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Content Warning: death (including that of children), violence, child abuse, suicide, lesbophobia, racism, lesbophobic slurs, racist slurs, sexual assault, discussion of child sexual abuse, grooming of a minor, adult/minor "relationship." Please note that my review below does discuss some of these topics in detail.
The summary for this book sounded just like everything I love. A rumination on Communism and the Eastern Bloc, an insight into the lives of sapphic women from Eastern European countries, complicated relationships, the loss (and return?) of a first love... the first page was so promising, written with both dry wit and an undercurrent of glamor, captivating in its strangeness and beauty. As the title and inspiration behind this blog might suggest, I'm also enamored with the strange: I love oddness, things beyond what we might consider the norm, and a fearlessness when it comes to embracing the strange, sometimes repulsive parts of our lives. It seemed like this book would be a match made in heaven for me. Sadly, though, the longer I read, the more I realized that the strangeness here is purposeless, aimless, and perhaps simply odd for the sake of being odd.
There are many interwoven narratives at play here, but the three main characters and motivators of the story are the aforementioned Zorka, Jana, and Aimée. They're all inadvertently crossing back and forth between each other's circles, eventually meeting and twisting together into one another's lives. Are they likable? Perhaps, but in a strange way, despite the plethora of (oftentimes unnecessary) details about their personal lives, I often felt distant from their emotions and feelings. Jana in particular remains slightly blurry in my head, as if she is just not quite there; to me, she felt more of a springboard for the other character's thoughts, memories and personalities, without possessing much individuality herself. Aimée is a little more interesting in her own right, though I wish that we had gotten more a look into her psyche surrounding Dominique's issues and cruelty. It's Zorka that stands out the most, but if you've read this book, you'll understand why everyone else is overshadowed by her -- she is aggressive, odd, opinionated, and overall, easily the most fascinating person in the entire book.
The characters don't need to be likable for me to love a book, but they do have to be complex, unique, and feel genuine. I didn't really mind the very disjointed way that Moskovich tells this story, but I do feel that it sometimes kept me from being able to fully immerse myself into the various plotlines, relationships, and emotions. Something else I would feel remiss not to mention are the multiple relationships that involve a minor and an adult. Aimée meets her wife when she is sixteen and Dominique is 26; there's another small storyline that involves two women meeting in an online lesbian chatroom, which is perhaps meant to parallel Aimée and Dominique's relationship, and one of them is just a girl of fifteen, while her online "lover" (ugh) is a married woman in her 30s. I understand that in France, where Dominique and Aimée live, the age of consent is fifteen, but regardless, their dynamic always feels predatory and as if Dominique is constantly taking advantage of Aimée. Maybe that's the point, but not once is it ever challenged by anyone in this novel, and I did find it off-putting, especially since the entirety of Virtuoso contemplates womanhood, gender politics, and feminism.
Now, though, let me expand on my main problem with this book: racism. It's a bit of a long story, so I'll keep it as short and sweet as I can, but at some point Zorka ends up befriending two black girls, Tiff and Deandra, while she's living in America, and the interactions are so stereotypical it left me totally boggled. Ironically enough, Tiff and Deandra challenge some of Zorka's clueless racism, and they all become quite close, but the text itself continues to perpetuate racist stereotypes nonetheless. There's also a scene of challenged racism, where a man in Zorka's friend group laments the "American need" for equality and diversity, but it felt oddly pointless and performative.
Two other incidents I feel I must mention: there's a weird, disgusting, seemingly pointless, dreamlike-sequence where a character is molested by a group of orphans; and Jana, talking about herself as a child, says that she wanted to be "molestable" and spent her entire childhood wishing to be violated in some way. Absolutely baffling! I think that in the latter case, Moskovich is perhaps attempting to discuss the way that desirability influences women (even as children), but it was done in a way that felt gratuitous and borderline offensive. I think that anyone wanting to pick this book up should be informed of those two instances, as they are not only strange and rather repulsive, but I can only imagine how triggering it might be for someone reading it who might've gone through experiences of sexual abuse or molestation, particularly in their childhood or adolescence.
Finally, I'll say why I decided to give this two stars instead of just one. It's all down to Moskovich's writing: it's beautiful, full of a dreaminess mixed painfully with the brutalities of life, and her ideas are so clever, but with such poor execution. I've wanted to read some of her other books -- her debut, The Natashas, and her newest book, A Door Behind A Door -- but I'm a bit conflicted now on whether it would be worth my time, personally speaking. I can't recommend this, mostly because of the issues I posited above, but I will tentatively say I might give it another go and try one of her other books, in the hopes that they are perhaps just as clever, but without the insensitivity that plagues this one.
One more thing, before I end this review. Moskovich was born in the Ukraine, emigrating to the United States in 1991 with her family as Jewish refugees, and I want to honor her heritage here by listing some ways to help the Ukraine.
Links to assist the Ukraine:
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