Sitting at that table for two is Amor Towles on the one side, and Amor Towles again on the other side — but despite the mirror image, they are not one and the same. Indeed, this collection showcases two distinct incarnations of a same talent; two voices to applaud that differ in their approach to storytelling even as they bear a same name; the realization came to me halfway through.
It hit me as I began Eve in Hollywood, that much-celebrated sequel to Rules of Civility, which made for roughly half this volume — specifically, the second half. I recognized in it the same writing as in Towles’s first novel, which I enjoyed enough when it came out, though it took A Gentleman in Moscow to wow me completely, later on. With Count Rostov’s reflections, it struck me that the author had grown: outstanding talent had always been present, but complexity had worked its way in, just as finesse had bloomed.
So in Table for Two, a first series of six excellent short stories reminded me of Towles’s second novel in their virtuosity and ambition, whereas in turn Eve in Hollywood stuck closer (and with its own measure of success) to Rules of Civility’s writing style. Which is to say, Eve postured and quipped and dazzled her way through like the fabulous creation that she is, but it’s the initial short stories that stole my heart in this collection.
If you know her, I had the good fortune of sharing this buddy read with Violeta, who brought her usual flair to the game and will have her own perspectives on all this. During our exchanges, what threaded the initial stories together for me were ethical conundrums, above anything else. As I was introduced to various characters consumed with anguish for one reason or another, I felt captivated by Towles’s playful takes on:
- a confounded communist in the face of her husband’s unlikely bargains;
- a young forger in denial;
- the impromptu guardian of a charismatic lush in relapse;
- a conservative man with a colourful secret;
- a married couple’s renewed foray into date nights; and
- an elderly art connoisseur getting back in touch with more prosaic family members.
That last story, “The DiDomenico Fragment,” turned out to be my favourite, crowning an already masterly crescendo. It wasn’t the only one to mix refined cultural references with accessible writing and relatable characters, but it proved the most generous of all, or at least it felt the richest in human observations — or maybe its blend of fact and fiction about Pietro di Domenico just put the finishing touch to a growing fascination with these short stories, each new one raising the bar. All of them delicately balanced humour and drama, and “The DiDomenico Fragment” was no exception.
“At a fine colonial table that Peter had presumably inherited from his father, we dined on a grass-fed roast, heirloom carrots, and organic Brussels sprouts—which is to say, the beef was tough, the carrots purple, and the Brussels sprouts exactly the same as Brussels sprouts in every respect other than price.”
Eve in Hollywood, by contrast, felt like a different beast. Not that it didn’t have humour or its own share of drama, but after the creativity that marked a first string of stories, all of a sudden the author was indulging in American golden-age glamour archetypes: the knockout blonde with an hourglass figure, the déclassé gentleman actor, the stereotypical private eye, and more, all of them playing true to type. This was an entertaining ride and endless tricks were put to good use by Towles, who visibly knows his classics, but gone was the feeling of reading something novel. It showed virtuosity in another way, instead, and it's hard not to picture the author having great fun writing this.
Those short stories, though.