“The story of one is the story of us all,” say the mushrooms. When I Sing, Mountains Dance, the second novel by Catalan writer and artist Irene Solà, is nothing if not inclusive: men, women, children, ghosts, witches, dogs, deer, mountains, clouds, even mushrooms, all get a chance to tell their tales.
And these stories are all connected. Set among the villages, forests and rivers of the Pyrenees, the book builds a layered history of the area while focusing primarily on one family. There are four sections, each with four or five stories. These stories skip between the viewpoints of inhabitants past and present; animal, vegetable or mineral. Historical wounds echo into the present; personal traumas carry down the years; folk memories live on in the landscape. Through it all the mushrooms continue to grow: “Because,” they say, “there is no beginning and no end.”
Nevertheless, we begin amid a downpour. “We arrived with full bellies. Painfully full. Black bellies burdened with cold, dark water, lightning bolts, and thunder claps.” This is the charming voice of the clouds. They soon dispatch Domènec, a poet and farmer, with a flash of lightning. “The man collapsed onto the grass, and the meadow pressed its cheek to his, and all our giddy, happy waters moved into him through his shirtsleeves, beneath his belt, into his underwear and socks, searching for still-dry skin. He died.”
Domènec leaves a wife, Sió, and two children, Mia and Hilari. This family is the emotional centre of the novel. Sió simmers in despair, resenting her children; then, years later, Hilari dies in a hunting accident and Mia retreats to a secluded cottage. The ghosts linger on – as memories or apparitions or full characters – making their presence felt. Solà compounds this personal weight with the weight of history: the shades of republican soldiers trudge through the forest; the spirit of a bomb-scarred republican girl befriends Hilari.
Indeed, the Spanish civil war is inescapable: “This history that lies half-buried beneath our feet,” as one character says. Guns, shrapnel and other wartime mementoes are always turning up – one character’s infant daughter finds a grenade that must quickly be disposed of. The forest floor has a wonderful roiling liveliness: it coughs up human detritus, shakes and protests. The landscape is a character in itself, often shunning the humans. The mountain ranges, with a chapter of their own, plead: “Don’t come looking for me […] You have no need for my voice nor my perspective. Leave me be.” The trees turn to stare and the rivers go silent when humans pass by.
This democratic approach to storytelling works remarkably well. The chapter told from the perspective of the dog is one of the best: funny, intimate and sad. The witches we hear from are enjoyably cackling and foul (“And then we did kiss the devil’s anus”); an out-of-town hiker is superbly patronising (“The butcher’s shop is so authentic. Truly frozen in time”). Other sections are slightly less good. Hilari, in particular, hasn’t much to say except effusive slogans, such as “The infinite dwells in each of us”. Elsewhere, things are more delicate. Buried trauma, one of the main themes, is tenderly evoked in the later human-centred chapters.
Solà’s prose, excellently translated from the original Catalan, is expansive and tactile. Her sentences accumulate, running along, taking in as much as possible, senses alert: “When I was in the forest, far from those who carry you off and shriek, I filled my mouth with fresh sprouts and living water, and I filled my nose with all the smells, and my eyes with all the beautiful things, and I thought about my mother and my brother.” There are numerous memorable moments of deeply felt contact – with the landscape, with animals, or between people.
Obviously, Catalonia has its own claim to distinctiveness. When I Sing, Mountains Dance is, perhaps, a more universal claim on that same patch of land. Solà convincingly implicates everyone in the quickening pace of history and environmental decline; there are apocalyptic warnings. Will they be heeded? In the meantime, this attentive, playful, responsive novel makes an excellent case for stopping and listening. Even to the mushrooms.
• When I Sing, Mountains Dance by Irene Solà, translated by Mara Faye Lethem, is published by Granta (£12.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
