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Elders: A Novel, by Ryan Mcilvain
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A glorious debut that T.C. Boyle calls "powerful and deeply moving" that follows two young Mormon missionaries in Brazil and their tense, peculiar friendship.
Elder McLeod—outspoken, surly, a brash American—is nearing the end of his mission in Brazil. For nearly two years he has spent his days studying the Bible and the Book of Mormon, knocking on doors, teaching missionary lessons—“experimenting on the word.” His new partner is Elder Passos, a devout, ambitious Brazilian who found salvation and solace in the church after his mother’s early death. The two men are at first suspicious of each other, and their work together is frustrating, fruitless. That changes when a beautiful woman and her husband offer the missionaries a chance to be heard, to put all of their practice to good use, to test the mettle of their faith. But before they can bring the couple to baptism, they must confront their own long-held beliefs and doubts, and the simmering tensions at the heart of their friendship.
A novel of unsparing honesty and beauty, Elders announces Ryan McIlvain as a writer of enormous talent.
- Sales Rank: #687948 in eBooks
- Published on: 2013-03-05
- Released on: 2013-03-05
- Format: Kindle eBook
Review
“Admits readers to a kind of inner sanctum. . . . McIlvain zeros in on the inner struggle, exploring the appeal of faith and the sorrow that comes with losing it."—New York Times
“Glows with the love and anger of a former believer. . . . Clear-eyed. . . . Finely paced, keenly observed, and ruefully honest.” —Boston Globe
"[A] classic in Mormon letters. . . . Excellent, Mormon-themed novels are few and far between. This is one of them.”—The Daily Beast
“McIlvain dissects the mix of need and ambition and genuine faith that fuel a disciplined devotion. . . . Earthbound. . . . Honest. . . . Builds to [a] drastic resolution.” —Slate
“Elders is a refreshingly earnest, clear-eyed, and self-assured debut by a young writer to watch. McIlvain wrestles with sturdy themes, conflicted characters, and big ideas—the stuff of classic literature. —Jonathan Evison, author of West of Here
“I’ve always wanted to read a novel about Mormon missions abroad, and McIlvain is the ideal writer to write it. The framework he provides is layered and fascinating, and inside it, the complex human drama plays out beautifully—these are memorable characters, and McIlvain shows them to us with compassion and honesty both.” —Aimee Bender, author of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
“Ryan McIlvain’s beautifully written first novel takes the reader inside a quest: the coming-of-age mission expected of young male Mormons. Elders reveals a world of self-denial, proselytizing and passionate faith very differently experienced by a young American and his Brazilian counterpart. For one, to succeed is to turn away; for the other, faith is survival itself. Elders, “seeking one star in a million, a golden elect,” arrives at the perfect moment.” —Jayne Anne Phillips, author of Lark & Termite
“A nuanced meditation on faith and commitment that has all the intensity of a stage play. Elders is a powerful and deeply moving debut from a gifted young writer.” —T.C. Boyle, author of San Miguel
“A thoughtful, carefully wrought story about the voids between belief and questioning, between loneliness and companionship, between home and far, far away.” —Ramona Ausubel, author of No One Is Here Except All of Us
“In graceful, deft prose, Elders explores how two very young men cope with the serious task they are charged to perform, and the close quarters they must share. Every sentence counts as the novel tracks their fraught intimacy, their sincere efforts, their doubts, their disappointments. This is a wise book about the strength of human relationships under the pressure of challenged faith. Ryan McIlvain offers the reader genuine hope.” —Alice Elliot Dark, author of In the Gloaming
“With strong, economical language, Ryan McIlvain has crafted a terrific story. From exotic Brazil to an even stranger America. These characters are presented fully and with great affection. I'm certain this is the first of many fine works from an important new voice.” —Percival Everett, author of Percival Everett by Virgil Russell
About the Author
Ryan McIlvain grew up in the Mormon Church and resigned his membership from it in his mid-twenties. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in many journals, including The Paris Review. A Stegner Fellow at Stanford from 2009 to 2011, he currently lives with his wife in Los Angeles.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On an airless midsummer afternoon in Brazil, in the close, crucible heat of that country, Elder McLeod trailed his senior companion onto a street that looked just like the last one, and the last, and the last. Nothing moved. Or nothing animate, anyway--a soda can rocking on its side, dust scrims, the whites on clotheslines ghosting up above orange-brick property walls lined with beer-bottle shards. Even the gutters looked abandoned, shorn of moisture, a blond sedimentary braid running parallel to each cracking slab of sidewalk. McLeod watched Elder Passos peel off to the left of him, and for a moment all he wanted in the world was to keep walking, epically, all the way back to Massachusetts and the life he had left and the life he ached to have back. He could just ditch the last six months of his mission, light out for home--
"Elder? Elder McLeod? Hello?"
The voice came from behind him, rapid and insistent--already it grated on McLeod. He stopped. He turned his head half around, a half show of resistance, but enough to see his senior companion sidled up to yet another door, waiting, gripping the doorframe with his hand even, like a stubborn child in the toy aisle.
"It's your turn," Passos said. "Right?" He motioned his head at the door, which looked just like the last one, and the last: older than the tin it was made of, once blue (or green or yellow), but now, faded and dusted, sun-scored, a blue-gray, the color of dirty mop water. Elder McLeod stared at the door and clenched his teeth out of a sort of slow reflex. And on his Slump Day, too, he thought. That was the worst part. He thought: Five minutes. I'll knock for just five more minutes. He looked down at his wristwatch: 3:02. Ten minutes at the very most.
McLeod backed up until he stood beside Passos at the door. He rapped on the thin metal, a thin warping sound, and out of the corner of his eye he watched Passos watching. They had only been working together for a week, and the force of Passos's earnestness, his sheer newness, could still startle McLeod. Look at him now: yellow-brown, tall and lanky, his face like a tapering ear of corn, and in the center of it, a smile. Big-watted, toothy. At every door Passos smiled like that, a sort of insurance policy, McLeod thought, in the off chance that someone actually came to a door.
After several unpromising seconds at this one, Passos's smile remained bright.
"How long have you been out again?" McLeod asked him.
"Huh? Oh. Sixteen months almost."
"Congratulations," he said, but he laughed as he said it, a thin, tight laugh. Parabens. He pushed air through his nose, shook his head, and stepped away from the door, not waiting to make sure no one was coming. If someone was going to come to a door, you heard it early, heard movement in the house or in the yard, someone shushing the dog maybe, someone calling out Who is it? Or someone rushing up to peer through the gap between the brick wall and the outer door, then calling for a parent--a mother, usually. It happened quick. You didn't need to stand around, a hopeful debutante holding a smile for full minutes. Did Passos really not know that? The Boy Wonder? The climber who had made zone leader at only eleven months out?
Elder McLeod waited, half turned again, and now he noticed the shadow of a frown on Passos's face.
"Nobody's coming," McLeod said.
"I was just making sure," Passos said.
The elders finished knocking the street, every door a no-show, and started right into the next street. More no-shows. More smiles from Passos. McLeod wanted to throw his head back and laugh. Instead, he slowed his pace, then stopped, looking down at his wristwatch: 3:08. When he looked up again the world was still the same, everlastingly the same: the dust scrims, the whites on clotheslines, the property walls bristling with colored glass, rows of sharp, bared teeth. He could hear the river in the distance now, but only just.
At a sudden gust of wind a pair of blue jeans kicked up above the property wall to McLeod's left. He thought of the old dress pants he'd laid out on his bedspread this morning, a threadbare sacrifice waiting to be burned. A tradition. A rite. Which he would duly observe tonight with Sweeney and Kimball. He hadn't seen them in a week, not since transfers and the news that they would both become senior companions, at last. He expected they would razz him, the eternal junior, and that they'd see through his good-riddance routine. It did gall McLeod that he had to take orders now from someone with less experience on the mission, and with no knowledge of Carinha at all, the city McLeod had served in for the last six months. But Elder Passos played the game; McLeod didn't. Passos stooped to the game; McLeod wouldn't.
Over the sound of the river came a different kind of coursing, much louder and nearer to McLeod. His senior companion stood to his right, upending a squeeze water bottle above his mouth. The bottle exhaled as Passos lowered it, replaced it in his bag. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then nodded at McLeod and started for the next door.
"Really?" McLeod said.
Passos turned around. "What?"
"Today's my Slump Day, man. And nobody's answering."
"Your 'Slump Day'?" Passos said.
"You don't know what Slump Day is? Are you really that--"
"I know what it is, Elder McLeod. It's unbecoming of a missionary. That's what President Mason said at the last zone leaders conference. No more crass names to mark so-called occasions, and no more burning perfectly good clothes either. Didn't your last zone leader communicate that?"
"He communicated a lot of things," McLeod said, laying emphasis on the procedural-speak he already disliked in Passos. He stared at him for a long, hard second. Then he changed his tack. "Elder Passos, we can pick this back up tomorrow, can't we? I think eighteen months on the mission is worth a little break. Don't you?"
Passos put his hands at the top of his thighs, arms akimbo, long, stick-figure limbs. He seemed to be weighing his options, which battles and when.
"How about we do five more doors?" Passos said. "Then we'll take a break, okay?"
McLeod hesitated a moment, then sighed.
The first door was Passos's. Nothing. The next was McLeod's. Also nothing. The third door triggered an explosion of barking, a big dog from the sound of it, each bark like a mortar round. After several bracing seconds of this, McLeod and Passos moved on. When they knocked the fourth door, a flutter of movement came from inside the courtyard. A door handle catching, a door scraping open. A patter of footsteps approaching the outer door. A young face through the gap. Brown eyes, shorn brown hair.
"Well hello," Passos said.
The face disappeared and the steps retreated. McLeod and Passos heard whispered voices from the open front door, a quick high alto, a dragging soprano. Then the tiny steps again.
"No one's here, okay?" said the alto voice through the outer door. Ninguem esta aqui, ta?
McLeod snorted at the familiar phrase. It might have been the very first phrase he had learned to separate out from the rapid slur of Portuguese. Ninguem esta aqui, ta? And that final contracted ta, that timidness, so typical of the local style, and so tiring. We're not interested. We're not available. We're not even here. Okay?
"But you are there," McLeod said to the boy.
"What?"
"I said you are there, aren't you? You're someone."
"Yeah but my mom's not here."
"Yeah? Who were you talking to just a second ago?"
The boy paused, recoursed again to his line. "Nobody's here, okay?"
"I don't believe you," Elder McLeod said.
Passos turned to him, suddenly furrowed, his dark brows combining in a long sharp V shape. Let's go, he mouthed, leaning away from the door.
"But listen," McLeod continued. "We're representatives of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You may know us as the Mormons? Well, anyway." McLeod spoke in a clipped, mock-cheery tone. "I'm Elder McLeod and this is my companion, Elder Passos. 'Elder' is a title, not a name, by the way--in case you're curious. Many people are. But we've come here today with a very special message for you and your mother--"
"She's not here."
"Of course, of course. But we have a message for the two of you anyway. It's a message about liars and what happens to them in the--"
"Elder!"
A hand clamped McLeod's wrist and he was halfway off his feet. He felt the anger in Passos's grip, tried to shake himself free of it. "Let go of me!"
In the middle of the street Passos swung him loose and stared, his dark brows creased even sharper. "What do you think you're doing?"
"The kid was lying."
"Of course he was lying, Elder, but you don't say that. You never say that! Is this really how you act? Are you really this green?"
McLeod stiffened at the word. "I'm green? You think I am green. Who knocks doors for two hours right after lunch, when the whole damn country is asleep? And I'm green?" He turned around and started back up the street. Passos yelled after him, "Where do you think you're going?" McLeod didn't answer, didn't turn around. He shielded his eyes against the shards of light off the river as it crooked into view.
He waited at a nearby bus stop for ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, twenty. Had all the bus drivers in Carinha taken siestas too, all of Minas, the entirety of southeast Brazil? And where was Elder Passos? He had failed to follow after him, failed to turn up at the bus stop at all. He had succeeded, in other words, in surprising McLeod. Maybe there was a touch of earth in him after all. The Missionary Handbook forbade and forbade--no TV, radio, newspapers, etc., no recreational phone calls, etc., etc.--but it proscribed nothing so strongly as being separate from your companion. And yet . . . McLeod checked his watch, craned his head to see as far down the street as he could. Nothing and no one.
A touch of earth. Where was that from again? Something by Tennyson, right? Or was it Longfellow? He would have to ask Mom to look it up for him in his next letter home. Why could he never remember anything? Why could he not hold on to knowledge? Already the yield of years of effort in high school, and all the reading and memorizing he'd done on his own--it had dwindled to traces, scraps of language, and most of it floating maddeningly free of its context. Such that someone says now, at some point, and for some reason, that who loves me must have a touch of earth, the low sun makes the color . . . and something else. He would have to check it with his mother.
Soon enough McLeod could check things himself. He could enroll at Boston College or maybe Amherst, or maybe even one of the Ivy Leagues--he could at least apply--and then he could take history and literature classes and study facts, or study fiction, and put behind him this muddy slosh of the two. Six months more. The homestretch.
McLeod checked his watch again. Had it really been thirty minutes since he last saw Passos, and more than that without a bus? But just then he heard a low, diesel rumble: the rectangular bulk of a city bus rounding a corner, spilling its sound onto the main street. McLeod stood up from the bench with what must have been an expectant look, for by the time he saw that it was an eight bus the driver had already begun to brake for him. The bus pulled up to the curb and unfolded itself: the platform's sudden hitch downward, the hydraulic sigh of the double doors. The driver leaned on his lever and looked at McLeod. "You getting on?"
"This is the eight, right? I'm waiting for the six. Sorry," McLeod said.
"All right."
"But, hey," he said, "where is everybody?"
"Probably glued to their TVs."
"No, I mean, where are all the buses?"
"Less people to pick up, less buses." The driver studied McLeod a moment longer, a bemused little grin dawning up through his features. "The Latin American Championships, right? They started today. How do you say it?" He reached for the word in English: "Soccer?"
McLeod thanked him and stepped back from the curb as the bus pulled away, lifting a shimmering wake of dust. As it dissipated, McLeod caught sight of Elder Passos on the opposite sidewalk. He seemed apparitional, unsolid except for the green cans he carried in either hand. He started across the street.
"For a second I thought you'd got on that bus," Passos called, holding up two cans of Guarana. "Would have been twice the refreshment for me."
"Where were you?" McLeod said.
Passos gestured at the soda as he drew close to McLeod. "I figured we needed something to cool us down. And I don't know where anything is yet. So it took a while. You'll forgive me?"
Elder Passos produced his watted smile, easy and bright, and it softened McLeod. He accepted the can from Passos, cracked the tab--the sound of barbecues, camping trips. The transporting sound of elsewhere. The elders sat on the bus-stop bench and drank in long continuous gulps, as if discovering their thirst as they tried to sate it. After a moment McLeod came up for air, broke the silence. "I'm surprised you found somebody to sell you something. Today's the start of the Latin American Championships, apparently."
"Today?" Passos said. "Seriously?" He looked off for a minute, came back. "I guess that's right, isn't it? Early January. The mission disorients you."
"Amen," McLeod said.
"Amen and amen." Passos tipped the last of his soda above his open mouth, shaking the can like a handbell, dripping it dry. When McLeod had finished his a minute later, Passos walked the two cans to a trash barrel a few feet from the bus stop. He turned around. "Better?"
Elder McLeod nodded his head, even muttered a quiet sentence about the heat and his impatience--how he was working on it, how he wasn't usually like he was back there.
"That's okay," Passos said. "We'll just knock the last door, then call it a day. We said five, right? One more?"
McLeod pushed air through his nose again, shaking his head through the disembodied laugh, a genuine sound now, almost admiring.
It was Passos's door anyway. He led them back to the street they'd been knocking earlier, and in the middle of it he put one hand to his head, another out in front of him like a seer, pretending to channel some power as to where he should knock. It was another gesture, another touch of earth. McLeod gave a grateful laugh.
Most helpful customer reviews
53 of 59 people found the following review helpful.
The Conflict (from one who was enlisted)
By M. Stoneman
(Full disclosure: Ryan McIlvain is a friend and a former colleague at Brigham Young University; I was also a Mormon missionary in Brazil during the 2003 invasion of Iraq)
There are so many things about life on a Mormon mission: the tedium, the inner turmoil, the hardcore overtime regimen of tracting, the ladder climbing, the strange ersatz marriage with a total stranger that either blooms into lasting friendship or withers under extreme mutual disdain. Their essence is fully captured in Elders. Ryan McIlvain knows whereof he speaks. Having lived it, he just gets it and more importantly he conveys it on the page. This is no small feat and I can’t count the number of times I nodded my head at the end of a scene and recalled some outburst or unexpected act of charity or some lengthy period of stony silence in my own mission. This was both exhilirating and terrifying.
Bad things do actually happen in Mormon missions, sometimes the worst things. While very uncommon, some missionaries go AWOL, some get sent home dishonorably, some even commit crimes and go to jail. Elders observes its American protagonist’s spiritual downward spiral from his former aspirations with an unsparing clarity. The amount of physical violence depicted in the book is perhaps atypical but the emotions are not. Every 19-year old Elder or Sister missionary has moments of rage and revulsion boiling over and not many can react to it in a peaceful, disciplined way. The random acts of senseless destruction described in the book, like burning clothes and breaking dishware, are drawn accurately from real behavior and attest to the profound anxiety and frustration shared by all missionaries.
I must admit that I found the book occasionally careless about referencing Mormon concepts. Certain terms appear (Relief Society, block schedule, garments, mission/Church hierarchy, etc.) without a background or explanation, which probably leaves many readers guessing. Without a fairly broad experience within the Mormon Church, its culture and congregants, it may be hard to grasp why, for example, someone like McLeod would be encouraged to stay on as a missionary in spite of his faithlessness. Sometimes the author catches his reader up on an idea later in the chapter, other times the word appears and disappears without further comment. The Mormon experience is very unique and these concepts deserve a bit of probing within the mission context. Obviously this is a book of fiction, not theology, but more attention could have been paid to put the story on the level for every reader.
Some of the characters felt a little listless by the end of the story. I’m mostly thinking of Leandro and President Mason, two critical figures who are somewhat two-dimensional by the book’s end. Now, perhaps that is simply a function of their respective proclivities and attendant habits (Leandro’s drinking, President Mason’s business approach to spiritual work) and all we need to do with their characters see them get wound them up and watch them go. But even Elder Passos the co-protagonist begins to list by the end, less complicated and less sympathetic. McLeod’s trajectory is more like a rollercoaster while Passos never really leaves the ground.
The language in Elders is always compelling and often delightful. Some turns of phrase fall harder on the ear than others but then you get to a phrase like “the undemanding surface of all things” and let it roll it around in your head before finally admitting that, yes, that is the perfect description. These gems of language are a joy to encounter and left me searching for more McIlvainia online. I think you will, too.
29 of 35 people found the following review helpful.
Interesting Even for a Non-Mormon
By Mayflower Girl
I think people's journeys of faith are always interesting--wherever they lead. I found "Elders" to be really well written and fascinating. At first,
I was trying to get my bearings. I've never been on a mission--so terms like "P" day (Preparation Day--basically their day off) or the concept of burning clothes (apparently,
some Mormon missionaries burn various articles of clothing to signify completing a certain stretch of their mission...so a tie at 6 months, a shirt at 12 months, a pair of pants at 18 months, etc.) But those things were minor, and the story and characters were so engrossing that it really didn't slow me down.
I actually found Elder Passos (the Brazilian convert) a more interesting character (well, perhaps equally as interesting character) as Elder McLeod. For those who are LDS, I actually think you will enjoy this book. It's not a bashing of the faith--but more an honest exploration. I think it would be particularly good reading for teens/young adults preparing to go on a mission. The one thing to know is that the book does deal a bit with masturbation--which as far as I can tell, is not spoken of very much in the LDS church.
13 of 15 people found the following review helpful.
A graceful insight into the nature of faith and identity
By Rachel
The book "Elders", written by Ryan McIlvain, features two LDS (Mormon) missionaries as they go about proseletyzing in the town of Carinha, Brazil. Elder McLeod is an American who is burnt out after eighteen months of proselytizing; he refuses to cater to the politics within the mission field and as a result, is characterized as difficult and unruly. Elder Passos, a Brazilian who joined the LDS church after the death of his mother, struggles to balance his faith with his identity. This story takes place against the backdrop of the 9/11 attacks and the American invasion of Iraq, a tension that is reflected in the hostile attitudes towards Elder McLeod. Elder McLeod and Elder Passos are companions; the strict missionary rules require them to spend every moment together, a fact that results in a tenuous friendship between two unlikely people. These characters are boys that are turning into men, with all of the uncertainty that marks such a transition.
Elder Passos is devout, overly-serious, ambitious about the future, and uncertain about his place in the world. He studies English in his spare time, hoping to attend BYU. Perhaps the most poignant moment came at a time when the entire country is watching Brazil play in the final match of the Latin American Football Championships on a Sunday, at the same time as church. The mission president, an American, has insisted that church cannot be canceled, rescheduled, or skipped. Looking at the mission president, Elder Passos sees "a man who could look at an entire culture and see a game, merely, who could look at a country-wide communion and see a crowd." As a Mormon, Passos possesses a simple, sincere faith: he believes, with all his heart, that the teachings of the Mormon Church are true.
The conflict in this story centers on an investigator Josefina and her husband Leandro. For Passos and McLeod, the stakes are high regarding these potential converts: in them, the two missionaries see the chance to resolve their internal conflicts. McLeod seeks `faith as a principle in action': to learn faith through the action of teaching others. Passos is seeks the potential convert, the `one star in a million, a golden elect', as a way of changing lives, just as his own life was changed after the death of his mother.
Most stories written about Mormons tend to go for the dramatic: all in or all out. Good versus bad. This is not one of those stories. Rather, this is a book that focuses on the small: the small gestures of friendship that are often misinterpreted or over-looked, the simmering doubts that never come to a full boil, the nagging worries and insecurities that accompany faith. The result was something quite beautiful, a story that lingered in the mind long after reading.
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