In this novel, Elorriaga sends two almost eighty-year-old friends from the Basque Country, who could hardly be more dissimilar, on a final journey through Eastern Europe: Erroman, who tells us the story, is the epitome of calmness, Soro Barturen is eccentric, a millionaire and seriously ill. Despite this – or perhaps because of it – Barturen pursues his missing friend Pedro Iturria, with whom he had once studied engineering in London, like an obsessed man, with Erroman always at his side. Iturria had a passion for writing. Now the two friends follow the trail of his writings, published in the respective local languages, from Prague via Budapest and Warsaw to Moscow, for which the translators, especially Eszter Nagy, a Hungarian of Argentinean origin, are of special importance. In their conversations with Barturen, they have to answer all his questions.
Part of the novel is made up of some of the fascinating stories of the misunderstood genius Iturria. They deal with the deeper meaning of life in exceptional situations and depict dystopian visions of reality. The title story We Don’t Hang Anyone (“Iturria”/”Nosotros no ahorcamos a nadie”) stands out in particular: it culminates in the public hanging of five people and, with the simultaneous presence of past and future elements and an undefined controlling authority with terrifying rules, inevitably calls to mind Margaret Atwood’s novel “The Handmaid’s Tale”. The novel develops into an enjoyable literary scavenger hunt celebrating friendship and the art of storytelling.

The young protagonist Phineas is convinced that his vanished sister Sora has been abducted by the henchmen of the dictatorship terrorising their small town. Despite all the risks involved, he sets out to search for her. Phineas comes across reports and documentations of the permanent spying, torture and forced operations used to oppress every dissident in the surveillance state. Into this first part of his novel London Is Made of Card (“Londres es de cartón”) Elorriaga weaves a second strand, which reads like a typical English detective story. An elderly lady has been murdered and three men start the detective work of revealing the killer. The murderer they find is the schizophrenic Sora, who is put into a psychiatric ward. Although Phineas finds out what really happened to his sister in the end, he never loses hope of one day seeing her again. Londres es de cartón questions our familiar perception of reading. With virtuoso skill, the author uses dreams and imitation, confronting the reader with the horrors of a nameless dictatorship and the dubious nature of deductive investigations. Elorriaga is a master in showing us the gaps left behind by a desaparecido.

In Plants Don’t Drink Coffee (“Vredaman”) Unai Elorriaga tells the enchanting tales of a small Basque village. At first, we meet Tomas, whose childlike perspective forms one of four narrative strands. Since his father is in poor health, the boy spends the summer at his aunt’s house and goes hunting for insects with his older cousin. To catch the rare blue dragonfly is his highest ambition. As before with age, the author here skilfully encapsulates the child’s world with his imaginative and playful language. The most ambitious project of the summer, however, is impelled by Uncle Simón. As a rugby fan he has a tough stand in Spain, where only rarely a game is transmitted, let alone carried out. Yet with the help of 82-year old Piedad, who once lived in England and speaks the language, he manages to realize his wildest dream, to referee a game in Wales against Ireland. The game is a huge success for him, but he goes even further: Simón invites both teams back to his village. Here both players and spectators clamber over the walls of the nearby golf course where Simón and his friends have prepared a pitch. When the police eventually arrive on the sidelines, indecisive and late, the final whistle is blown and all disappear to conclude the evening on the beach. In scenes which sometimes border on the surreal, Unai Elorriaga presents us with a world in which dreams and desires still form part of everyday life. His protagonists are often simple human beings, who emanate a great kindness and who charm their environment and the reader alike.

A Tram to the Himalaya (“Un tranvía en SP”) tells of an unusual friendship between a young busker and a pair of elderly siblings. Critics were thrilled by the young author’s startlingly perceptive approach to thorny topics such as age, forgetfulness and death. Moreover, they rejoiced at his wilful style.