The phrase ‘shelter in place’ means “finding a safe location indoors and staying there until you are given an ‘all clear’ or told to evacuate.” In David Leavitt’s latest novel, Eva Lindquist takes this to a rather alarming degree by impulse-buying an apartment in Venice to flee to in case the US goes south following the election of Donald Trump (his first election, given that his attempt at a soft coup is still ongoing.)
Said apartment, and the byzantine negotiations surrounding the acquisition of real estate in a foreign country, becomes a kind of McGuffin in Leavitt’s sparkling comedy of manners (and misbehaviour). It is a running joke throughout that the well-to-do, liberal Lindquists plan to escape to a place that was once upon a time a fascist stronghold under Mussolini. “In ’43 the city willingly handed over its Jews to the Germans,” wealth-manager husband Bruce notes reasonably. Leavitt presents both sides of this conundrum:
“The more important part, though … Well, it’s the adventure. I mean, think of it. An American woman goes to Venice, sees an old apartment, decides on the spur of the moment to buy it and fix it up.”
“Renovation as romance,” Jake said.
“Well, yes, of course,” Indira said. “What interests me more, though, is what you said earlier, this idea that suddenly this country so many of our grandparents fled to in search of freedom has become a place people feel they have to escape. Or at least be ready, at a moment’s notice, to escape. What do you think, Min? Is there a story in that?”
You’re damn right there is. What is interesting to note about this exchange is that the character Jake is Eva’s decorator of choice, while Indira is the editor of an interior design magazine, ably assisted by the busybody Min, who always seems to be putting her foot in it by blurting out private nuggets of gossip to entirely the wrong people. Which is why this delicious novel is also a comedy of errors (right on from the would-be Mussolini president all the way down to the would-be liberal nouveau riche of New York, and then even further down to its artists and supposed free thinkers, like decorators, and of course with editors and writers right at the bottom of the collective societal muck pile.)
Another character, Aaron, a newly-unemployed (and hence vociferously bitter) editor at a publishing house, pontificates at length about the parlous state of American literature, which he seems to think is in even more dire straits than the US socio-political situation. Yes, we know it is the character’s thoughts that Leavitt is voicing as opposed to his own personal opinion, but he must have gotten a frisson from writing lines like “Most male writers are too smart for their own good. It makes them assholes.” Here’s an example of a typical Aaron diatribe:
“I love Sheila Heti,” Sandra said.
“So do I,” Rachel said. “You just don’t get it because you’re a man.”
“Fine, then Jeffrey Eugenides. He’s a jerk-off. As is Jonathan Fucking Franzen, and Jonathan Fucking Lethem, and Jonathan Asshole Safran Foer. All these fucking Jonathans, they’re total jerk-offs.”
“This is why I love working with Aaron,” Sandra said. “He’s so in your face. I find it bracing.”
The novel mainly consists of conversational setpieces that take place in the form of dinners or other get-togethers at various friends’ homes. Combined with, er, liberal small talk about art and decoration (with lots about furniture and fabrics), this makes ‘Shelter in Place’ seem like a modern hybrid of Henry James and Alan Hollinghurst. Without the tortuously meandering sentences of the former. I even suspect that Leavitt takes the mickey out of Hollinghurst’s propensity for what Eva refers to disdainfully as the “gory details” with a delirious WhatsApp exchange between Jake and his foreign ‘daddy’ boyfriend Simon:
Simon: i love you
Simon: i just want to get that out, u are my love for always
Jake: That’s very flattering but how can you know that when we’ve never met?
Simon: what do u mean we’ve spent hours and hours together
Jake: Virtual hours
Simon: just because its virtual doesn’t mean it isnt real
Jake: Well, I think it does
Jake: There are five senses
Jake: We only use two
Simon: how i long to smell the scent of your feet, your socks, your trainers after you’ve been working out
Jake: we don’t call them trainers here, we call them tennis shoes
Simon: that is so hot
Even here, Leavitt is playing on the trope of cultural misunderstanding. Despite the frivolity – a soul-searching consideration for Rachel is whether or not she has to abandon Diet Coke “just because Trump drinks it” – is a much more serious subtext: “What does home even mean?” It is a question that every single character has to grapple with in some form or other. Due to the very nature of his work, Bruce especially is keenly aware of how ephemeral wealth is and how uneasily it is underpinned by crumbling structural economic conditions.
Published in October this year, and set just after Trump’s triumphant election, this seems an eclectic novel even by Leavitt’s own standards (‘While England Sleeps’, ‘The Indian Clark’, ‘The Lost Language of Cranes’.) Obviously, Leavitt is not alone in having his newly-minted novel become part of the churning post Covid-19, Trumpian meltdown zeitgeist. There is a lot here that rings so true, and which seems eerily prophetic in hindsight.
A criticism of the novel is that it is about a navel-gazing bunch of privileged, wealthy New Yorkers who have to manufacture existential angst because their vanilla lives are so boring and perfect in comparison. Indeed, the most exciting crisis to intrude on their pampered social circle is probably Trump’s victory itself. My question to these critics is simple: Why is this viewpoint invalid? You just have to look at the state of liberalism globally to comprehend the deep mistrust, and often hatred, shown towards dyed-in-the-wool liberals, whose concern and so-called activism are merely seen as a kneejerk reaction to their privileged position being threatened. As Leavitt writes so eloquently of Venice itself:
Because Venice, its foundation—the city’s literal foundation—is an illusion. Illusions sustain it, and of all the illusions, the most potent may be the assumption that the city will actually last, that it won’t sink into itself, or be submerged by a flood. And so when you’re there, in this place that honestly shouldn’t exist, that goes against nature, you can imagine something similar for yourself—that you won’t sink into the mud or get swept away by a tidal wave.