THE BIRDCATCHER

A drolly insinuating chamber piece about a trio of Black American expatriates.

First published in Germany in 1986, this novel would be considered an anomaly for almost anybody except Jones, whose legendary stature among African American novelists was established almost 50 years ago by such provocative inquiries into Black women’s psyches as Corregidora (1975) and Eva’s Man (1976). Her new spate of publications that began last year with the historical epic Palmares continues with this predictably unpredictable first-person account by Amanda Wordlaw (“Wonderful name for a writer, isn’t it?”), a lapsed author of racy novels like The Other Broad’s Story who has forsaken writing fiction for travel books. As the novel opens, she is living on “the white-washed island of Ibiza” with her longtime friend Catherine Shuger, a prominent sculptor, and Catherine's husband, Ernest, who writes articles for popular science magazines. Amanda wastes no time telling you what’s whack about two-thirds of this triad: Catherine keeps trying to kill Ernest, who in turns puts her into an asylum, from which she is released by Ernest, whom she tries to kill again. And again. It’s all outrageous enough at the outset to make readers anticipate an absurdist-modernist slapstick farce. Yet the icy, deadpan tone of Amanda’s leisurely narrative voice, though seasoned with sneaky wordplay and impish irony, helps make this a quirkier, more reflective kind of comedy. The repartee, as with the rest of the story, can drift and meld into side tangents and back, complete with literary references, art criticism, and coy innuendo. Jones’ impulse to keep her readers alternately off balance and in the weeds threatens to upend the novel altogether, especially at the end, as shifts in tone and locale make you question almost everything that came before. Whether this was intended or not, its effect seems perfunctory, even abrupt. It may not be the most powerful or best realized of Jones’ novels, but it may be the closest she’s come to making us laugh as much as wince. Her vaunted blend of ambiguity and disquiet comes across here as a sly, even smirky dance. And her inquiries into how Black women live now are present throughout. Not just “present,” in fact, but “prescient,” as Amanda herself likely couldn’t keep herself from saying.

Jones’ mercurial, often inscrutable body of work delivers yet another change-up to readers’ expectations.