This is a French novel, a very French novel. The author won the Prix Goncourt for an earlier book and this one carries hints of Voltaire and Sartre. The publishers suggest that Piano can be read as a metaphor of life and death, heaven and hell; Dante is invoked. Daunting stuff, you might think. A thin book, it comes wrapped in heavyweight literary packaging — in France Jean Echenoz is rated alongside Beckett and Nabokov. But what lies inside this intellectual bombe surprise is a sharp, airy sorbet that slips down with great ease: an existential thriller of the sort that might once have been turned into a movie by Jean Cocteau. It’s a deadpan, elegant and wittily observed tragicomedy: posh French fun.
The story opens in a Paris street with a detailed description of the leading character’s appearance: his suit, shirt, cufflinks … The paragraph ends, conversationally: ‘His white hair is brushed back. He is afraid. He is going to die a violent death in 22 days’ time but — as he is yet unaware of this — that is not what he is afraid of.’ Echoes of Graham Greene’s great opening to Brighton Rock.
The man is Max, a successful concert pianist, and what he is afraid of is playing the piano in public. Paralysed by stage fright, he keeps fear at bay with alcohol, which he is forbidden before a concert, watched over by Bernie, a kindly minder whose sole responsibility is keeping him sober and safe until performance time, when Bernie literally pushes him on- stage. Concert over, Max can reach for the bottle, relax, and allow himself to dream of Rose, the girl he fell in love with at the conservatory 30 years before, and with whom he exchanged just one banal sentence before she vanished from his life.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in