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Flavorful romp in old Venice
By Clare Clark |
February 8, 2009, Sunday
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Print Edition
Print Edition
THE story of how "The Book of Unholy Mischief" came to be is the stuff of fiction itself. Turned down by a host of publishers and finally self-published as "The Bones of the Dead," the novel attracted attention when its author, Elle Newmark, organized a virtual launch party, inviting thousands of online guests to enjoy music, "food for thought" and party favors including e-books on writing, Renaissance recipes and an interview with the Hall of Fame chef who inspired the book (and who happens to be the author's father). Newmark ended up with both an agent and a deal with a New York publisher.
The novel is set in Venice at the close of the 15th century, and the port is at the height of its power. It is a city tumultuous with trade and convulsed by political intrigue, where violence is commonplace and the poverty of the many rubs alongside the staggering wealth of the fortunate few. As the story opens, it is also a city inflamed by rumors about a mysterious book said to contain the secrets of the ancient alchemists of Byzantium, among them prescriptions for the manufacture of gold and a potion to ensure immortality.
Newmark's narrator is a penniless orphan boy, Luciano, who ekes out a precarious existence on the streets - until he is caught stealing a pomegranate by the doge's grand chef and taken back to the palace kitchen to serve as an apprentice. Appreciative of his great good fortune, Luciano resolves to work hard, but it isn't long before he too finds himself caught up in the pursuit of the lost book. Naturally, this is no simple matter. With furtive references to Gnostic gospels and a cast of characters that includes a beautiful blond novice (with whom Luciano fancies himself in love), a corrupt council of cardinals, a syphilitic doge and the brutal Cappe Nere, or secret police, all abroad in Venice's sinister maze of watery alleyways, the scene looks set for a cliffhanging thriller in the style of "The Da Vinci Code."
It's a surprise, then, when "The Book of Unholy Mischief" proves to be a rather different kind of enterprise. Newmark is neither as rigorous nor as relentless a plotter as Dan Brown, and several of the connections in her story don't stand much scrutiny. There are a number of loose ends, and because there is never quite enough at stake, the action fails to sustain sufficient tension. The plot creaks uncomfortably under the weight of improbable encounters and unlikely conversations. More frustrating, her hero is too often infuriatingly dense.
What Newmark does bring to the novel, however, is a richness of atmosphere that almost, if not entirely, compensates for these shortcomings. It's clear that her interest lies more in place than chase, and there are some wonderful set pieces that bring the city sparklingly to life. The festival of La Sensa, the annual eight-day feast held for ordinary Venetians by the city fathers, is wonderfully evoked, as are the different quarters of Venice: the great marketplace of the Rialto, full of piled-up goods and "people talking with hands and feet;" the elegant houses with their "potbellied" iron balconies; the shadowy alleyway in which the ink-stained Jewish copyists ply their trade. Throughout, Newmark deploys vivid details: a maid is as "worn as an elbow," while "pungent" Spanish hams are bright with "verdigris mold."
It's in the kitchens of Venice that Newmark's novel finds its heart. Though the caged leopard pacing in the corner of the Borgia kitchen adds a distinct flourish of the macabre, the creations of the chefs who work there are what preoccupy Newmark. She fills her pages with evocative descriptions of food being prepared, admired and, most important, eaten. So "The Book of Unholy Mischief" turns out to be a highly flavored and faintly preposterous romp that is also a meditation on food, ideas and the importance of keeping hold of the principles of free thought in a world oppressed by censorship.
It's only a shame that the strong and sometimes clumsy seasoning of the plotting tends to swamp the deeper, subtler flavor of the rest.
The novel is set in Venice at the close of the 15th century, and the port is at the height of its power. It is a city tumultuous with trade and convulsed by political intrigue, where violence is commonplace and the poverty of the many rubs alongside the staggering wealth of the fortunate few. As the story opens, it is also a city inflamed by rumors about a mysterious book said to contain the secrets of the ancient alchemists of Byzantium, among them prescriptions for the manufacture of gold and a potion to ensure immortality.
Newmark's narrator is a penniless orphan boy, Luciano, who ekes out a precarious existence on the streets - until he is caught stealing a pomegranate by the doge's grand chef and taken back to the palace kitchen to serve as an apprentice. Appreciative of his great good fortune, Luciano resolves to work hard, but it isn't long before he too finds himself caught up in the pursuit of the lost book. Naturally, this is no simple matter. With furtive references to Gnostic gospels and a cast of characters that includes a beautiful blond novice (with whom Luciano fancies himself in love), a corrupt council of cardinals, a syphilitic doge and the brutal Cappe Nere, or secret police, all abroad in Venice's sinister maze of watery alleyways, the scene looks set for a cliffhanging thriller in the style of "The Da Vinci Code."
It's a surprise, then, when "The Book of Unholy Mischief" proves to be a rather different kind of enterprise. Newmark is neither as rigorous nor as relentless a plotter as Dan Brown, and several of the connections in her story don't stand much scrutiny. There are a number of loose ends, and because there is never quite enough at stake, the action fails to sustain sufficient tension. The plot creaks uncomfortably under the weight of improbable encounters and unlikely conversations. More frustrating, her hero is too often infuriatingly dense.
What Newmark does bring to the novel, however, is a richness of atmosphere that almost, if not entirely, compensates for these shortcomings. It's clear that her interest lies more in place than chase, and there are some wonderful set pieces that bring the city sparklingly to life. The festival of La Sensa, the annual eight-day feast held for ordinary Venetians by the city fathers, is wonderfully evoked, as are the different quarters of Venice: the great marketplace of the Rialto, full of piled-up goods and "people talking with hands and feet;" the elegant houses with their "potbellied" iron balconies; the shadowy alleyway in which the ink-stained Jewish copyists ply their trade. Throughout, Newmark deploys vivid details: a maid is as "worn as an elbow," while "pungent" Spanish hams are bright with "verdigris mold."
It's in the kitchens of Venice that Newmark's novel finds its heart. Though the caged leopard pacing in the corner of the Borgia kitchen adds a distinct flourish of the macabre, the creations of the chefs who work there are what preoccupy Newmark. She fills her pages with evocative descriptions of food being prepared, admired and, most important, eaten. So "The Book of Unholy Mischief" turns out to be a highly flavored and faintly preposterous romp that is also a meditation on food, ideas and the importance of keeping hold of the principles of free thought in a world oppressed by censorship.
It's only a shame that the strong and sometimes clumsy seasoning of the plotting tends to swamp the deeper, subtler flavor of the rest.
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