The Famished Road

Azaro’s continuing journey begins with his retreat from the blind old man’s visions: “As I ran, I saw a future history in advance, compacted into a moment. I saw an unfinished house crumble under the force of the rain. And then all that was left were metal rods sticking out of the watery earth” (314). This passage packs a lot of metaphorical reference into a few sentences. First, Azaro still functions as a symbol for his country’s uncertain future; its “future history” is as unclear as Azaro is displaced. He is menaced by the “blind old man”—a reference, perhaps, to Homer, the blind poet—whose intrusion leads to Azaro’s visions: “It happened so fast I was convinced I was still seeing the world through the blind old man’s eyes” (314). His subsequent journey into the spirit world—like the epic hero’s descent into the underworld, an epic convention—reinforces the connection to Homer. Azaro’s journey is not merely a coming-of-age tale but also a heroic voyage.

In addition, the passage again makes clear the contrast between the relentless onslaught of modernity, represented by the road, electricity, and now, the “unfinished house.” Ironically delineated, this “progress” is nearly always defeated by the forces of nature and the sheer power of the weather. The rain turned the road to mud in Book 4, and now Azaro sees a house destroyed by its force.

His entanglement with the spirit world also continues unabated. It is striking that, when he tries to blame the spirits for the broken window—though he actually admits to himself that he is to blame during the altercation—he comes across, for once, as an ordinary little boy telling a fib to get out of trouble. The scene where he is punished and cries self-pitying tears humanizes him. The fact that he wakes up the next morning “happy” only emphasizes the point (322). Azaro may be a spirit-child, or an epic hero, but he is also a young boy who sometimes gets into trouble.

This explains, at least in part, his decision not to eat, to make himself sick: He has been sent to bed without his supper for breaking the window, and he pouts about it, determined to make his parents pay for their callousness—an altogether common, immature reaction. He is “full of vengeance” and “withdrew from the world of feelings, sentiments, sympathies” (325). Still, he is Azaro—remember, short for Lazarus—and he will go on a remarkable journey to the spirit world, to the land of the dead, before being resurrected to walk among his people again.

The three-headed spirit guides him along the road in the spirit world, and they speak of where it goes: “It leads to the world of human beings and to the world of spirits. It leads to heaven and hell. It leads to worlds we don’t even know about” (326), the spirit tells him. This existential discussion conjures a complicated cosmology, but as Dad talks to Azaro, it becomes clear that a Christian worldview underpins the author’s sensibilities. According to Dad,

The prophet spoke of a particular people. A great people who did not know their own greatness. The prophet called that world Heaven and said they should build a great road so that they could visit those people, and that those people could visit them (329).

Clearly, this is a reference to Jesus and the Jews; Dad refers to this interaction as “an important destiny in the universe” (329). Additionally, the road, Dad claims, has been under construction “for two thousand years” (329), highlighting the connection to the Christian calendar. He talks about how the road building has been disrupted by natural disasters and the exigencies of human history. It is nothing less than the nightmare—and the potential salvation—of Western history itself. As Dad puts it, “[n]othing can destroy them [the road-builders] except themselves and they will never finish the road that is their soul and they do not know it” (330).

Later, Azaro becomes a symbolic martyr: “I bled all the way up the endless road” (335). He has been cut on the rough stones which now litter his path, more obstacles on his journey toward selfhood (which stands in for nationhood, as well). He is not the only martyr to the cause. Dad tells him about his anguish and Mum’s travails: “We have suffered for you. Suffering is our home. We did not make this strange bed that we have to sleep on. But this world is real. I have bled in it. So have you. Your mother has bled in it even more than we have” (337). He is trying to coax Azaro back to life, back to the real world. The family of three serves as a kind of secular trinity, just as the three-headed spirit also evokes Christian iconography. When Azaro finally comes out of his death-like state, he feels as if “our lives would know a new dawn” (342), including his parents in his rebirth. He believes that “[t]he world was new to me, everything was fresh” and all was “being reborn forever” (342). There is hope in the resurrection of life, in the fresh perspective of unveiled eyes. The section ends with Azaro listening to the sounds of his mother and father having sex: There is indeed hunger for new life.

This being a novel about a nation, not just a family, the implications reach beyond the personal. The neighbors gather around the family, welcoming Azaro back from his near-death experience—even though they bear “grudges” against the family (342). They tell him of all the happenings, from significant events to idle gossip, that occurred while he was away in the spirit world. Azaro thinks of their visit: “And yet, there they were, with privation before them, hunger behind them, paying us a visit to welcome me back from the dead” (343). There is unity in the community of the powerless and poor.