In “Schroder,†Amity Gaige’s third novel, an increasingly distressed father in the middle of a custody battle takes off on an unexpected road trip with his six-year-old daughter, Meadow. The novel takes the form of a long letter written by the father, Eric, to his wife, Laura, trying to explain his actions. In a recent e-mail interview, Ms. Gaige discussed the slipperiness of identity, why this is her darkest novel yet and more. Below are edited excerpts from the conversation:
After moving to America from East Germany when he’s young, Eric changes his last name, from Schroder to Kennedy, and never tells anyone, including his father. Why can’t he admit what he’s done to the people he loves
Eric claims that the gulf between his two identities - that of a German immigrant wearing unhip knee socks versus that of a distant Kennedy relation - is so wide that “no mortal boy†could bring them together. He’s right, but the enormity of that gulf is his own making. He has chosen a very ambitious new identity, and even as he chooses it, there’s an element of embarrassment. But he doesn’t tell his father because he doesn’t want his identity taken away â€" that is, he doesn’t want the pleasure of his secret life taken away.
Eric is partly based on Clark Rockefeller, a German who passed himself off as part of that illustrious family and then kidnapped his daughter for nearly a week. How much were the specifics of that story an inspiration
Other than a short article I read in 2008 when the real story broke, I have not followed the Clark Rockef! eller case, and “Schroder†is not a novelization of that story. However, several elements of the real-life story were crucial as inspiration, most notably a quote from Rockefeller when he was apprehended, in which he said that the days on the run with his daughter were some of the best in his life. (In the book, I give this line to Eric, in German.) This wistful and sad statement made me wonder, was he actually a loving dad Can a fraud or a liar really love others All of this simply had personal resonance with me. I was a new parent to an observant child, and looking at him I occasionally thought what new parents think: Am I up to the task Am I worthy of you
Have you ever lied about your identity, even momentarily
Does the occasional use of a false name in a college-era bar count, as a means of wriggling out of an awkward situation Otherwise, I’m a pretty honest person, though to my ear that statement now sets off alarms.
You once said your first two novels shared the theme of “how love gets â€" and needs to be â€" tested.†I’d say it’s more than tested in “Schroder.†Do you feel this novel is darker than your previous work
Yes, it is darker. I could just say that the reason for this shift was my own parents’ separation, only years before my father’s death. Until then (and in my first two novels), I put a high premium on marital tenacity, the consolation of knowing that even if things were bad, at least you weren’t a quitter! Of course, if you look at “Schroder,†you see that Eric suffers greatly without his estranged wife. It’s still a pro-marriage book; a balled-up and then uncrumpled valentine.
Was the story always going to be structured as a confession written by Eric to his wife, Laura
Y! es, it wa! s. I love writing letters. In order to write a novel in first person, I think I needed an addressee. I needed Laura as the addressee of the novel even though she barely appears in it. But the addressee is also central to the unrequited lover’s project. I mean, being shut out makes a person angrier, more passionate, and in Eric’s case, more talkative. Her silence inspires him.
Are there any confessional novels that you used as inspiration, or that you particularly admire
Nabokov’s “Pale Fire†certainly was an influence on this book. The hero is doing many things at once â€" not least, explicating a poem â€" but you could also call it a confessional novel. It’s just that what the narrator is confessing is pure delusion. He says he’s a deposed king of a place called Zembla. But what he’s really confessing, to my mind, is his own loneliness, grief,and his author’s belief that exile is so disassociating as to make a person crazy.
Anita Licis-Ribak Amity GaigeDid you intend the novel in any way as a commentary on the way the law treats child custody battles
Maybe so. Probably. I researched children’s rights, divorce law and parental kidnapping. Millions of children and parents are touched by the inadequacy of the legal system to deal with the human heart.
What, if anything, is the most challenging thing about writing from a man’s perspective The most liberating
Sometimes Eric’s observations sounded tinny, like, would he really notice what some rand! om person! was wearing But writing in a male voice was more liberating than it was confining, if only because as a fiction writer, you are already impersonating as soon as you start to write. Eric is a construction on several layers â€" mine, his own.
Is Eric better at being a father than he is at being a husband
Yes. He’s a fun dad, at least initially. I also think he takes Meadow seriously, as a mind. He teaches her foreign languages, he addresses her philosophical questions; he’s invested, not absent.
What thing does Eric do that you find most unforgivable
When he takes Meadow to a bar somewhere in Vermont because he really wants a drink, he gets into a conversation with a bartender. They basically start to make fun of Meadow, and to talk about inappropriate things. I think this is the rottenest thing he does, because he shows that he’s happy to shift loyalties if he feels lke it. Lying to Laura â€" giving her his own false name as a married name â€" is also uniquely cruel. O.K., now I’m mad at him.
You’ve written plays and poetry. Do you feel most comfortable as a novelist Why
Oh, I’m a pretty bad poet. This has been corroborated by others. I studied with [the playwright] Paula Vogel during college, and almost went on to write plays more seriously, and hope it’s not too late. But all my focus over the past decade has been on the novel. Mario Vargas Llosa says becoming a novelist is like swallowing a tapeworm; everything you eat, read, see or do is in the service of the hungry tapeworm. That doesn’t sound very pleasant. But I like the novelist’s appetite.
