The Angel's Game
Carlos Ruiz Zaf贸n鈥檚 prequel to 鈥淭he Shadow of the Wind鈥� is a twisty, sarcastic ode to books.
Carlos Ruiz Zaf贸n specializes in bookworm fantasies. For his breakthrough thriller five years ago, 鈥淭he Shadow of the Wind,鈥� the Spanish novelist conjured up The Cemetery of Forgotten Books 鈥� a vast underground catacomb filled with books that no one alive has ever read. (Here are the keys to my car. Come and get me in a year or so.)
Now, in his sort-of prequel to that bestseller, The Angel鈥檚 Game, he offers a Faustian bargain that anyone who ever thought, 鈥淕ee, I鈥檇 really like to write a book,鈥� would be signing so fast the fine print would be only a blur. For an obscene amount of money, a pulp fiction novelist gets to write a masterpiece that will change the world. Oh, and that nasty brain tumor that鈥檚 slowly killing him? Gone.
Of course it鈥檚 too good to be true. And David Mart铆n finds himself trying to both meet his deadline and to find out what happened to the last poor sap who signed on to publisher Andreas Corelli鈥檚 payroll before he meets the same fate.
(Mart铆n stumbles onto his predecessor鈥檚 existence in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, where a first-time visitor is allowed to choose one 鈥� and only 鈥� one book. His choice is 鈥淟ux Aeterna,鈥� by one D.M.)
But in addition to unexplained corpses, 鈥淭he Angel鈥檚 Game鈥� is brimming with fabulously dry writing advice. 鈥淣ever underestimate a writer鈥檚 vanity, especially that of a mediocre writer,鈥� is one of Mart铆n鈥檚 bromides. Another time, when an aspiring novelist comments that 鈥淚 thought [literature] was something that sprang from the artist, just like that, spontaneously,鈥� Mart铆n remarks, 鈥淭he only things that spring spontaneously are unwanted body hair and warts.鈥�
(Mart铆n鈥檚 a big believer of 鈥渟queezing your brain鈥� until it hurts and seeing what oozes out.)
But while Mart铆n might be sarcastic about writing as a career, Zaf贸n is nothing short of reverent about books. 鈥淭he Angel鈥檚 Game鈥� is bursting with homages to Dickens, Defoe, and Dumas, and is the kind of novel where librarians are witty sirens and the good guys are an antiquarian book dealer and a crusty newspaper editor 鈥渨ho did not suffer fools and who subscribed to the theory that the liberal use of adverbs and adjectives was the mark of a pervert or someone with a vitamin deficiency.鈥�
Mart铆n himself is a Pip-like orphan who鈥檚 used to having his great expectations dashed and whose mentors may have ulterior motives. He longs fruitlessly for the chauffeur鈥檚 daughter of the chief among them, a wealthy scion named Don Pedro Vidal. (Cristina isn鈥檛 quite as cold as Estella.) After his pulp career takes off, Mart铆n winds up renting a cobweb-festooned monstrosity that could have been decorated by Miss Havisham. (And somehow, he never finds the time to discover the source of the musty smell in one of the closets 鈥� one of a few less than satisfying coincidences.) As his work for the mysterious Corelli progresses, Mart铆n鈥檚 misgivings grow right along with the body count.
Zaf贸n, while not entering the realm of metafiction, uses layers of dialogue to create a playful discussion about literature and the value of a good book. When the aforementioned librarian talks about the trouble she鈥檚 having with a Gothic plot, Mart铆n鈥檚 good-natured suggestion sounds an awful lot like 鈥淎ngel鈥檚 Game.鈥� 鈥淚 suggested she give it all a slightly sinister tone and focus the story on a secret book possessed by a tormented spirit, with subplots full of the seemingly supernatural.鈥�
The result is a twisty, sarcastic ode to books, with a satisfying dollop of religious theory thrown in for good measure. On its surface, 鈥淭he Angel鈥檚 Game鈥� is a thriller laden with Gothic elements, but readers who need a traditional denouement with answers neatly laid out will come away disappointed. (I definitely had a little moment of 鈥淲ait! What? Huh???鈥� at the end.)
But while the plot payoff may not be what readers are expecting, the novel itself is such a pleasure to read that the characters could have ended with a rendition of 鈥淭he Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow,鈥� played on cowbells and a zither, and I would have shrugged it off.
Yvonne Zipp regularly reviews fiction for the Monitor.