The best translated fiction – review roundup

Mammoth by Eva Baltasar, translated by Julia Sanches (And Other Stories, £12.99)
The third book in Eva Baltasar’s loose triptych of modern womanhood (the second part, Boulder , was shortlisted for last year’s International Booker prize) is the best yet. When a young lesbian in Barcelona wants to get pregnant, she throws “a birthday party that was actually a fertilisation party in disguise” and toys with using the “broad-shouldered sperms” of a swimming instructor. But she has ambivalent feelings about the process and moves into an isolated farmhouse, where her only companions are a dog that invites itself to stay, and a neighbouring shepherd. Her interactions with nature (cat lovers beware) are woven into reflections on life, love and desire, where the only thing worse than being alone is being surrounded by people. It all builds to a conclusion both inevitable and irresistible – apt for a book with such a strong, pungent flavour.

Dear Dickhead by Virginie Despentes, translated by Frank Wynne (MacLehose , £18.99)
“I feel like it’s riddled with holes. But I like the fact that it’s provocative,” says one character in Virginie Despentes’s characteristically colourful new novel. The dickhead of the title is Oscar, a middle-aged writer in France whose correspondence with actor Rebecca makes up the bulk of the book – though their emails are mostly sparring monologues. Oscar, whose sister was childhood friends with Rebecca, has just been accused of inappropriate conduct by a young woman with a big Instagram following, but he’s not exactly contrite. “This whole MeToo thing is just revenge of the sluts.” To an extent the premise is an excuse for lots of highly entertaining Bernhardian rants on the subject of men v women, generation v generation, and more. But a more subtle and complex angle comes through as the story proceeds, even if the best Oscar can hope for is that, as his daughter tells him at one point, “You’re a lot less of a dickhead than before”.

The Book of Disappearance by Ibtisam Azem, translated by Sinan Antoon (And Other Stories, £14.99)
US-based Palestinian writer Ibtisam Azem’s second novel has a seductively bold concept. One morning in Israel, Palestinians fail to turn up for work, prisoners disappear, and even the West Bank and Gaza are suddenly empty. Gossip fills the void: it’s a general strike, says the TV news. It’s a trap, claim some; others think “our brave soldiers carried out a clean operation”, while newspaper Haaretz asks simply, “Have All Our Problems Been Solved, Once And For All?” The main story alternates between two friends: Israeli Ariel and Palestinian Alaa, whose notebook Ariel reads after Alaa, too, disappears. The notebook reflects on Alaa’s grandmother and his beloved but “ill-fated” city of Jaffa: “they even stole [its] name” when it was incorporated into Tel Aviv. “Does a place have memory?” Ariel asks himself. This rich, potent novel reminds us that there are no easy answers.

Dead-End Memories by Banana Yoshimoto, translated by Asa Yoneda (Faber, £12.99)
Japanese fiction now accounts for a quarter of all fiction in translation bought in the UK – and Banana Yoshimoto was one of the first contemporary writers to appear in English, more than 30 years ago. This collection of three novellas and two stories is full of the themes familiar to readers of Japanese fiction: loneliness, alienation, surrealism – all delivered with a deliciously light touch. In one story, our narrator can’t understand why her male friend doesn’t want to join the family bakery business (“their cake rolls were delicious”), but pretty soon “a feeling of closeness lay silkily between us, like a sourdough starter quietly rising” – and then she meets the ghosts that live with him. Elsewhere, a young woman poisoned by a cafeteria curry spiked with flu medicine experiences a slow unpeeling of old psychological wounds (“My heart seemed to be unwinding”). That the casual tone can offer such emotional richness is testament to Yoshimoto’s remarkable skill.