My native country of Ukraine is so awash in tragedy that it can be hard to remember just how funny the people are. Although he is a wartime leader now, the current president of Ukraine was a comedian. The humor found present in Ukrainian combat footage has sometimes made Europe’s most horrifying war in 80 years easier to deal with. Johannes Lichtman’s new novel, Calling Ukraine, is another good reminder.

The plot itself is a familiar one, dating back to old tales of innocents abroad from Mark Twain to Evelyn Waugh: An aimless American man moves to Ukraine to work a call center manager job he’s not qualified for and blunders through the lives of the locals in both hilarious and dark encounters. It’s Lichtman’s light touch that keeps the novel from succumbing to cliche—the sad parts are sadder precisely because the author doesn’t beat you over the head with them.

Tonally speaking, this is a dry-humored and self-aware book, and it’s precisely because the author isn’t a try-hard that modern, prewar Ukraine is allowed to come alive in its pages in its ramshackle, intoxicating glory. It’s a reminder both of the country’s joy in peacetime—and of some of society’s darker elements that Ukrainians were working to change.

Without spoiling anything, I have to compliment the author’s portrayal of domestic violence in particular. This is a subplot with a hero and a villain—and a bumbling American getting in the middle of it because he can, of course—but it is also a fundamentally human story that is deftly told.

The domestic abuser in Lichtman’s narrative is not an inhuman monster; he’s an angry man whose dreams didn’t work out. He’s been taught to expect certain things from the women in his life. By contrast, nobody has taught him how to process his feelings when he is disappointed or in pain.

Lichtman doesn’t ask us to pity this villain; he just allows us to look closely at both of the people enmeshed in the dark matrix of a fundamentally broken marriage. His portrayal of the brutal and tragic mechanisms of the relationship and what becomes of it is the strongest part of the book. There’s a delicate balancing act involved in writing like this, and that the author pulls it off is what truly makes this novel come together.

That ties into some tough questions about masculinity, especially in the expat world. A sad fact of life in prewar Ukraine was that many of the Western men who flocked to the country were losers. There is no more polite way of saying it. Feeling unappreciated and emasculated at home, they’d show up to a poor country full of beautiful women in order to satisfy their sexual urges and to feel special. And there were plenty of companies willing to sell them that fantasy.

One of the most bizarre of these real-life characters was “virgin” hair dealer Vijai Maheshwari, featured in Politico Europe in 2015, his self-satisfied “I can always fall back on Ukraine” the perfect summation of the prewar sexpat mindset, as is his praise for a shady foreign businessman who married a “brassy blond.” Screaming, “Look at me—I can do things in Ukraine that I couldn’t do elsewhere” was never the flex these men thought it was, but it’s especially embarrassing to look back on in light of current events.

The majority of these sexpats, of course, were simply swindled by enterprising con artists and their handlers, thinking they were headed for an easy marriage to a beautiful woman but finding that there were some sudden financial surprises in the way. Some of the best English-language writing on the subject was done by Shaun Walker, who once lamented, “I had no idea whether I was to despise everybody or pity everybody” when he was covering the subject.

The mixture of desperation, poverty, and Western entitlement that fueled the con certainly netted some people millions—and these issues haven’t exactly gone away, hence the “hot Ukrainian refugee” narrative that exists today. Never let a genocidal war of aggression stop you from trying to get laid, huh? Certainly, such men never stop it from contributing to the imperialism practiced against Ukrainian women in particular—the women Russia paints as sexually available, and thus deserving of rape by its soldiers.

Lichtman’s main character is aware of this poisonous dynamic and tries hard to not be the proverbial “that guy”—even when he sometimes is.

As the global public has only recently become aware, Ukraine is also full of amazing men, actually: strong, handsome, brave, and willing to die defending their homes. Lichtman’s narrator, of course, would not have noticed that—and why should he?

The author portrays him as well-meaning but self-absorbed, comparing himself to the local guys and being satisfied in judging them wanting. This lack of awareness will wind up costing him something, but to reveal this cost is to reveal too much of the plot.

Ultimately, Calling Ukraine works best as a pretty vintage postcard, portraying a world that’s gone forever. It shows a beautiful if fragmented landscape, populated by witty and interesting people.

It’s a testament to Lichtman’s characters that today I wonder how they would have fared in wartime. Dima and Natalia, I imagine, would go fight, as would the older boxing instructor from one of the novel’s most memorable vignettes.

I can see Muriel, the earnest but annoying American volunteer, greeting refugees in Poland and satisfying her martyr complex in the process.

As for the main character, John, the bumbling American, I’m sure he’d donate a little and share some wartime memes—but not do anything too risky or dramatic. Lichtman’s strength lies in identifying the hollowness of his hero, even as his narrative gently urges us to consider that he, the hero, and we, the readers, should always long for more.