Miljenko Jergovic is no sooner born in Mama Leone than he's raising philosophical issues about God's existence. With surreal, self-reflective twists, the Croatian author's chain of linked stories delights in a child's misinterpretation of the world. From little Miljenko's conclusion that a suckling roast is a cooked naughty baby to his fear of pooping out his soul, Jergovic's perfectly child-size skewed vision of life is constantly in play.
Startling, irrepressibly droll, Mama Leone is brimming over with character-rich moments. Jergovic's narrative voice bubbles with childlike invention. "The river stunk like a million people had forgotten to flush a million toilets," he writes. Or "I love the llama because he spits at his visitors. Running away from his spit is the best time you can have in the whole zoo."
The second half of Mama Leone offers sadder tales about Bosnians living in exile in other countries, separated from their loved ones by the war--old women deteriorating in unfamiliar cities; a married woman trying to start over in a wheelchair; a man in a tram station with no papers, no money and nowhere to sleep. The final tale, however, is one of Jergovic's best, the story of Lotar, the strongest man in Bosnia, and his intemperate, consuming love for the woman who could break every man's heart but one.
Elliptical and frequently poignant, packed with swiftly sketched vignettes of Croatian life, Mama Leone is constantly surprising and always compassionate in its portrayal of the victims and survivors of Jergovic's war-torn homeland. --Nick DiMartino, Nick's Picks, University Book Store, Seattle