the sea is steadily reclaiming. That the book is anything but precious is the first of several pleasant surprises.
Solheim's great gift is restraint. Rook's grief for his late wife is never named; it seeps instead into his obsession with tidal tables and the shifting of sandbanks, so that every measurement becomes an act of mourning by other means. The prose, spare and exact, rarely raises its voice, and the few occasions on which it does, such as the storm that occupies the central chapters, land with considerable force.
Where the novel falters is in its secondary characters. Rook's neighbours, a ferryman and a schoolteacher who is perpetually on the point of leaving, are drawn with affection but little depth, and they too often serve merely to prompt the hero into reflection. One suspects that Solheim, so confident with landscape, is less at ease with conversation: dialogue that might have crackled instead settles into a polite murmur.
Nor is the ending wholly satisfactory. The final pages gesture towards a reconciliation between Rook and his estranged daughter that the preceding three hundred pages have done little to earn, and the metaphor of the vanishing island, hitherto handled with a light touch, is pressed rather too insistently into service. It is a pity, since the book's best moments depend precisely on what is left unsaid.
These reservations should not obscure what is accomplished here. Solheim has written a novel about loss that is neither sentimental nor cold, and about work as a form of consolation, which is a harder trick than it looks. Readers in search of plot may grow restless; those prepared to adjust to its tidal rhythms will find it quietly rewarding. It is not flawless, but it is, in the best sense, a book that stays with you after the sea has gone out.