The Map Thief is the Perfect Summer Read
New Brunswick’s Grand Manan Island is one of those idyllic locales where you have little or no distraction. So I took advantage of my free time last week to read the latest book by author Michael Blanding, a writer I’ve known for over a decade since his days as editor at Boston Magazine. Blanding’s subject this time is E. Forbes Smiley III, one of the foremost map dealers in the world before he was caught stealing a map from the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Yale University in 2005. In a plea bargain, he admitted to stealing close to 100 maps worth more than $3 million from the foremost map collections in the world including the British Library in London, the New York Public Library, and the Boston Public Library. Working as a travel writer, I certainly have an affinity for maps. I even remember having a New York City subway map on the walls of my college apartment. But map collecting to me is about as exciting as stamp collecting and I thought this was going to be another obligatory read I had to slog through because I knew the author. Man, was I wrong! This is an excellent character study that I’d love to see an actor tackle on the big screen, similar to Shattered Glass, the brilliant film about New Republic plagiarist Stephen Glass. In fact, the book was so compelling it was hard for me to put it down. Yes, Blanding delves into mapmaking and the impact on Colonial exploration, highlighting the gems, the “Honus Wagners” that fetch the most money at auction. But the meat and potatoes of the read is Smiley, an Orson Welles-type character who’s always the life of the party with a huge personality and laugh. The one who turns his college buddies on to great Blues records, fine wine, and entertains their kids at his summer home in Maine.
I opened the book thinking Smiley was another petty thief or con man with a Blue Blood name, not unlike the despicable Clark Rockefeller. But the beauty of this book is that you end up empathizing with Smiley. He has to compete against incredibly cutthroat map dealers, he’s spurned by collectors after assembling their phenomenal collections, even the New York Public Library reneges on its deal to let Smiley sell some of their wares after he persuades a collector to donate his entire collection to them. Then he has to deal with a redneck neighbor in Maine who wants to build a motorboat marina across from his quiet lakefront property. So in the end, he steals maps from libraries that can’t even keep track of them, incompetent at cataloguing what they acquire. Do I think it’s wrong that he stole a map from a book once owned by Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury killed by Henry the VIII? Absolutely. Would I like to down a pint with Smiley the next time I’m on Martha’s Vineyard, where he now resides? Absolutely.
The host of Tha Heua Me Guesthouse greets me with a smile on the porch and points to the simple meal prepared on the teak table beside her: sticky rice in a woven bamboo basket. I nod to her in ‘thanks’ – neither of us speaking the others’ language – take the rice, slip on my shoes, and begin my walk towards Sakkaline Road. The first rays of sunlight seep through the thick morning fog as I pass stately brick buildings adorned with plaited bamboo panels and balconies, the architectural vestiges of France’s colonial rule over Laos. Upon arriving at Luang Prabang’s main avenue, I am met by a long procession of barefoot monks in plain orange garb making their way through throngs of locals and tourists, all gathered at the crack of dawn to partake in a tradition that stretches back centuries. I kneel at the curbside with rice in hand waiting for an empty-handed monk to accept my offering. A few moments later, I am locking eyes with a young bareheaded man; his expression is at once one of gratitude and of poise. This will be the only meal he eats all day.
My kids weren’t too pleased to wake up at 6:30 am on summer vacation, but I wanted to be at Carara National Park at 7 am, when it opened. I knew from prior trips to the country that Carara was one of the few places to see that majestic bird, the scarlet macaw. Last time here, I heard a loud noise, only to peer up at a family of four vibrantly colored macaws. That is an image I was hoping to recreate. We arrived early and the gate was closed. In summer, Carara opens at 8 am read the sign. Screw it. The kids were already giving me grief for waking them up, so we sneaked in through the gate and started our hike. An hour later, we were covered in sweat from the sweltering rainforest humidity and had only spotted one very large Jesus Christ lizard. No macaws. We drove back to the hotel and I was bumming big time. 
On my last two trips to Costa Rica, I wisely spent the final night at
Thanks for the intriguing review, Steve! I’m going to walk over to my favourite independent bookseller (Westminster Books on King St. in Fredericton, NB)and pick up a copy after work today.
And if I have it my way, I’ll be reading it while on Grand Manan later this summer!
Good plan, Heather! Enjoy!