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312 pages, Hardcover
First published November 1, 2022
'The discovery, we both knew, would cement our careers, our stature in the academic world. It was an opportunity neither of us could risk by sharing what we knew with Patrick. Both of us knew how easily, how quickly the narrative of the discovery might shift, from us – two young women at the beginning of their careers – to Patrick, an established researcher of the occult. And so we had decided to keep quiet and bide our time.’Motives are revealed at around the 90% mark, which is far too late to strain my interest. After that, the protagonist's behaviour is simply bizarre and unbelievable:
'What did one say to a friend who has committed murder? How was it possible to pass the time until you simply couldn’t avoid the truth any longer?’Finally, at the end of the book, the author seems to realise what has been lacking and spells things out for the reader in the quaintest of manners:
‘New York had shown me how hungry I was. Hungry for joy and risk, hungry to admit, aloud to everyone around me, my ambitions. Hungry to realize them. Instead of being filled with fear, I was filled with a kind of giddy joy. And the knowledge that in a city like this, it was possible to start over, to make the memory of my father something that drove me forward, not something that held me back.’Protagonist Ann's dewey-eyed reaction to both Patrick and Leo is cringe-worthy and lacking any edge or originality:
'I could feel his breath on my neck. The way he inhabited my space was always a little unnerving, taking up too much of it, like it wasn’t mine, but his. And while it should have made me nervous, it only made me excited. It made me want to unlock all the carefully compartmentalized qualities in my life and let them loose.’The scenes between Ann and Leo are nauseating. For instance, when Ann asks for Leo’s number, he says, "Give me a pen. I'll give it to you", then the following:
“Give me your arm,” said Leo, and I held it out obediently, enjoying the way he embossed the number on my skin, onto the softest part of my arm. “There,” he said. “Now you have it.” ’In response, Ann gushes: ‘It was like Leo’s attraction to me was expansive and hungry, like it might eat the table, the bar, my life. I wanted to let him.’
‘ “Yes, but tarot,” Aruna interrupted, “only became part of the occult in the eighteenth century. Before, it was a trump-taking game. Something like bridge, played by the aristocracy. Four people, sitting around a table, shuffling and dealing a simple deck of cards. It wasn’t until that charlatan Antoine de Gebelin got involved that tarot cards were transformed into something more” – she waved her hands – “mystical.”A small thing, but linguistic repetition that is not used as a purposeful technique really irks me, and Hays, here, is tiresomely fond of the term 'parse' and uses it ad infinitum. Similarly overused is the word ‘scholar’; quite the antiquated term in British English.
“Gebelin,” Rachel said, facing me, “was a notorious eighteenth-century rake of the French court. And he suggested that Egyptian priests, using the Book of Thoth, not fifteenth-century Italians, were responsible for the creation of the tarot deck, which consists, of course, of four suits like our regular deck, plus twenty-two cards that we now call the Major Arcana. Things like the High Priestess card, for example. Which used to be the Popess.”
‘So while I hadn’t been through the storage facilities on Fifth Avenue, I knew from my brief time at The Cloisters that precious items were stored in all sorts of ways. So long as the room was climate controlled and protected from harsh sunlight, very little else mattered. But of course, visitors to museums don’t see works of art in that way, as functional objects to be rotated and deployed to create meaning. They see each one as a treasure, something they imagine finding in their attic, among their family storage, something they give immense value to out of sentimentality and lack of true research.’Throughout, I was shocked at how wildly inaccurate and wacky Hays’s depiction of the museums and galleries sector is:
‘We both laughed and I thought to myself again how remarkable it was that we were rarely bothered by security, that we were allowed to work, to walk, to pass through the spaces of The Cloisters whenever and however we wanted, despite the value of work on display.’The writing here is clunky and in places reads as though sections of action or paragraphs of description have been moved around in editing and later scenes haven't been adjusted to reflect the removal or reshuffling of material in the draft. For instance, after Ann has had exactly two readings of the tarot, the text describes her as reporting: 'I had started to rely upon the cards to guide me, to sharpen [my intuition].’ Sections that exist side-by-side are, in places, plainly contradictory. For instance, Ann relates that Leo’s working area in the museum gardens shows ‘a tenderness to how carefully everything was arranged, to the handfuls of flowers tied up and drying from pegs on the wall, to the way the cutting shears were all tucked, sharp end down, into terra-cotta pots.’ Yet, within a few paragraphs, Ann describes the same location thus:
‘There were garden items like grass trimmers and cutting shears littered in piles, stacks of empty pots and bits of errant stonework tucked out of sight of any curious visitors. There were trash cans full of trimmings and a clump of leaves had been spread across the composting bed.’I can't help but think that a final proof-read and edit is necessary here to iron out these chunks of chapters that read achronologically or antithetically.