Kathleen Spivack - Unspeakable Things

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A wild, erotic novel — a daring debut — from the much-admired, award-winning poet, author of
and
. A strange, haunting novel about survival and love in all its forms; about sexual awakenings and dark secrets; about European refugee intellectuals who have fled Hitler’s armies with their dreams intact and who have come to an elusive new (American) “can do, will do” world they cannot seem to find. A novel steeped in surreal storytelling and beautiful music that transports its half-broken souls — and us — to another realm of the senses.
The setting: the early 1940s, New York — city of refuge, city of hope, with the specter of a red-hot Europe at war.
At the novel’s center: Anna (known as the Rat), an exotic Hungarian countess with the face of an angel, beautiful eyes, and a seraphic smile, with a passionate intelligence, an exquisite ugliness, and the power to enchant. . Her second cousin Herbert, a former minor Austrian civil servant who believes in Esperanto and the international rights of man, wheeling and dealing in New York, powerful in the social sphere yet under the thumb of his wife, Adeline. . Michael, their missing homosexual son. . Felix, a German pediatrician who dabbles in genetic engineering, practicing from his Upper East Side office with his little dachshund, Schatzie, by his side. . The Tolstoi String Quartet, four men and their instruments, who for twenty years lived as one, playing the great concert halls of Europe, escaping to New York with their money sewn into the silk linings of their instrument cases. .
And watching them all: Herbert’s eight-year-old granddaughter, Maria, who understands from the furtive fear of her mother, and the huddled penury of their lives, and the sense of being in hiding, even in New York, that life is a test of courage and silence, Maria witnessing the family’s strange comings and goings, being regaled at night, when most are asleep, with the intoxicating, thrilling stories of their secret pasts. . of lives lived in Saint Petersburg. . of husbands being sent to the front and large, dangerous debts owed to the Tsar of imperial Russia, of late-night visits by coach to the palace of the Romanovs to beg for mercy and avoid execution. . and at the heart of the stories, told through the long nights with no dawn in sight, the strange, electrifying tale of a pact made in desperation with the private adviser to the Tsar and Tsarina — the mystic faith healer Grigory Rasputin (Russian for “debauched one”), a pact of “companionship” between Anna (the Rat) and the scheming Siberian peasant — turned — holy man, called the Devil by some, the self-proclaimed “only true Christ,” meeting night after night in Rasputin’s apartments, and the spellbinding, unspeakable things done there in the name of penance and pleasure. .

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The green smell of his neighbors’ newly cut grass filled his lungs, and the soft sun touched his body as David stood and looked down the length of the street. He watched as his wife came to the door, her belly heavy. She smiled out at the children playing but did not see him yet.

David fixed this all in his mind. Then he started slowly toward the house, pushing back his sleeves. He had many projects this weekend. The first thing would be to get out the lawn mower, the gadget the Americans used that looked like a child’s push toy, and trim his own little patch of grass.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my amazing editor, Victoria Wilson. Her painstaking work has shown me what great editing entails. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you and with this iconic publisher. To my agents, Carolyn French and especially Don Fehr. Thank you, more than I can say, for believing in this book through all the rewrites. Thank you also to Audrey Silverman.

To the Fulbright Commission for Franco-American Relations. To Jeannette Ambrose, Pronob and Sara Mitter, Dominique Masson, and others who found me places in which to write this book. To Odile Hellier especially.

To friends Kate Frank, Elena Dodd, Marilyn Taylor, and Jennifer Mascola. To Jeannette Littman, Virginia Larner, Claire Bruyëre, Robert and Gail Melson, Keith Winstein, Eva Hoffman, Elizabeth Knoll, and others. To my cousins, Marilyn Rinzler and Elizabeth Morse, who share so much with me. To the gifted Victoria Root: a special thank-you.

To beloved France, which has continued to examine its dark World War II history, notably during the capture of Klaus Barbie and the Maurice Papon trials. To the work of historian Robert Paxton, and to Mavis Gallant, Martine Beck, Sylvie Weil, and Hazel Rowley. To Jean-Pierre Ledoux, who took me to see important sites. To Inge Hoffmann and her seminar, who explore ways of understanding the past.

To my parents, who read the first draft, were surprised, and — would you believe it? — laughed in all the right places. To my mother, Doris Drucker, who explored and shared her past with me. And, of course, always to my father, Peter Drucker, who gave me the little confidence I have. To Nova Spivack, helpful reader, and Joseph Murray, my steadfast companion. To Marin Spivack for his thoughtful support.

To memory: its denials and recognitions. To my characters, especially those over a “certain age.” To the refuge of New York. To the Grimm/grim world of childhood.

To the American Academy of Rome. To Vienna, and its attempts to present itself as a frothy pastry shop. To teachers, who gave me a voice. To the solace of reading. To the music that I love and have played, which animates this book.

To “my America, my new-found land!”

Thank you,

Kathleen Spivack

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