Hans has left for university in Copenhagen, where Peter and his older sister Tilte are visiting him. While they are there, their parents disappear on holiday in La Gomera, "a wannabe Finø in the Canary Islands". Finø's authorities step in, in the form of the Kommune's director "Bodil Hippopotamus", two plainclothes police officers who stick out on Finø "like two tree frogs on a fish rissole", a drug-addled count who runs a rehabilitation centre as directed by the little blue men who bring him magic mushrooms, a bishop and a forensic psychiatrist.
Tilte and Peter are illegally tagged and imprisoned in the rehabilitation centre, alerting them to the importance to the state of whatever their parents are doing. The pair escape by impersonating a non-existent lizard, stealing a car and inventing a religious cult in order to board an arms dealer's luxurious cruise ship while pretending that a dead body in the wheelchair they are pushing is the ship's doctor. Hiding from the police in a film star's apartment in Copenhagen, they must evade the forces of evil – which invariably turn out to be subject to redemption at Tilte's hands – do the right thing and, if possible, save their parents from the consequences of their own wrongdoing.
Peter Høeg displays a glorious facility for the absurd as well as the picaresque, and the hilarity of Peter Finø's narrative makes this a delightful novel even for readers who have limited tolerance of surrealism. Jokes are not easy to translate and Martin Aitken is to be congratulated. But, as one would expect from Høeg, this a book with ambitions beyond entertainment. The title comes from an "old Indian saying": "In case you wish to befriend an elephant keeper, make certain to have room for the elephant." Peter sees that almost everyone except himself and Tilte has an elephant – a passion or vocation that disrupts relationships and calls its owner to break rules and laws to fulfil a life's ambition. His father's elephant is his own charisma and his mother's is the manufacture of special effects, an unfortunate combination that leads them towards criminal lives.
Other adults – even the most frightening terrorist mastermind – are driven by other gifts and fears, and the other-worldly Tilte sees, forgives (and manipulates) all; readers of Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow know that Høeg can frighten his readers, but that gift is almost entirely restrained here. The children are clear-sighted about the philosophical questions they encounter in the course of this existential romp: exactly how far do ends justify means? What is the virtuous relationship between personal loyalty and abstract moral rectitude? Should one live with loneliness and, if so, on what terms?
However relevant to the story, these sober moments work less well than the outright comedy. Adult readers tend to have limited patience for the existential musings of even the most entertaining 14-year-old, and most authors must choose between creating strong teenage narrators (as Høeg does here, stretching credibility only as far as his picaresque narrative licenses) and obvious philosophising. Peter intersperses his tale with advice to the reader about "finding freedom" and "opening the door", introducing an element of adolescent moralising that seems – perhaps deliberately – less accomplished than the rest of the book. It's enough of an achievement to bring together Voltaire and PG Wodehouse; you don't need Salinger as well.
Thanks to The Guardian and Sarah Moss ( Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland is published by Granta.)
