Clete
Purcel is of course a literary landmark, in that he reflects the hero’s
weaknesses as well as his strengths. As
a trope, the Lone Ranger has Tonto, and the sidekick is a mechanism – sometimes
comic relief, sometimes standing in for the reader, sometimes an atavistic
force. To take one example, I like Elvis
Cole, but I adore Joe Pike. Joe does stuff Elvis couldn’t bring himself
to. I like to cite the exchange in one
of Robert Parker’s novels. Spenser tells
Hawk, the difference between us is that I’ve got rules. Hawk lets a beat go by, and says, I got rules, I just got fewer than you
do. (Fewer, maybe, but Hawk’s rules are inflexible.) Clete Purcel, in James Lee Burke’s Dave
Robicheaux books, is more than a convention, and a lot less comforting.
Dave Robicheaux has many flaws; disloyalty isn’t one of them. The same may be said of Clete. Clete is often to be found pulling Dave’s chestnuts out of the fire, even while Dave is doing his best to rescue Clete from his own worst impulses. The dynamic is like two drowning men trying to save each other, the struggle may pull them both under. Dave, an alcoholic in recovery, can be passive-aggressive, and can’t help himself, although he recognizes his behavior as damaged. Clete’s in recovery from a lifetime of poor choices, and keeps making them, not hoping the results will turn out differently, but wanting them to be the same.
The word you might think we’re looking for, here, is enabling. One of the curiosities of the Robicheaux series is that Dave, an honest man with a good heart, can so consistently fail to protect himself from his own vulnerabilities. But the deeper point is that Dave’s relationship with Clete isn’t a quid pro quo, there isn’t any one hand washing the other. The two men aren’t codependent – which is therapeutic language – they’re in love. Their trust in one another is unconditional. Facing predators, it’s a primal, animal survival instinct.
This is a meta sort of comment, following on the above, about trusting your instincts. I’ve read most of the Dave Robicheaux books, and I noticed something consciously, as a writer, this time around. James Lee Burke doesn’t get in his own way; if fury, or emotion, threatens to overwhelm the narrative, he leans into it, he doesn’t hedge his bets, or second-guess the demonic. He lets it roll, and the effect is startling. It doesn’t break through the wall, it’s still in character, you’re hearing Dave’s voice, but it’s unfiltered, or uncalculated, it’s Dave in the raw. He appears to be in flames.
As it happens, just as I suddenly became aware of this, in the second act of The Glass Rainbow, Burke proceeded to jump the shark, or so it seemed. He reels it in, but it was a little disconcerting. I was ready to follow wherever it led, and where it was leading was over a cliff.
Didn’t happen. The lesson I took from it from is, yeah, when the demon tempts you, surrender. If you dare nothing, nothing will come of it. Burke, at his best, runs hot. Which can be scary. Is he going to pull his own chestnuts out of the fire? And it’s even scarier when it’s you doing it. Strike a match. Light the fuse.
