The Enchantress of Florence

The curse of the human race is not that we are so different from one another, but that we are so alike.

I have an ambivalent relationship with Salman Rushdie – admire his writing/am impatient with his books; appreciate his artistry/sense I wouldn't like him in person – and The Enchantress of Florence was unsurprising in both its engaging craftsmanship and its eyeroll-inducing pretentiousness. Between Midnight's Children and The Satanic Verses, Rushdie has probably already said everything important that he needed to say, so the fault is mine for picking up a book that I knew might slightly disappoint; I'd give this one three and a half stars if I could and am rounding up because the storyline did keep me engaged.

“I am what you might call a man embarked on a quest – a secret quest, what's more – but I must warn you that my secret has a curse upon it, placed there by the most powerful enchantress of the age. Only one man may hear my secret and live, and I would not want to be responsible for your death.”

Lord Hauksbank of That Ilk laughed again, not an ugly laugh this time, a laugh of dispersing clouds and revenant sunshine. “You amuse me, little bird,” he said. “Do you imagine I fear your green-faced witch's curse? I have danced with Baron Samedi on the Day of the Dead and survived his voodoo howls. I will take it most unkindly if you do not tell me everything at once.”

“So be it,” began the stowaway. “There was once an adventurer-prince named Argalia, also called Arcalia, a great warrior who possessed enchanted weapons, and in whose retinue were four terrifying giants, and he had a woman with him, Angelica...”

“Stop,” said Lord Hausbank of That Ilk, clutching at his brow. “You're giving me a headache.” Then, after a moment, “Go on.” “...Angelica, a princess of the blood royal of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane...” “Stop. No, go on.” “...the most beautiful...” “Stop.”

Whereupon Lord Hausbank fell unconscious to the floor.

After meeting the main character Niccolo Vespucci (or Mogor dell'Amore, if you prefer), and learning that the yellow-haired storyteller/magician/pilgrim is not above skulduggery, lies, and assault in the pursuit of some private quest, we watch as he approaches the Mughal palace at Fatehpur Sikri and tricks his way into an audience with the supreme ruler, Akbar the Great. There's a nice bit of tension as we suspect the stranger's motives, but Akbar is no fool: No matter how amused or intrigued he appears to be by the young man's tales, the emperor is wary and assessing; and although it takes several hundred pages of misdirection and tangled timelines to hear the entire story that Vespucci came to relate, Akbar is always one step ahead; ultimately intuiting the truth of Vespucci's personal history before even the young man himself does. There's a bit of Scheherezade to both the fantastical elements to some of Vespucci's stories (I particularly loved the “palace of memories”) and the prolonging of his stay at the palace (despite insider intrigue) until the end of his tale is reached, and the yellow-haired stranger seems to be an avatar of Rushdie himself as the weaver of words who attempts to unite the stories of the East and the West. For that is really the essence of this book: the confluence of the Renaissance as it played out in Florence and the religious reforms and freedom of thought that the historical Akbar the Great introduced to his court in “Hindustan”; all with a fairy-tale-for-grownups atmosphere.

“In the beginning there were three friends,” he said softly. “Niccolò 'il Machia', Agostino Vespucci, and Antonio Argalia. Their boyhood world was a magic wood.”

Enchantress is populated with many historical men – Akbar the Great, Genghis Khan, Vlad the Impaler, Andrea Doria, the Medici family, Machiavelli, Amerigo Vespucci – and indeed, there is a long Bibliography included that reflects Rushdie's research for this book. And while I can understand the complaint that the women in this tale are all prostitutes/courtesans, idealised beauties (even Akbar's favourite wife is a figment of his imagination), or shrewish housewives, it would be hard to deny that it was the men in history that had their stories written down; that women were more likely to be the subjects of fantasies and fairy tales (where they were noted at all). And so it is that the Enchantress of Florence herself is a spellbinding beauty who travels with her near-twin (a servant known as “the Mirror” who is always up for a threesome with whatever powerful man her mistress is attempting to enchant; talk about male fantasies), and while the Enchantress is a princess who could be commanding multitudes, it is some magic spell she casts around her own beauty that bends the world to her will. And maybe I should have been offended by that if not for this scene that sees a Medici proving himself immune to the princess' charms, if not her political value, by proposing that she should ally herself with him after her husband's impending murder:

Music struck up. There was to be dancing now. She was to dance a pavana with the assassin of her hopes. “I must think,” she said, and he bowed. “Of course,” he said, “but think quickly, and before you think, you will be brought to my private rooms tonight, so that you may understand what you have to think about.” She stopped dancing and stood facing him. “Madam, please,” he chided her, holding out his hands until she began to step in time once again. “You are a princess of the blood royal of the house of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan. You know how the world works.”

And isn't that how the world worked? Hard to be offended by the dismissive treatment of women in a quasi-realistic historical novel (even if, after reading Joseph Anton, I figure Rushdie doesn't like women too much). The bottom line: There were some really nice passages in this book, an intriguing overall structure (even if the ending was a bit of a let down), an enchanting fairy tale vibe, a blending of history and myth; much to like. On the other hand, there was something a bit self-satisfied about the storyteller-as-creator-of-reality that made me impatient with the author himself. I may not pick up another Rushdie until one comes along that has a general consensus of “must read”; this isn't that.

And, of course, I chose to read this book because it had Florence in the title and I wanted such a book to pose with while in Florence this past week. I must admit that the geographical and historical details upped my enjoyment in the moment.