By Patrick Fewins

It’s often unpredictable which books will end up being a success. Nowhere is this more self-evident than with the German novel Felidae, a neo-noir detective novel published in 1989 by Akif Pirincci (translated by Ralph Noble), which sold millions of copies both in Germany and abroad. Undoubtedly there is an international market for thrillers, so what makes Felidae’s success so surprising?

Well, its star is the pessimistic, philosophical, pop-culture-reference-spouting Francis. And he’s a cat. If Hollywood were to decide that cat murder mysteries were the next big thing, then Felidae should be credited with persuading them; feline sleuth Francis has now appeared in eight novels, and a notoriously violent animated film that’s more Roman Polanski than the Aristocats.

Then there’s Akif Pirincci’s inclination to social allegory. While George Orwell and Richard Adams can attest that there’s a precedent for the animalistic parallel, Felidae takes things to a whole new level. The author uses feline characters as a mouthpiece for his own opinions, romping across the political landscape of 20th century Germany and touching on everything from eugenics to the morality of scientific experimentation on animals.

The mystery, too, is more complex than your average Agatha Christie. The culprit, another cat named Claudandus, isn’t out for mundane vengeance on the Orient Express; he’s a crazed killer, slaughtering those he deems genetically inferior in order to create a feline master race. No need to suggest to whom Pirincci is alluding.

But, for all of Felidae’s bleak cynicism and morbid cat-a-combs (don’t worry, that pun’s in the book as well), the epilogue strikes a decidedly optimistic note. A note that, fascinatingly, the author would later contradict. While his own novel ends with the protagonist urging that we “should relate to one another in loving friendship”, Pirincci would later be denounced across Europe for an offensive speech at a right wing Pegida rally, a place where you have to be particularly offensive to get noticed. Many of his comments, unquotable here, are certainly that.

So, how does one reconcile a writer that ultimately preaches “harmony” between races with a man whose political views saw German bookshops nationwide boycott his work? We arrive at the age-old question of art vs artist: can we still applaud the aforementioned Polanski for his considerable skill in film direction, knowing what we know? Can we still listen to Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal in light of the allegations against him? And even if we can, should we?

That, as ever, remains for the reader, viewer or listener to decide.

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