Poor Egon Loeser.
At the beginning of Ned Beauman’s The Teleportation Accident, he’s just broken up with his girlfriend (a wild ride in the sack, even if she is rather difficult to get off), there’s no good coke to be had in all of 1931 Berlin and the girl he wants to sleep with has gone off with a man he could have sworn was gay.
Oh, what’s that? Nazis in Berlin? No, he doesn’t read the news – it’s too depressing.
After a somewhat slow beginning, where there’s much lamenting the lack of cocaine in Berlin and a further lack of any good girls to take to bed, as well as a kind-of-but-not-really teleportation accident (which Loeser will end up seriously regretting before long), The Teleportation Accident really hits its stride once Egon leaves Berlin for Paris to track down Adele Hitler (no, not related) and then eventually makes his way to the States.
If he can just get Adele into his bed, he knows that things will pick up for him. The play he’s working on will be finished, his life will get better in every possible way, and he’ll no longer have to worry about the fact that his right bicep is [ahem] a full half inch larger than his left.
The Teleportation Accident is a spy novel, a not-really-a love story, a story of longing and desire, the tale of one man’s search for that book of Parisian porn that may or may not have been stolen by customs agents, but most of all The Teleportation Accident is a highly comedic novel that probably won’t work for a lot of people. There’s swearing on every page, a ton of talk about sex, the possibility of a Great Old One in 17th century Paris – but it was PERFECT for me – because there’s swearing on every page, a ton of talk about sex and um…the possibility of a Great Old One in 17th century Paris.
I loved it, but I’m not going to try to tell all of you that you’ll love it, too. I’m definitely going to be re-reading it before too long, and it may go on my favourites shelf when that happens. For now, a solid four stars.
If I want to feel as if I’m being sucked down a fathomless gloomy tunnel for hours and hours then I have a complete set of Schopenhauer at home.
Oh, and even if you pick it up and hate it – at least that sexy cover will look amazing on your bookshelves, amirite?