I first discovered Immanuel Mifsud rather late in the day, with his third book L-Istejjer Strambi ta’ Sara Sue Sammut, in fact. Immediately upon the first reading – and there were to be many – I was intrigued by what I felt was a novel, unexpected genre for local literature that had only just started to be explored by Mifsud himself and other authors like Guże Stagno and, later, Alex Vella Gera.
Each reading of Sara Sue only served to strengthen my fascination with this collection of subversive characters. Fast-forward 20-odd years and Mifsud has not lost any of his talent for creating protagonists that fascinate despite their – or maybe because of – questionable likeability. His latest publication, Filli Ma Tcun Xein, Filli Tithol fl’Esistenza, jew Marzu, April, Mejju (Klabb Kotba Maltin, 2024), is another case in point. A mouthful of a title, to be sure, but one that you shouldn’t allow to intimidate you.
Incidentally, the archaic spelling is not an affectation; it will gain meaning as you start reading the book. Although the narrative unfolds throughout the period mentioned in the subtitle – Marzu, April, Mejju – this is a reference to the poem Mejju Ġie bil-Ward u ż-Żahar by Ġan Franġisk Buonamico, which is also quoted in the book.
Part of Mifsud’s gift is that his prose is just as captivating as his characters are complex. At its simplest, Filli Ma Tcun Xein, Filli Tithol fl’Esistenza, jew Marzu, April, Mejju is an intimate portrayal of Edgar Darmanin. Edgar is a regular man, who lives and workes in Germany but who is called back to Malta when his mother suffers a heart attack. A regular man indeed, with all the contradictions, layers and unpredictability of all regular men – all of which Mifsud excels at introducing unobtrusively into his narrative, without drama, and without asking us to make any value judgements.
As the narrative unfolds, we get to learn more about Edgar’s childhood, and we start asking ourselves questions about his adult relationships. Told through a series of WhatsApp chats, regular dialogue, prose and even Bible citations, Mifsud’s literary prowess is such that he suggests, rather than reveals, all the while keeping the reader hooked and asking more questions.
The book is replete with religious allusions that may, at times, comes across as heavy. Yet, they are not out of place in a narrative where we see Edgar as a psychologically complicated man, with his journey into adulthood culminating in a classic case of maternal transference. This is cleverly communicated to the reader by means of a shift in dialogue, deliberately creating a sense of blurred lines when he’s addressing his mother and Astrid, his lover.
We get to know Edgar slowly, through unconnected vignettes. Like Mifsud’s earlierJutta Heim, this is a slow burn of a story, gradually building the protagonist’s character until suddenly you turn the page and realise he’s no longer a stranger. And when, eventually, he asks Astrid to marry him we are not surprised.
When the end comes, Mifsud’s measured writing pays off, poignant without the need of melodrama, leaving the reader with a faint taste of sadness.
For other book reviews, see Adrian Buckle’s Unifaun, Teatru Mod Ieħor and Karl Schembri’s Taħt il-Kappa tax-Xemx.
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