Rod Stewart once sang, “The first cut is the deepest,” and although Makkai doesn’t channel Rod Stewart in her intrepid, ambitious, darkly witty and astringent second book, that line has been embedded in me since I closed the last page. The deep cut goes back almost 100 years, to 1900, but you have to get backwards via forward progression of pages. Makkai did a bold and brave thing in her narrative, inverting the timeline, which starts in 1999. Section two starts in 1955, section three in 1929, and the prologue, where the beginning of the tale ends, or the end begins, is set in 1900.
This story in no way resembles the narrative style of her first charming book, THE BORROWER, a tender but easily accessible caper-cum-coming of age tale. As these pages move forward/backward, the story gets denser, with gothic filigree, and I had to concentrate (in fact, a second reading would help me tie the looser ends). The thread that heads back one hundred years looks not so much like a straight line as it does an elaborate cat’s cradle. Or Chinese boxes. And don't look for a haunted house/horror tale in the conventional sense. It isn't nail-biting, gasp-inducing horror. But it is mercurial.
The centerpiece that embraces the story is the house, on an estate named Laurelfield, near Chicago, now 100 years old and once an art colony for writers, artists, dancers, and musicians. However, by 1955, it was closed down. One thing that survived is a haunting oil painting of ancestor Violet Devohr, a portrait that doesn't follow you with her eyes; rather, you can’t even stand at an angle that directs her vision towards you. It’s a different kind of creepy. Violet supposedly killed herself in the attic.
Zee, Violet’s great-granddaughter, a scholar on Marxism, is reluctantly living in the next-door coach house in 1999 with her husband, Doug, who is keen to get in the attic of the main house and search through papers to find information on the homosexual poet, Edwin Parffit, a former member of the art colony. Doug is writing a book on him, but is suffering from writer’s block, so he’s doing hobbyist work for a series of YA books, and hiding this embarrassing information from his wife. Zee is slowly unraveling, almost like a nineteenth century or early 20th century heroine. The matriarch, Zee’s mother, is mum and guarded about the attic and most things about the house’s history. The section ends with lots of unanswered questions and a few trails on the interconnected road to yesteryear.
Section two, the shortest (other than the prologue) and most acutely intense, focuses on Zee's ancestors. The threads from section I tie around, and lead to even more baffling and cryptic questions, which are revealed in various ways as we visit the art colony in the final section, in 1929. The characters from the past 100 years mirror and appear in different guises, connections, and descendants, supplying the fuel for this metafictional comedy of manners. The prologue, although only a few pages, is a hot coal of lore and lowdown.
The response to this book is going to be divided, I am certain. Those seeking a more lightweight read may be disappointed in its dense complexity of story, which combines farce, satire, gravity, even violence. It takes patience and dedication to read this circuitously constructed tale. But, I love that Makkai is, like her first book, impassioned about the importance of the arts, which comes to light in the poignant telling of the art colony. However, I want to give a heads up--not to convince you to read this book, but to hopefully help in your decision-making on whether this is a book for you.
I was struck by the quote about Daphne that begins the book, from Ovid’s Metamorphosis—“Nothing of her was left, except her shining loveliness.” Although I have yet to read Ovid, I was entranced by Bernini’s sculpture, Apollo and Daphne, at the Galleria Borghese in Rome. This quote, magnified for me by Bernini’s artistic devotion to Daphne’s enigma, is an uncanny key to the novel’s themes. Rebecca Makkai is a commanding writer--whimsical yet dense--a romp, but one with gravitas. What an impressive feast of literature is this book!