Lay Your Sleeping Head
Michael Nava
Kórima Press, 2016 (originally published 2013)
Five stars
This book is gay noir fiction at its very best. Not since I started reading Marshall Thornton’s Nick Nowack series, set in Chicago in the early 1980s, have I come across a writer who so vividly captures the feeling of a moment in our history as it was experienced by gay men. Interestingly, Michael Nava’s “Lay Your Sleeping Head” takes place in the same time period, but in San Francisco and its adjacent peninsula. This in turn brings to mind Frank W. Butterfield’s wonderful series of Nick Williams mystery novels set San Francisco in the 1950s. But whereas Butterfield is full of light and love, Nava is all shadows and sadness.
But what shadows they are.
“The city was filled with such shadows, as if it were a living thing with secrets and troubled memories.”
Of course I hesitated, because I’m a romance kind of guy, and this book has been sitting on my Kindle for a while as I steeled myself to read it. I’m the same age as the author, and I’ve become very leery of unhappy endings. However, what I had read about Michael Nava’s Henry Rios books, particularly the re-edited first volume in the series, “Lay Your Sleeping Head,” made it too tempting. When I finished the book I was sad, but I wasn’t sorry.
“Lay Your Sleeping Head” is a love story that veers into tragedy that turns into a detective story about murder, madness and the dark underbelly of American capitalism. In its way, Nava’s perspective is as biased as Frank Butterfield’s evocation of Gilded Age San Franciscan wealth; but his elegant grittiness makes it very real.
“The windows, separated by pilasters, were heavily draped, apparently to block out the view of the twentieth century.”
Michael Nava’s writing is beautiful. Anyone who thinks mysteries can’t be literary needs to pay attention to his prose. Henry Rios is a remarkable character, a heroic anti-hero. Idealistic, romantic, a poster-boy for pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps, Henry is a Mexican boy from the Central Valley who found his way to Linden University (a thinly veiled avatar for Stanford) and set out to save the world as a public defender. He fled a hateful family and found salvation, ironically, at a university founded by wealth tainted with blood.
Hugh Paris (“he looked like a trust fund baby and sounded like a street queen”) is a self-defined “wastrel,” a term that, to me, manages to invoke all the Victorian literature I devoured in the 1970s and 80s; but which for Nava is used to trigger images of San Francisco’s Gilded Age, when robber barons’ mansions crowned Nob Hill. His family is horrific as well, but in a different way, and their badness is wrapped in the self-justification of wealth and power. There is a tragic quality to Hugh, a young man struggling to climb out of the pit of his own errors. He is no wounded innocent; unlike Henry he has done terrible things But we love him (or I did, anyway) as much as Henry does.
Every ancillary character, from San Francisco cops to members of Hugh’s family, are intensely drawn to achieve a purpose. There are small roles, but there are no walk-ons here. I particularly liked Grant Hancock. A childhood friend of Hugh’s, his role is complex and important. Part of his job in this book is to prove that not all rich people are bad. But Hancock becomes profoundly involved in the unravelling of the story, shedding light and casting shadows in equal parts.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to read the other Henry Rios books. There is one mention of “gay cancer” in this volume, and I can see where history will take Henry as he moves on into the 1980s. Having, like Michael Nava, survived the 1980s, and having relived them in Marshall Thornton’s “Boys Town” books, I’m not sure I can do it again. We’ll see. This was a remarkable novel. I suspect the others are as well.