3.5*
This is a story about choosing love at all costs, even at the expense of your own life. Jehan, Marquis de Beaudelaire, is a libertine; a self-absorbed, vain and wealthy man; whose great pleasures in life are writing indulgent poetry, buying jewellery for his twin sister Hortense and pissing off his uptight priest of an uncle. He is also sensitive, passionate, funny, loyal and deeply lonely. In other words, a delightful narrator - I was wholly devoted to him by the end of the first chapter.
Enter Master Jonathan Kryk of Amsterdam, just at the moment when Jehan is, reluctantly, seeking a new valet. He is austere, proper, extremely efficient - so, living up to the reputation of his countrymen. Jehan is reluctant to accept such a stick-in-the-mud into his house of pleasure but what can a man do when his person is so high maintenance? He must take the best man he can get. Jehan’s reluctance masks an attraction to Kryk which, after witnessing him weeping at the beauty of a musical recital, becomes a full-blown passion. A passion which, ultimately, is powerfully reciprocated.
Even Beyond Death is at its best when it represents the yearning, fear, fulfilment and sheer pleasure of the love between Jehan and Joe. This is 17th century Avignon, so it’s not exactly a haven for queer joy, but through Jehan’s eyes we see the exquisite delight of finally being able to love and be loved in return, as you had always dreamed of. He is a generous, giddy lover - although he also has to learn the sharp lessons of his own pettiness, jealousy and privilege. He has a penchant for the melodramatic; he never met a grand gesture he didn’t like. It makes him open, tender, giving. But it also makes him careless, or reckless at least, and that sets in motion a downward spiral of destruction in the last third of the book. I mean, the title should have given it away. Although the final struggle of the story is threaded through with hope and devotion, it doesn’t have a happy ending. On the contrary, it’s absolutely, horrifically devastating and I cried.
The reason that I couldn’t get behind this book with my whole chest? It has a framing conceit, where the author Fiona Melrose is Jehan’s ‘scribe’ - he talks about her reactions to his tale in the main text and mentions her love life, the coffee shops she is writing from, the moments when she cries at the injustice meted against him. It gives Jehan 400 years of hindsight and a position to speak from that turns his love story into a kind of parable, with a clear message. That message is driven home in a ‘Dear Reader’ epilogue in which the spirits of Jehan and Joe return, like saints of queer love, to bless and succour those who have struggled after. And oh, how I hated it. Every reference to the author pulled me out of the narrative, and ultimately the effect was to dampen the emotional resonance of the characters. I already know I’m reading a novel, step off and let me have it for itself!
I also had some reservations about how the master/valet relationship is navigated. There are many times when Joe and circumstances force Jehan to confront the power he has over his lover; none more so than when Jehan is offered a get out of jail free card if he will simply denounce his servant. However, these ‘teachable’ moments are deeply uncomfortable - for example, during one awful scene, early in their relationship, Jehan is rough with Joe during sex without his consent and doesn’t stop when asked. Like a child, Jehan is always remorseful when his bad actions are pointed out to him, but this episode of sexual violence and other ways in which he takes advantage of Joe aren’t adequately integrated. His devotion and willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice are powerful, but the reader can’t know how much of that arises from his romantic ideal and how much from his true understanding of Joe’s pain and needs.
I guess both of my critiques here boil down to: I want to believe in and wholeheartedly feel the message of this story about love, truth to self, and honour to your ideals, but I can’t quite get past the artifice.