What a very odd read. To be fair, life’s interruptions meant I had to put Parakeet down more frequently than I might have otherwise, but still. Glitter and dross.
In the first pages I just sat there, open mouthed, like a cartoon, reeled in like a sea bass, hooked. Such a talent with language, I thought, Bertino places words that have never met each other before back to back in sentences. And stuck in your wedding hotel as an unhappy bride to be, visited by your grandmother, now reincarnated as a wise, occasionally foul mouthed parrot? The parrot Granny insists the bride must find her long estranged brother, admitting that doing so likely won’t help matters much. Delicious story telling.
Alas, we leave the parakeet behind - so soon, not to see her again for far too long - and increasingly the story pools in sorrow and ache. Is this just me, I wondered, reading other reviews. That meeting with used-to-be-best-friend Rose in Union Square, Rose’s impatience and disinterest so painfully acute, more so because it’s barely acknowledged.
“If you can get through your wedding without an existential breakdown, I’m happy for you”, Rose says out of one side of her mouth. You can see her checking her makeup in a compact mirror, longing to get away.
The Groom flits in and out of the pages, unnamed. Fine by me, he’s so remarkably vapid that a name would almost be too much.
The novel continues to unfold haltingly into scenes shifting like flipping through an old viewmaster. Click; Long Island hotel. Click; Union Square, Manhattan. Click; the Queens home of a brain damaged accident patient, the sad walls covered in post it notes, reminders of basic facts. You are here. Only really - nobody is fully there, not the blighted victim, nor our equally scarred narrator, a court appointed case reporter. She seems uniquely wrong for this job.
At its core, Parakeet evolves into the story of this about to be married woman finally reconnecting with a long lost sibling. Yet somehow this felt like a weaker component, the characters in play less authentic than say, that totally believable Granny Budgie. As the plot slipped forward and back in time, my interest and attachment waned. The family history that is intended to be the thread that sews all the pieces together didn’t quite hold up. I’d engage and then slip off, knit one, purl two, nap. Until, Hello! 2/3 of the way through, there’s a truly shocking scene so brilliantly created that I barged back into the story, wide awake and newly fascinated. (A little later, I loved this sentence: “Violence, like snowfall, blunts sound.”)
I can’t say that my sudden return to being riveted by Parakeet sustained. The ending lost me, felt almost like a sitcom writer had stepped in to take over a novel that also held such singular, and welcome, peculiarity. Still, those moments of strangeness and surprise are easily enough for me to look forward to reading more Marie-Helene Bertino (if I liked her voice better than at least a fair amount of the plot, am I doing her a disservice with these rambling notes? It’s an admirable thing to craft sentences that sound new, in this strange world of so many authors, so much noise).