**Received from NG**
This was, I think, intriguing? But ultimately—for me—slightly unsatisfying, although it’s quite hard to pin down precisely why, or what I felt was missing. It’s a pretty elusive book, all told—as could probably be an expected from a story where one of the POV protagonists has no idea what he is, and the other has sold his soul to the devil. Not a spoiler. That’s literally the whole premise. For this is a Faust … I don’t know if re-telling is the word? Re-imagining? Although I should say that while I’m familiar with a quite a few versions of the Faust story (Goethe’s, Thomas Mann’s, and Marlowe’s) I’m not sufficiently up on it that I was able to properly unpick the way The Piano Room works with, and pulls against, the framework of the original texts.
Anyway. The basic premise here is that the narrative moves between the late 1970s and the early 1990s. In the s our POV character is Sandor Esterhazy, the privileged son of a pair of Hungarian musicians who is himself utterly talentless in the musical field. Desperate to escape his parents’ unyielding ambitions for him, he makes a deal with the devil for his freedom. In return for his soul, the devil creates a simulacrum of Sandor—a being Sandor names Ferdi—who is vulnerable, uncertain and full of all the passion for music Sandor himself lacks. In the 90s we follow Ferdi who is just trying to live some kind of life among humans despite the dark and mysterious forces that pursue him.
The dual timelines and the various narrative mysteries (who/what is Ferdi, who/what is after him, where is Sandor now, what happened between them) provides strong narrative momentum for at least the first two-thirds of the book, despite the rather dreamy and languorous style (especially in Ferdi’s sections). I’m not sure these mysteries were fully paid off: the devil makes various enigmatic pronouncements about who/what Ferdi is—something Sandor apparently also figures out—that are never explained to the reader, plus there’s an on-going implication that there are other beings like Ferdi in the world. I guess ultimately the point is that these questions don’t really matter: it’s choices that matter, including Ferdi’s choice to embrace his humanity and Sandor’s choice to reject his. But. Eh. It still felt frustrating in rather the wrong kind of way for me. As in, I saw the emotional and thematic resonances the narrative was offering, but was nevertheless left picking at a bunch of nerdviewy questions about exactly what was happening, how and why.
And, to be fair to my pedantic brain, some of this was as much emotional as pragmatic. Particularly when it came to what was driving Sandor in the latter half of the book: it’s clear he’s working to undo, if not his deal with the devil, at least one of his misdeeds. But what’s he been up to for the last decade? How does he feel about Ferdi now? I wish I’d had more of a handle Sandor in general: there’s an implication that there is “darkness” in him all along, but his parents (with their insistence that he will pursue a career in music) are keeping him captive much as he ends up keeping Ferdi captive. Not that I’m saying how treats Ferdi is remotely excusable: there’s shades of Dr Frankenstein here, the creator repulsed by what is essentially his own creation.
It’s interestingly complicated. But also woolly at times. Although the atmosphere is, as promised, pleasingly gothic and I really appreciated the setting—which, in the 90s, is Budapest, a perfect city for late night reckonings with the devil, I think. Probably not a slogan the tourist board will adopt, but I meant it in a good way. It’s a gorgeous city.
Oh, there’s also queerness in here – kinda, anyway, in that Ferdi has a sort of confused love affair with an angry young man called Petar. I liked this, I think, and there’s some lovely writing around it. I just wish I understood more what was drawing Petar to Ferdi (who is kind of a vulnerable, music-playing blank for most of the book) and what, I suppose, queerness means if you’re a creature created by the devil and raised by your own doppelganger? Maybe nothing, and that’s the point. That when we need love, when we have been deprived love, the form it comes in is irrelevant.
Anyway: intriguing book that I wanted to like more than I ultimately did. Probably not a must-read, unless you’re super engaged by the subject matter.
It has, on the other hand, reminded me of my personal rules for living derived from centuries of fictional disasters:
1. When I animate a corpse with electricity and it gazes at me with its vulnerable, mismatched eyes and is all “Father…” I’m going hug it and immediately be like “I’m here, son”
2. When I build my robot and it gazes at me with its vulnerable machine eyes and is all like “Does this unit have a soul” I’m going to hug it and immediately be like “Yes, yes this unit has a soul.”
3. And when the devil gives me an exact copy of me to take care of, I’m definitely definitely at some point, when its ready, going to bang it. Because that is the only thing to do with simulacra of yourself.