Books |
Jackpot
Tsipi Keller
By
Published: Jan 01, 2005
Category:
Fiction
Do you know the novels of Jean Rhys? So many don’t. And that’s criminal — Rhys was one of the greatest storytellers of the last century. She knew all the big names. Had all the right praise. Why is she now considered only a cult favorite? Because her narrators, all of them female, were losers. They lived in cheap hotels and had bad attitudes and couldn’t get work and had married lovers and smoked and drank too much — they were train-wrecks. Reading about them was like pressing on a black-and-blue mark: a specialized pleasure. Easier to turn away.
"Jackpot" — Tsipi Keller’s third novel and the first book in a trilogy — reminds me of Jean Rhys like no book I’ve read in years. I love Rhys; that’s high praise. It’s also a consumer warning: This book is a study in self-destruction. It’s addictive, intense — a psychological page-turner that doesn’t miss a beat. It’s sexy as hell. But, for readers who like their fiction as crisply edged as their lawns, it’s much too disturbing for the beach or daily commute.
The main character is Maggie, a drab second-banana of a woman, a 26-year-old junior editor who’s right where she ought to be in life — in the shadow of others. We first see her in jeans and a sweater, in thrall to her friend Robin, voluptuous and rich in a cashmere turtleneck and leather mini-skirt. It’s easy for Maggie to flash a fantasy of Robin pleasuring a man; it’s impossible for her to say no to a vacation that Robin proposes on Paradise Island.
Off they go to the Bahamas. Maggie hopes to loosen up, to be more like Robin, to pick up men by the pool or in the casino and, after a night of hot sex, casually discard them. The good girl gone wild — it’s the fantasy of any number of good girls, and, as we start to see it unfold, we cannot help but get an uneasy but irresistible tingle.
We can see danger ahead. And we want that danger — we want to see Maggie experiment, to act out on our behalf, maybe even get "defiled." And then we want the glorious resolution, the moral breakthrough, the nice 19th century ending that makes the book like an amusement park ride — a sexcapade with a happy ending.
No such luck. Robin disappears from the book almost as soon as the women reach the Bahamas, and Maggie’s on her own. She’s not up to that; the book is an account of her free-fall. I could be specific here — I could press on those black-and-blue marks to titillate those of you who have those appetites — but I’d rather be vague and talk about the writing: You gobble these 196 pages, wallowing in every last degradation, every wrong turn, every misfiring synapse.
And when it’s over? Maggie’s in a zone you wouldn’t have predicted. And so are you. Proof, I’d say, of an exceptional work of fiction.
To buy "Jackpot" from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy "After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie" from Amazon.com, click here.
