How is it possible that this stunning novel eluded me for 2 years?
What a read.
I sat up in the misty Himalayas, wrapped in a duvet against the damp chill, and read and read and read and didn’t go exploring. Just gobbled up this dark, gripping, clever book.
The book opens with a bang:
“I expected more of a reaction the first time I hit her.”
And from that sentence on, we start unravelling the man behind the public persona of handsome, urbane, successful Oliver Ryan.
The format of the book, telling the story mainly in flashback, and always from a different person’s perspective, is initially a little unsettling. For the first few chapters, until the characters all settled into place, I had to keep double checking who was now speaking, but after a while, as the story proceeds, the cleverness (and the consummate skill) of hearing all these different voices, from different time frames, and seeing different perspectives and views add to the mystery.
“Unravelling Oliver” is a psychological thriller of note.
Oliver is a man who has just beaten his wife into a coma in the opening moments of the book. He is a man with many secrets. And yet, such is the skill of Ms Nugent’s spare prose, that there are moments when we feel genuinely sorry for this manipulative man.
For make no mistake, Oliver manipulates people shamelessly, from his earliest days of getting to know women in his student days in early 1970s Dublin:
“I have learned over the years how to charm them. It’s not too hard if you are handsome and can appear to be clever with a dry wit. Then, gradually, begin to take an interest, as if she is a specimen in a laboratory. Poke her a bit with a long stick while keeping your distance. Ignore her for long periods to see how she reacts and then give her a good shake. It almost always works.”
There are so many layers to the story, and as you the reader, peel back each new layer, the story gets progressively deeper and more mysterious. With hindsight, you realise that echoes and precursors of the truth behind Oliver are scattered throughout the book.
Here, for example, where Véronique talks about her father, a man who suffered much at the hands of the Gestapo:
“He had told nobody and, despite his heroics, he felt nothing but shame. I think it an honourable thing not to visit your horror upon those that you love, but I suspect that the pain of keeping it inside must also cause a lesion to the soul.”
With hindsight, we realise that these words – well, some of them – could apply equally to Oliver. Oliver is not heroic, but he does have secrets that he will not and cannot share.
This is a story with dark tragedy at its centre, but yet there are moments of pure beauty, too.
When you read this toddler’s reactions to a story being told to him, it is such a joyous vignette:
“As Monsieur began to tell the story, I watched the boy’s face as he perched on his papi’s knee. He was transfixed by the tale of a happy young prince of a fantastical land and would exclaim in the middle of the telling, would hide his eyes at the arrival of the bad witch, and clap his hands in excitement at our hero’s escape in the end.”
Books and stories, and the telling of stories, and the not telling of stories, are all part of the fabric of this clever book. There are twists and turns right up until the closing paragraph.
Ireland per se isn’t a character as such in the book, but the social situation and the mores of 1970s Dublin, are a leitmotiv running through the book, influencing the decisions and behaviour of the characters.
For example, the parlous state of Irish food in the 1970s comes in for gentle criticism, when Michael spends a summer in France:
“Ireland in those days was a gastronomic wilderness. Parsley sauce was considered the height of sophistication. Here, I learned that boiling was not the only way to teat a vegetable…and that garlic existed.”
A great read. A gripping story. Totally recommended.
If you would like to buy the book after reading this review, here you go.
Couldn’t be easier. Just click on the link, and yes, of course, you know the rest…