Improvement A novel

Review by New York Times Review

UNBELIEVABLE: My Front-Row Seat to the Craziest Campaign in American History, by Katy Tur. (Dey St./William Morrow, $16.99.) During the 2016 presidential campaign, Tur, an NBC news correspondent, was a favorite target of Donald J. Trump. Her book was published almost a year after the election; now, updated with a new introduction, it's a useful testament as Trump's attacks on the press continue unabated. IMPROVEMENT, by Joan Silber. (Counterpoint, $16.95.) This novel of interconnected story lines centers on Reyna, a single mother drawn into a cigarettesmuggling scheme by her boyfriend, imprisoned at Rikers. The book expands to encompass 1970s Turkey, Reyna's aunt and antiquities smugglers. Our reviewer, Kamila Shamsie, called the novel one "of richness and wisdom and huge pleasure." GHOSTS OF THE INNOCENT MAN: A True Story of Trial and Redemption, by Benjamin Rachlin. (Back Bay/Little, Brown, $17.99.) In 1980s North Carolina, Willie Grimes, an African-American man, was found guilty of rape, despite a thin case against him. Rachlin's profile of Grimes and his 25-year struggle to convince people of his innocence gives resonance and depth to an all-too-common problem. A LIFE OF ADVENTURE AND DELIGHT: Stories, by Akhil Sharma. (Norton, $15.95.) In tales that leap from Delhi to New York, men behave callously (or worse); marriages dissolve unhappily; and immigrants adapt to new societal expectations. At times, Sharma's "cultural detail feels like an airing of secrets," our reviewer, Adrian Tomine, wrote. "It's a testament to the author's sensitive eye for human foibles that these characters are not only palatable but relatable, and this feat of empathy makes the implicit critique sting even more." MODERNITY AND ITS DISCONTENTS: Making and Unmaking the Bourgeois From Machiavelli to Bellow, by Steven B. Smith. (Yale, $30.) What does it mean to be modern? This intellectual survey considers the question through the work of writers like Spinoza, Hegel and Nietzsche. Smith, a professor at Yale, arrives at some dour conclusions, but is skilled at bringing abstract concepts to light. A BOY IN WINTER, by Rachel Seiffert. (Vintage, $16.) It's 1941 and Hitler's armies are sweeping across a Ukrainian town. Two Jewish brothers, Yankei and Momik, are hiding out against their father's wishes. Seiffert draws on real wartime accounts in her novel; the story unfolds over three days as the town's residents - including a German engineer and a Ukrainian girl who hides the children - confront wrenching moral choices.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 23, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

In Silber's (Fools, 2013) latest, big events in characters' lives play out on a small stage in quiet and reflective ways. Reyna is concerned about the cigarette-smuggling scheme that her boyfriend, Boyd, is engaged in, since it involves crossing state lines which violates his parole. Her eccentric aunt, Kiki, who lived in Turkey for an extended period of time in the seventies, believes Boyd to be another mistake in a long line of men. When Reyna refuses to be a part of Boyd's scheme, the unintended consequences are far-reaching. Peeking into the lives of people momentarily connected to Reyna in New York City and Kiki in Turkey, Silber weaves together character studies that examine love, money (and how to get it,) and the ripple effects of choices made. Silber's decision to write events of great magnitudefrom everyday points of view lends realism and universality to her story. Fans of character-driven, literary fiction should be on the lookout for Improvement.--Sexton, Kathy Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In her far-ranging latest, Silber (Fools) delivers a whirlwind narrative reminiscent of her compact story collections in novel form, with mixed results. Told in three parts and jumping back and forth from the 1970s to 2012, the multipronged story drops in on the lives of loosely connected individuals, all trying (and mostly failing) to improve their lot in some way. Reyna, a white single mother living in Harlem, is torn between staying loyal to her African-American boyfriend Boyd (after his three-month sentence at Rikers Island for selling weed) and getting more deeply involved in the interstate cigarette smuggling scheme Boyd hatched with his cousin and pals. When she pulls out of a smuggling run at the last minute, her decision sets off a chain reaction with dire consequences for one of Boyd's friends, his love interest left stranded in another state, and a truck driver. Add to that the backstory of Reyna's great-aunt Kiki's marriage to a Turkish rug seller turned farmer, the tangential stories of three German antiquities smugglers who stop by Kiki's farm for a night and leave a lasting impression, and a jump forward 30 years to find one of the German smugglers in the hospital dying of heart disease. With so many characters, it's a lot of ground to cover in little space, and some of the subplots lack the depth needed to make this a fully cohesive ensemble novel. (Nov.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

As with her previous book, Fools, Silber's new novel is a collection of interconnected stories, in which the connections are not always initially apparent. The work opens from the perspective of Reyna, a young single mother in New York City whose African American boyfriend is doing time at Rikers. The narrative then passes to her Aunt Kiki, now a seemingly staid older woman living alone in the East Village, and recounts her youthful adventurous in Turkey, where she abandoned her middle-class Jewish existence to marry a Turkish rug salesman in Istanbul and later moved to his family's remote farm in rural Cappadocia. Later chapters move to members of Reyna's circle, those affected when her newly released boyfriend's Virginia-to-New York cigarette smuggling scheme goes awry, the German antiquities smugglers that Aunt Kiki meets in Turkey in the 1970s, and the adult daughter of two of the Germans in the present day. VERDICT The subtle ripple effects of individual choices and actions are eloquently portrayed through Silber's penetrating eye in this elegant and thought-provoking novel.-Lauren Gilbert, Sachem P.L., Holbrook, NY © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Love and profit, fear and orneriness, intention and accidentall present and accounted for in this study of why our lives turn out the way they do."Everyone knows this can happen. People travel and they find places they like so much they think they've risen to their best selves just by being there." So begins this kaleidoscopic story cycle, stretching from 1970 to the present, from Rikers Island and Richmond, Virginia, to Sultanahmet, Turkey, and Berlin. With a group of characters woven together by a butterfly-effect chain of decisions, accidents, and consequences, Silber (Fools, 2013, etc.) examines the dynamics of relationships across races and cultures, the ramifications of smuggling both American cigarettes and European antiquities, the need to find and honor family, and the intentions to sell a Turkish rug, to start one's own eyebrow-grooming business, to somehow make right things that have gone very wrong. Practically every page contains some insight you want to linger over. For example, a truck driver who has just been in a very bad wreck considers his past brushes with death: "Once when he took a beautiful drunken walk across a frozen pond and midway the ice cracked and broke. Once when he was in a car with a woman who drove them off the road into a gully. Once when he was in a fight with a guy who was crazier than he seemed. He'd had a good time when he was young, but in certain respects youth was overrated." Or, a young single mother considering her boyfriend's release from Rikers: "Jail doesn't always change people in good ways, but in Boyd's case it made him quieter and less apt to throw his weight around." There is something so refreshing and genuine about this book, coming partly from the bumpy weave of its unpredictable story and partly from its sharply turned yet refreshingly unmannered prose. A winner. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 Everyone knows this can happen. People travel and they find places they like so much they think they've risen to their best selves just by being there. They feel distant from everyone at home who can't begin to understand. They take up with beautiful locals of the opposite sex, they settle in, they get used to how everything works, they make homes. But maybe not forever. I had an aunt who was such a person. She went to Istanbul when she was in her twenties. She met a good-looking carpet seller from Cappadocia. She'd been a classics major in college and had many questions to ask him, many observations to offer. He was a gentle and intelligent man who spent his days talking to travelers. He'd come to think he no longer knew what to say to Turkish girls, and he loved my aunt's airy conversation. When her girlfriends went back to Greece, she stayed behind and moved in with him. This was in 1970. His shop was in Sultanahmet, where tourists went, and he lived in Fener, an old and jumbled neighborhood. Kiki, my aunt, liked having people over, and their apartment was always filled with men from her husband's region and expats of various ages. She was happy to cook big semi-Turkish meals and make up the couch for anyone passing through. She helped out in the store, explained carpet motifs to anyone who walked in--those were stars for happiness, scorpion designs to keep real scorpions away. In her letters home, she sounded enormously pleased with herself--she dropped Turkish phrases into her sentences, reported days spent sipping çay and kahve . All this became lore in my family. She wrote to her father, who suffered from considerable awkwardness in dealing with his children (her mother had died some six years before), and to her kid brother, who was busy hating high school. The family was Jewish, from a forward-thinking leftist strain; Kiki had gone to camps where they sang songs about children of all nations, so no one had any bigoted objections to her Turkish boyfriend. Kiki sent home to Brooklyn a carpet she said was from the Taurus Mountains. Her father said, "Very handsome colors. I see you are a connoisseur. No one is walking on it, I promise." Then Kiki's boyfriend's business took a turn for the worse. There was a flood in the basement of his store and a bill someone never paid and a new shop nearby that was getting all the business. Or something. The store had to close. Her family thought this meant that Kiki was coming home at last. But, no. Osman, her guy, had decided to move back to the village he was from, to help his father, who raised pumpkins for their seed-oil. Also tomatoes, green squash, and eggplant. Kiki was up for the move; she wanted to see the real Turkey. Istanbul was really so Western now. Cappadocia was very ancient and she couldn't wait to see the volcanic rock. She was getting married! Her family in Brooklyn was surprised about that part. Were they invited to the wedding? Apparently not. In fact, it had already happened by the time they got the letter. "I get to wear a beaded hat and a glitzy headscarf, the whole shebang," Kiki wrote. "I still can't believe it." Neither could any of her relatives. But they sent presents, once they had an address. A microwave oven, a Mister Coffee, an electric blanket for the cold mountains. They were a practical and liberal family, they wanted to be helpful. They didn't hear from Kiki for a while and her father worried that the gifts had been stolen in the mail. "I know it's hard for you to imagine," Kiki wrote, "but we do very well without electricity here. Every morning I make a wood fire in the stove. Very good-smelling smoke. I make a little fire at the bottom of the water heater too." Kiki built fires? No one could imagine her as the pioneer wife. Her brother, Alan (who later became my father), asked what kind of music she listened to there and if she had a radio. She sent him cassette tapes of favorite Turkish singers--first a crappy male crooner and then a coolly plaintive woman singer who was really very good. Alan was always hoping to visit, but first he was in college and working as a house painter in the summers and then he had a real job in advertising that he couldn't leave. Kiki said not a word about making any visits home. Her father offered to pay for two tickets to New York so they could all meet her husband, but Kiki wrote, "Oh, Dad. Spend your money on better things." No one nagged her; she'd been a touchy teenager, given to sullen outbursts, and everyone was afraid of that Kiki appearing again. She stayed for eight years. Her letters said, "My husband thinks I sew as well as his sisters," and "I'm rereading my copy of Ovid in Latin. It's not bad!" and "Winter is sooo long this year, I hate it. Osman has already taught me all he knows about the stars." No one could make sense of who she was now or put the parts together. There were no children and no pregnancies that anyone heard about, and the family avoided asking. Her brother was finally about to get himself over for a visit, when Kiki wrote to say, "Guess what? I'm coming back at last. For good. Cannot wait to see you all." "Cannot wait, my ass," her brother said. "She waited fine. What's so irresistible now?" No, the husband was not coming with her. "My life here has reached its natural conclusion," Kiki wrote. "Osman will be my dear friend forever but we've come to the end of our road." "So who ran around on who?" the relatives kept asking. "She'll never say, will she?" Everybody wondered what she would look like when she arrived. Would she be sun-dried and weather-beaten, would she wear billowing silk trousers like a belly dancer, would the newer buildings of New York amaze her, would she gape at the Twin Towers? None of the above. She looked like the same old Kiki, thirty-one with very good skin, and she was wearing jeans and a turtleneck, possibly the same ones she'd left home with. She said, "God! Look at YOU!" when she saw her brother, grown from a scrawny teenager to a man in a sport jacket. She said, "Been a while, hasn't it?" to her dad. Her luggage was a mess, very third-world, woven plastic valises baled up with string, and there were a lot of them. She had brought back nine carpets! What was she thinking? She wanted to sell them. To someone or other. Her brother always remembered that when they ate their first meal together, Kiki held her knife and fork like a European. She laughed at things lightly, as if the absurdity of it all wasn't worth shrieking over. She teased Alan about his eyeglasses ("you look like a genius in them") and his large appetite ("has not changed since you were eight"). She certainly sounded like herself. Wasn't she tired from her flight? "No big deal," she said. She'd had a crappy job in a bookstore before going off on her travels, so what was she going to do now? Did she have any friends left from before? It seemed that she did. Before very long, she moved in with someone named Marcy she'd known at Brooklyn College. Marcy's mother bought the biggest of the rugs, and Kiki used the proceeds to start renting a storefront in the East Village, where she displayed her carpets and other items she had brought back--a brass tea set and turquoise beads and cotton pants with gathered hems that she herself had once worn. The store stayed afloat for a while. Her brother sort of wondered if she was dealing drugs--hashish was all over Istanbul in the movie Midnight Express , which came out just before her return. Kiki refused to see such a film, with its lurid scenes of mean Turkish prisons. "Who has nice prisons?" she said. "Name me one single country in the world. Just one." When her store began to fail and she had to give it up, Kiki supported herself by cleaning houses. She evidently did this with a good spirit; the family was much more embarrassed about it than she was. "People here don't know how to clean their houses," she would say. "It's sort of remarkable, isn't it?" By the time I was a little kid, Kiki had become the assistant director of a small agency that booked housekeepers and nannies. She was the one you got on the phone, the one who didn't take any nonsense from either clients or workers. She was friendly but strict and kept people on point. I was only a teeny bit afraid of her as a child. She could be very withering if I was acting up and getting crazy and knocking over chairs. But when my parents took me to visit, Kiki had special cookies for me (I loved Mallomars), and for a while she had a boyfriend named Hernando who would play airplane with me and go buzzing around the room. I loved visiting her. My father told me later that Hernando had wanted to marry Kiki. "But she wasn't made for marriage," he said. "It's not all roses, you know." He and my mother had a history of having, as they say, their differences. "Kiki was always like a bird," my father said. "Flying here and there." What a corny thing to say. I grew up on the outskirts of Boston, in a neighborhood whose leafy familiarity I spurned once I was old enough for hip disdain. I moved to New York as soon as I finished high school, which I barely did. My parents and I were not on good terms in my early years in the city. They hated the guy I first took off with, and my defense of him often turned into insulting them. And I really had no use for more school, and they could never take this in. But Kiki made a point of keeping in touch. She'd call on the phone and say, "I'm thirsty, let's go have a drink. Okay?" At first I was up in Inwood, as far north in Manhattan as you can get, so it was a long subway ride to see her in the East Village, but once I moved to Harlem it wasn't quite so bad. When my son was born, four years ago, Kiki brought me the most useful layette of baby stuff, things a person couldn't even know she needed. Oliver would calm down and sleep when she walked him around. He grew up calling her Aunt Great Kiki. The two of us lived in a housing project, one of the nicer ones, in an apartment illegally passed on to me by a boyfriend. It was a decent size, with good light, and I liked my neighbors. They were a great mix, and nobody wanted to rat on me about the lease. They'd stopped thinking I was another white gentrifier, sneaking in. In late October of the year that the TV kept telling us to get prepared for Hurricane Sandy, Oliver had a great time flicking the flashlight on and off (a really annoying game) and watching me tape giant x 's on the window glass. All the kids on our hallway were hyped up and excited, running around and yelling. We kept looking out the windows as the sky turned a sepia tint. When the rains broke and began to come down hard, we could hear the moaning of the winds and everything clattering and banging in the night, awnings and trees getting the hell beaten out of them. I kept switching to different channels on TV so we wouldn't miss any of it. The television had better coverage than my view out the window. Through the screen a newscaster in a suit told us the Con Ed substation on Fourteenth Street had exploded! The lights in the bottom of Manhattan had gone out! I made efforts to explain to Oliver about electricity, as if I knew. Never, never put your finger in a socket. Oliver wanted to watch a better program. At nine thirty the phone rang and it was my father, who had more patience with me these days but didn't call that often. He was calling to say, "Your aunt Kiki doesn't have power, you know. She's probably sitting in the dark." I had forgotten about her entirely. She was on East Fifth Street, in the no-electricity zone. I promised I'd check on Kiki in the morning. "I might have to walk there," I said. "It's like a hundred twenty blocks. You're not going to ask about my neighborhood? It's fine." "How's Oliver?" "Great." "Don't forget about Kiki, okay? Tell me that." "I just told you," I said. Excerpted from Improvement: A Novel by Joan Silber All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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