Historical fiction requires finesse to master. It is the equivalent of walking a tight rope with several weights in each hand. Alongside the usual difficulties of world building and character writing, the author must consider the degree of faithfulness they wish to devote to the history they were inspired by. Anything under-researched or overly sensationalised is usually torn apart by reviewers, opening up another debate about whether historical fiction has a responsibility to educate. It is with these caveats in mind that I can confidently say Raül Garrigsait’s The Others lacks appeal, despite its initially promising premise. From convoluted prose, shallow characters and Garrigsait’s naive assumption of his readers’ versing in history, it is undoubtedly a story of disappointment. 

Set during the height of the Carlist Wars - a series of civil wars in Spain during the 19th century (of which I was unfamiliar with prior) - The Others follows two parallel stories. One of a translator and one of a soldier, the latter’s narrative being awoken through memoirs. Translator Raül (who I assume is named after the author) works on translating prose from German to Catalan, finding himself enraptured with the Prussian-Carlist history of Felix Lichnowsky, who fought for the Spanish royal claimant Don Carlos. Already, quite a confusing storyline emerges: despite being enamoured with this Lichnowsky, he only furthers his interest when he is requested to translate the former’s memoirs into Spanish by a small publisher. It is at this moment, when searching for Lichnowsky’s memoirs in his detested Berlin, that he discovers the second protagonist of the novel: Rudolf von Wielemann, a foreign soldier who finds himself in the midst of the Carlist Wars. Garrigsait uses Wielemann - as he is referred to in the novel - as his second narrative perspective, immersing us in a first person outlook on the Carlist Wars through Wielemann’s eyes; as a Prussian soldier who has been sent to Spain to bring honour to the Wielemann family name. 

For most of The Others, I was left completely perplexed as to what the plotline was. The switching of perspectives between Raül and Wielemann was nowhere near seamless; though it may have been a stylistic choice, the descriptions and narrative styles of both characters were dauntingly similar, often leaving you muddled as to who you were reading about. Towards the middle of the novel, this confusion alleviates slightly as Garrigsait firmly settles on Wielemann as the focal character, exploring the ‘misfit’ trope as he struggles to settle in with the boisterous Catalan soldiers, nicknamed ‘the Shambolic Six’ by our protagonist. 

Many reviewers have commented on Garrigsait’s humour throughout the novel, but I am yet to see evidence of it. Rather than laughable moments, I was mostly left with pity for Wielemann, whose unbalanced and introverted demeanour exacerbated his discomfort in a foreign land where he could not speak the language. Wielemann’s characterisation is one of the few redeeming qualities of this novel. His inability to understand Catalan prevents him from settling in and making lasting relationships, with Wielemann’s desperate use of mediocre French highlighting his ‘otherness’. He is unable to voice his purpose for arriving. The letter of recommendation he brings from a Prussian general is unable to find an audience who can read it. The Pretender - or heir apparent - Don Carlos is intimidated by Wielemann’s stature, thus distancing himself from a man who wishes to fight alongside him. The ‘Shambolic Six’- nicknamed as such due to morally reprehensible alcoholism and abuse of women - mock him as a Russian pretending to be Prussian. Even when he eventually finds work in a hospital, the endless sight of oozing wounds is unbearable, causing him night terrors and psychological disturbances that he cannot voice. Only his eventual friendship with Dr Miguel Foraster - a pun on the word foreigner in Catalan - provides Wielemann with some solace in this abandoned, war-torn city. Yet even this friendship is heavily hinged in Foraster’s provision of a piano for Wielemann to plonk his emotional outbursts onto. 

It is with Wielemann’s narrative that the jarring, jumbled writing style of Garrigsait makes somewhat sense. You feel every ounce of his confusion as he stumbles through a war he was delivered to by his father. This surrealism is, however, broken rather frequently by the second protagonist Raül; our omniscient narrator steps in several times throughout the novel to reiterate that Wielemann’s memoirs may exaggerate the events. Almost like the warning you receive prior to a film or game which displays the message: ‘events and characters described in this media are completely fictional; any correlation with real life people, events, or stories are purely coincidental.’ Whilst the first reminder is appreciated, agitation creeps in after it is repeated over and over. Raül’s own story as a translator is mundane and scrambled, barely getting any focus in The Others to begin with. So when he unnecessarily interjects in Wielemann’s narrative, you detach yourself even from the soldier’s rather relatable struggles.

Raül’s incessant commentary is likely an attempt to reiterate that history is what we make of it, as he establishes early in the novel:

‘Objects and events are mute; it’s our words that make them speak, our truthful fictions.’¹

The fractured memoirs of Wielemann probably serve to underline this point with a heavy pen. However, the message loses itself in the hazy plot and lacklustre character progression. The language itself is sometimes beautiful, but more often than not the storyline becomes drowned in purple prose as a result. It is difficult to lay blame with Garrigsait’s translator Tiago Miller in this instance, as part of the issues stem from Garrigsait’s own invention. For instance, the ending of the novel was so anarchic that I found myself re-reading it over and over to make heads or tails of it. The disjointed chapters, acting as extended metaphors for the fragmented memoirs, work better as a concept. 

I hereby diagnose that this novel is a result of poor execution. Perhaps it required more pages to give space for the desperately needed clarifications and developments. But this is the precise issue. There was space for it: only, Garrigsait abandons any semblance of lucidity for unnecessary grandiloquence. Raül, the forgettable co-protagonist, acts as an agitating buzzing in your ear rather than a worthwhile addition. There was no need for his story to exist alongside Wielemann’s. All in all, the author’s occasionally profound reflections on war and history are lost, whether it be in translation or tumidity.