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260 pages, Paperback
First published December 5, 2017
These competing impulses, the quest for the truth and the desire to get away (which can be read as a truth avoidance reflex and a path to discovery, both) drive the narrative as she attempts to navigate the challenges of life on the street.
If her father’s disappearance represents the locus of her interior life, the motif of presence through absence expresses itself in other ways as well, and Szilagyi is at her best when mining this terrain.
Pluta’s introduction to life on the street comes via an aging man who assumes her to be a prostitute—looking for tricks. They meet at a playground (one frequented by prostitutes) at the edge of an industrial neighborhood in Brooklyn, where the man comes to feed pigeons. He strikes up a conversation that seems—in its meandering nonchalance— innocent enough. When he hears her stomach growl and realizes she’s hungry, he invites her over to his place for snacks, a dilapidated shack in a warehouse district, not far from the park. The visit takes an unanticipated turn when he pulls out his wallet, withdraws fifty dollars in tens, and places it on the table next to her. But it isn’t until he climbs on top of her and pins her prone to his living room couch that she understands what the money is for and what he expects in return. Pluta’s reaction is, on the surface, light on emotion. What we get is a series of actions, most of them discreet. Pluta scanning the shack, assessing it through the prism of this unexpected development, the possibility of escape, the proximity of help (expressed with minimalist poignancy in the sound of a car she can’t gauge the distance of), the prospects of negotiating her way out of it. She bolts for the door at first opportunity, but only after the man has satisfied himself. In the end, Szilagyi’s rendering of this scene, with its ostensible lack of interiority at a point that would seem to beg for it, casts the emotions that Pluta is forced to subordinate to the exigencies of survival into sharp relief—in a way and with a palpability that a more straightforward rendering might not. Call it a stealth interiority, one that makes its presence felt via the body more than the mind, but is no less forceful in doing so, because the scene is heartbreaking.
Much has been made of the story’s fabulist imagery. And while the author has not shied away from that association, for me, the relationship between the book’s overarching narrative and its fabulist element came across as a guarded flirtation, rather than an unbridled embrace. Granted, that may reflect my own biases more than those of the author, but Szilagyi has shrouded the fantastical in ambiguity, and there's just enough of it to give those who prefer their fiction to conform to the contours of their lived experience the hermeneutic wiggle-room they covet. I can read it either way and remain comfortably enthralled.
The ending is superb; it opens as many doors as it closes, which makes it the kind of book that really stays with you.