"It's hard to believe things that make no effort to be true." And in sounding excessively false at times, this novel ends up a disappointment, frustrating in how easy it is to picture a superior version.
To start with, this might be more distinctive than expected, depending on where you live – getting a download of an American copy I found it centre-aligned, unusually, although other editions from elsewhere might not be. It is distinctive to start with, however, and not just in layout, as it is narrated by a book. A copy of a Joseph Roth novel, it's been adorned with professorial marginalia and a diagram that might just well be a treasure map if it can ever be read successfully, and it was smuggled away from the Nazi book burning staged in Berlin. Now it's back in the city, in the hands of a prior owner's artist granddaughter, who's been charged with looking after it as an heirloom, and who is intrigued by the map. Throughout it will tell us about her and her story, it and its story, and the life and times and works of Herr Roth, a Jewish author hounded out of Germany between the wars.
What is most distinctive, however, is that it is much more engaging and more lifelike when it is the book talking to us, and not it reporting on human dialogue. Chunks of this are where Lena the artist talks about her evening out to her hostess in Berlin, and while the German woman speaks English perfectly, Lena here dictates the night in a style no human has ever used. And veracity and reality are supposed to be key here – the book is supposed to know how to tell its story (the one printed in its pages) to all readers, and should also manage its story (the one it's enacting, with Lena et al in Berlin), so why is it a struggle for it?
What's more, such struggles really impact on the purpose of the whole conceit. It has before then dropped hints that it wants to foretell of future struggle, as if book burning, lies in the press believed to be the truth, and the kinds of bigotry and abuse and more that Roth was witness to, are coming back. And so Berlin becomes an unappealing city of petty crime (although to be fair, Stroud comes out of things just as badly), and the homeless and immigrant become key as they would have been on the pages of Roth in the 1920s. This might well be the theme of the book, that we're dissolving into our own Weimar kind of mindset of hedonism (someone complains about too many happy superlatives being banded about) and hatred.
But that theme just doesn't make for an interesting read. It clouds the fun to be had with the book informing us about Roth – and the bleakness in informing us about his wife. It gets in the way of the book's telling us about its owners, and the love triangle of more recent events. That's what I should have taken from these pages, not just spurious mentions of random thievery, racism and discrimination. While the Roth narrative and the main story concerning Lena should have been brightly memorable, the patchy eggwash gained from discussing 2020s society makes this a disappointment, and doesn't allow it to hang together – just as Lena's unearthly reportage failed to do. Two and a half stars.