Review of The Complicities of Stacey D’Erasmo


After reading Stacey D’Erasmo’s hard-hitting new novel, “The Complicities,” you may suddenly feel the urge to Google “Bernie Madoff’s Wife.”

While not strictly parallel, this saga (of colossal public shame) echoes D’Erasmo’s opening premise: protagonist Suzanne tries to create her own anonymous, quiet life after her ex’s imprisonment -husband Alan for manipulation of funds.

You don’t know how it wasinsists Suzanne after her divorce and her solo move to Chesham, a small seaside town in Massachusetts. As she admits Alan committed a crime – “bigger than a breadbox, smaller than Chernobyl” – Suzanne’s fury erupts at the scale of the fallout, which is wildly disproportionate, she argues, with the transgression: “Did anyone care about our family and what happened to us?

Well, no – not at first. But very soon we do. Urgent and personal, “Complicities” reinforces D’Erasmo’s reputation not only as a skilled shaper of disparate fictional worlds and beings, but as a fierce investigator of what it can feel like to live inside ‘them.

Elizabeth Strout has “millions of stories to tell”

In turn, Suzanne reflects on the reasons for her own relative innocence. Although old friends accuse her of enabling Alan’s scam, she swears she never really knew or understood. “I thought he was smart about currencies and exchange rates, but it turned out he was doing something else,” she explains. “You have to to know be really complicit, and I didn’t.

Is she trying to convince herself? “Other people have done much worse things. Pol Pot. Drug cartels. Sex traffickers,” she reasons. you can see coming a mile away in the unearthly glow of their dental veneers.”

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What makes the story come alive, to D’Erasmo’s lasting credit, is its persistent grounding in the physical. Suzanne rents a funky little house and invents a job as a masseuse (certified online). Falling from a carefree privileged social class to grittier realities proves difficult: scrambling for cash, trying to appease a suspicious landlord, staying warm in the winter — and above all, the skin-to-skin demands of the job. himself. Of one client, Suzanne observes: “All of her bones were pronounced…which made her massage oddly anatomical, even medical. »

But Suzanne’s foray also leads to discovery: she is good at massage and likes to help people. “For the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I was doing. … Even though my whole life had crumbled behind me and my future was uncertain to say the least, I was content.

That is, until some people come after her. With grace and suspense, D’Erasmo layers stories of key individuals in Alan’s life – allowing readers to piece together a composite portrait of this charismatic, slick, and elusive man: Sylvia, the mother who abandoned him; Lydia, the disfigured woman he marries after his incarceration; and Noah, Suzanne’s estranged young adult son with Alan. Each of their stories is almost like a little novel in its own right: ultra-strange, ultra-human.

But another, stranger story surfaced: that of a dead whale. Many, many pages are devoted to the description of the enormous stranded mammal that a heroic group (without spoiler) fails to save. The event upsets Suzanne’s thoughts. “How could I have been so blind to what was really going on in the world? Our concerns were nothing compared to all this. The ocean was alive, it was a world in its own right and it was seriously threatened.

Local opinion (scientists, citizens) is bitterly divided on how to proceed. Funding is a giant problem. As the creature’s carcass rots on the beach untouched – graphically depicted – Suzanne (who had tried to help save it) frequently goes to meditate beside it.

Much of the marine science is detailed, including reporting on local and national political wrangling. Despite this plot element’s passionate intentions and its clear role as emblematic of a different and commanding complicity – ours, in the destruction of the Earth – I struggled with the sense of its imposed feeling and , with its abundant explanations, close to becoming an infomercial. D’Erasmo finally makes it work, linking Suzanne’s passion for the crucial symbolism of the death of the whale to her rather astonishing later choice.

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Of the novel’s varied themes—families, couples, love, sex, guilt, eco-peril, economics—Alan’s kaleidoscopic portrayal is the most tempting. Here, D’Erasmo’s ideas shine. “Was he a genius, a psychopath, a hypnotist? Was he such a fantastic crook? Suzanne has a theory: “I only knew that we were all ordinary now and the one thing we would never say to each other was that we hated our ordinaryness and we always would. Alan gave us his scent of the Extraordinary, life possibilities we never thought we would have.

Presumably, the doomed whale provides some sort of macro-trope to go along with the micro-version embodied by Alan. Many will feel that this one-two punch raises awareness in the reader. Certainly, D’Erasmo’s writing is tight and tasty; his lively thought; its warmly idiosyncratic characters; its causes are timely, complex and morally charged. That may be more than enough.

“Juniper Street: A Novel” and “Late Work: A Literary Autobiography of Love, Loss, and What I Was Reading” by Joan Frank will appear in October.

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