Yesterday I read The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette by R. T. Raichev.  This mystery set in contemporary England with tons of very English details — gentlemen’s clubs, country houses, men who served in Sudan and in MI5, and gin and tonics — is the product of a Bulgarian who wrote a dissertation on British crime fiction (can you get a PhD in that, really?) — and now has written a series of mildly entertaining mysteries, judging by The Hunt for Sonya Duffrette.

The entire novel seemed to be have been constructed wholly with the purpose of befuddling the reader.  Okay, it is a mystery novel and so befuddling goes with the territory, and yet there is nothing I hate more than the deliberate placement of red herrings, especially when the sight (and smell) of the herrings is used to obfuscate lack of plot, dearth of interesting characters, and absence of sense or sensibility.

This book had the makings of a good mystery but it just did not deliver. My advice to Raichev would be to write from a man’s point of view (might be more believable), write what you know (Bulgaria is a lot more interesting than a faked England), and to create more action and fewer conversations that lead only to the wrong conclusion, again and again.  One more pointer: if we care at all about any of the characters, the book becomes compelling; if we don’t, it doesn’t.

Yes, readers who read my reviews carefully: I read two mysteries in a row, The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette yesterday and Make No Bones two days ago.  The preceding week of heavy reading, between Junot Diaz and his marvelous Oscar Wao,  Slavenka Drakulic’s novel based on Frida Kahlo, and the essays of William Hazlitt, left me in dire need of escape, entertainment, brain food that digested easily, and a chance to solve a problem.  Now I am sated and ready, once again, to dive into literature that provides no easy answers but does give genuine, fresh, and original insight into what it means to be alive.  Keep reading, and I will too.