My review
rating: 4 of 5 stars
I’m not sure how to give a synopsis of Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence. There’s so much flavor, nuance, and magic woven throughout the text and the timeline of events; to narrow that down to a few lines would take away from the experience of reading about the yellow haired stranger visiting the court of Akbar the Great, which happens to be the most linear turn of events in the entire book.
For right now know of a stranger in a strange land visiting on an errand to cover other errands, of a Mughal King of Kings with the magical capacities to conjure a Queen from the depths of his imagination, of what is considered real and unreal, of images and reflections, of distortions and belief. The Enchantress of Florence is a lush fairy tale of 16th century India and Italy, two countries tied by spells of enchantment, the imaginative fervor and love of their citizens, a collection of historical figures and events both real and unreal, and the bonds of family and friendship that span not only continents and oceans, but across time and the boundaries of the imagination.
The narrative is incredibly rich and spell binding. I was completely blown away by the texture and weave of Rushdie’s sentences, sentences you find yourself not drowning inside of, but wading thickly and pleasantly through as if on a humid summer day where the heat is more like a pervasive warmth after the cold rather than a sticky hinderance. The characters and relationships that develop are created out of the same dense tradition, but at times I wished the book had something like the family tree in another magical realist work, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, to help me along the way. The history and detail of the novel are exemplary; one doesn’t need to know where these places are or what certain names mean to understand the sentiment Rushdie infuses into his language.
The Enchantress of Florence reads like a fairy tale, a fable, an elaborate illustration. There are humorous moments, sweet, bawdy, and even romantic ones. I wish I had read this in less sittings than I did. The text demands attention and dedication. This is not a book to be read on the subway or in a waiting room. I think too much would be lost in the fabric of the narrative if it were always set aside--the spell would be broken too often, the wonder turned to frustration and disregard. Like Scherezade, the blonde-haired Mogor del’Amore is as held captive by his secrets of a lifetime, dispersed in sequential oratories at the whim of his captor, so too is the reader victim--victim of the arousing and enchanted tale of love and discovery Rushdie delivers.
I have read some criticism of The Enchantress of Florence that bemoans the misogynistic portrait of women and that of the Enchantress herself, in particular. However, after reading the entire novel, my assessment of “Lady Black Eyes” aligns with the narrator who describes her as
“becoming all things to all people, an exemplar, a lover, an antagonist, a muse; in her absence she was being used as one of those vessels into which human beings pour their own preferences, abhorrences, prejudices, idiosyncrasies, secrets, misgivings, and joys, their unrealized selves, their shadows, their innocence and guilt, their doubts and certainties, their most generous and also most grudging response to their passage through the world.”
p. 198 paperback edition
The Enchantress is what others have called her, what others have infused her with--as a woman, what she is expected to be. She lives in a world of men, as much created by them as the invisible Queen Jodha has been created by Akbar himself. Unlike Jodha, The Enchantress--“Lady Black Eyes”--has been subjected, as a woman, to the creative limitations imposed like a cage by the men around her. She navigates the world despite these limitations, not because of them, like Jodha. Her story is one of struggle, to break the bonds men have braced her with. Sadly, her tale is told through other men who may or may not have the correct information. When we do get a female perspective, it’s from Jodha whom we know resides in and as a result of Akbar’s imagination and in the end, is overpowered like a thought dismissed.
I’m glad this was my first Salman Rushdie book. It was a beautiful and fantastical piece of literature that left me a little dreamy-eyed, as if I was waking from a lucid dream. I look forward to reading more Rushdie novels now that I’ve found another author who imbues his writing with such arresting qualities. I am invited to sit down here and relax here by a lake of gold. The view is wonderful. But when I leave, I leave with a smile, a little unsure if I will ever find this place again, but forever grateful for the visit.
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