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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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Bridge of
Sighs by Richard Russo |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Passion The
500+ pages of Richard Russo’s Bridge of
Sighs overflow with strong emotion. Both the ensemble of characters and
the small town of Thomaston, New York are created with a complexity and depth
that many readers won’t want to leave them behind when the book ends. Some
characters stay in the small town, others leave, and much happens to
everyone. One of the characters became a famous painter and lives in Venice.
He’s the author of a painting from which the book gets its title. Here’s an
excerpt, set in Venice, pp. 42-47: Arriving
Early at Harry's,
Noonan's least favorite restaurant in Venice, he nevertheless found Hugh
already ensconced at the bar, surrounded by young Italian men and holding
court in his flamboyant Italian, which was, in fact, far more fluent than his
own. "I've had a perfect bitch of a time saving this table," Hugh
informed him in a perfectly bitchy, insincere tone as the maitre d' snaked
them through the crowd of diners toward the most perfectly ostentatious table
in the room. "Tell me, do you ever dress up?" "Sure,"
said Noonan, who was wearing threadbare cords, a clean button-down denim
shirt, a bulky sweater and boat shoes. "Now's a perfect example." "I'm starting with the
squid ink risotto, and you should, too," Hugh announced once they were
settled. "I can't believe it. There's absolutely no one here. It's
tragic." Noonan understood that by "here"
Hugh meant "There wasn't anyone on
the plane either," he continued. "Everybody's still scared to
fly." Noonan snorted. "Afraid to
fly, but not to live in a nation governed by an idiot." "A duly elected idiot.
This second time, anyway." "Let's not talk
politics," Noonan suggested. In addition to Italian, Hugh spoke fluent
liberalese, which Noonan would've found tiresome even if he hadn't long
suspected him of secretly voting Republican. "My stomach's iffy
enough." Lately, that sour taste seemed to have moved onto the back of
his tongue, yet another "trouble" to find out about in "I'm just the opposite.
I'm like Audrey Hepburn in that movie with Cary Grant," Hugh said, his
logic, as always, a quarter turn off. "The worse things get, the
hungrier I am." "It's true," Noonan
agreed. "You are like Audrey Hepburn." When the waiter came, Hugh
ordered his squid risotto and Noonan the pasta fagioli, which elicited
from his companion yet another personal observation—that he both dressed and ate
like a peasant. To save further embarrassment, Hugh decided they'd both
have the branzino and instructed the waiter to be certain that he, not
his guest, got the larger portion. "Will know it's a sea bass and not a
sardine before I taste it?" The waiter assured him that he
would. "I have my doubts,"
he said to Noonan, sotto voce, when the waiter retreated. "The Noonan broke off a hunk of
bread. "How's Lady Brett's new work?" Anne Brettany was Hugh's
other Venetian client, and he'd spent the morning at her studio in Santa
Croce. "Well, Anne is forever
Anne, isn't she?" Hugh sighed, as if this were regrettable. "She
thinks she's still in your shadow." "She shouldn't. She's
good." "She says the reason I
always visit her studio first is that I'm saving the best for last. When I
ask how she'd feel if I came to see you first, she says then I'd be taking my
clients in the order of their importance." "You could've invited
her to dinner." "I did, and she accepted.
Then she found out you were coming and suggested lunch instead. Over her
fourth Prosecco the poor dear got maudlin and confessed she still thinks the
two of you should be together." Noonan couldn't help smiling at
that, imagining skittish Anne trying to manage him in the throes of one of
his bull-in-a-china-shop night terrors. "She's between lovers, and
you know how that makes her." "I'll fuck her anytime she
likes, if that's her problem." Their first courses arrived at
that moment, and Hugh used his hands to help waft the aroma of his risotto up
to his eager nostrils. Hardly necessary, from where Noonan sat. Dead,
rotting fish. His stomach turned over. "Tell me," Hugh said,
"do you really enjoy being an asshole?" "Yes," Noonan said.
His pasta and beans looked prechewed by some earlier diner. "It's one of
the few things I do enjoy, anymore." "You and she are both
going to be pleasantly surprised at the kind of money this new work brings.
People are beginning to buy art again. Not everyone's, but they'll buy you.
Anne will have to work harder, but then she's not averse to hard
work." "Here we go," Noonan
said, pushing his bowl away, the food barely touched. "Well, would it kill you
to come to "Aren't you the one who's
always telling me I misbehave in public?" "In this instance
misbehavior might not be so bad. It's been a long time. You still have your
fans in the city, but a lot of people have forgotten what a bad boy you used
to be. You could insult someone of my choosing. It wouldn't even have to be a
new act. Your usual boorish routine would suffice to remind people of your
vulgar origins, that dreadful little burg you hail from. Tanneryville." "Thomaston." "Create some buzz, is what
I'm saying." "God, you exhaust me. Less
than twenty-four hours you've been here, and I swear I could sleep for a
week." "Your
problem," Hugh said, his teeth and lips stained black with squid ink,
"is that you think selling's beneath you. You're always in Tintoretto mode
when you should be thinking Titian. Now there's a fellow who knew how to network.
He had emissaries in every court in Noonan leaned forward across
the table so he wouldn't have to raise his voice. "The thing about
Titian? He was Titian. And those paintings they were 'pushing'?
Titians." "Fine. You're not a
careerist? Then do "Why? What possible reason
could I have for leaving "Yes, I did, and what I
saw convinced me you need to clear out of here for a while. And don't go
throwing up your hands. When you returned today, I bet you didn't even notice
I'd rearranged your canvases." So, Noonan thought, he'd been
right. "I did, actually. You put them in chronological sequence." "Well, that's not the
organizing principle I had in mind, but it doesn't surprise me. I rearranged
them so they went from dark to darker to darkest." "Your point being?" "And the darkest of all is
that Dorian Gray number on the easel. One whole side of the face is in shadow
and let's not even go into that thing on the wall, which we shouldn't be able
to see, after all, given the light source." "It's the "Oh, I feel so
much better
knowing that. It's not mortality that's troubling you, the possibility of a
bad diagnosis. No, you're identifying with criminals making their final
journey from the court to the dungeon, from which only death can free them.
Thanks, that really cheers me up." "It's a good
painting." "Good painting, bad
painting. Who cares?" "I do." "What
worries me isn't the quality of the work. It's that the painting is a lie.
The rage, the self-loathing staring out from behind those dead eyes, that
isn't you, Robbie. I've known you for a long time, and you're far from a
saint. Truth be told, you've never been anything but a pain in the ass, but
the face in that painting isn't yours. For better or worse, you've always
been honest. You've painted what you saw, and if that's
what you're
seeing, something's very wrong." Hugh was staring at him, black lipped
now, a rather gruesome sight, actually. And it was his turn to lean toward
the center of the table. "I almost hope you do
have cancer.
Most cancers are treatable." "More melodrama." "You're in trouble,
Noonan. I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. Your friends know it,
too." He paused here to let this sink in. "You've become a recluse,
and don't pretend you haven't." Noonan snorted. "Who told
you that? Anne Brettany? Please." "You may be interested to
know Anne said nothing, even under direct questioning. And you know how
skilled I am in that regard." "Who, then?" Noonan
said. Hugh seemed to be weighing
whether or not to reveal his source. "The only time anybody's seen you
in months, you were sobbing uncontrollably in some church. In the middle of
the bloody afternoon." Madonna dell'Orto, to be precise.
Noonan remembered the afternoon. And now he knew who. Todd Lichtner, the
prick. "And another thing,"
Hugh said, on a roll now. "When was the last time you punched
somebody?" "A long time ago,"
Noonan said, pleased to be given this opportunity to prove his mental health.
"I can't even remember, it's been so long." "Exactly," Hugh said
triumphantly. "I mean, what have you been for your entire life? I'll
tell you. You've been a provocateur. A goad. An insensitive brute. At times
a bully, a total dickhead. But here's the thing: its always worked for
you. Every time you got into a rut, whether it was a marriage rut or a work
rut, you'd find somebody to piss you off, promptly break the fellow's nose,
pack your things and move someplace new. And your very next painting would be
great, your rut a thing of the past. Now? You're crying in churches. It's
like all the fight's gone out of you." "I'm closer to breaking your
nose right now
than you appear to realize," Noonan said, his wrist throbbing in
anticipation. He expected Hugh to blanch at the threat, and so was surprised
when instead Hugh leaned forward and offered his chin. "Do it," he told him,
and unless Noonan was mistaken, there were tears in his eyes. The room had
gone quiet, and the other diners were watching expectantly. "Be a
belligerent. And don't tell me you don't remember how, because we both know
better." Grinning now, each tooth grotesquely ringed with squid ink. "Go look at yourself in
the mirror," Noonan suggested, bringing his companion up short. "What?" Noonan shook his head.
"Nah, I'd hate to ruin the surprise." It
was a full ten minutes before Hugh returned from the men's room, his teeth
gleaming white again. In his absence, Noonan had finished his pasta fagioli,
the food
suddenly tasting good. Could his friend be right, that the very idea of
punching someone in public had improved his appetite? The other diners had all gone
back to their meals. "Battalions," Noonan said when Hugh sat down. "I beg your pardon?" It had come to him when Hugh
was in the gents. Troubles come not singly but in battalions. Suddenly his
spirits improved, along with his appetite. When the sea bass was served,
the larger portion was placed in front of Noonan, who gleefully dug in before
the plates could be switched. Hugh just glared at him, finally saying,
"So, are you going to tell me about it or not?" "Tell you what?" Why
he'd been crying at Madonna dell'Orto? That was the question Noonan had been
expecting, and he was prepared with a glib answer. There were two damned fine
Tintorettos in that church. Good enough to reduce any painter worth his salt
to tears. But what Hugh said was
"What are you really afraid of?" To
that question he had no ready response. Still, Noonan was surprised to hear
himself respond honestly. "Right this minute? Every little thing." Russo’s
writing flows easily and the bulk of this novel doesn’t mean that care wasn’t
taken in paring Bridge of
Sighs down to its essence. The story needs a lot of room to be told, and
Russo uses that room with great skill. Along the way, we come to know
characters who deal with the world through passion and through living life to
the fullest, even in a small town. Steve
Hopkins, January 22, 2008 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the February 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Bridge of Sighs.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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