New_York_Magazine_-_March_16_2020

march 16–29, 2020 | new york 71

habit stuck with her. Mandel knew a novel- ist in New York—“somebody not terribly well known who’s also slightly deranged, maybe let’s leave the name out”—who made her realize it could be a career. She put her mind to it, just like that, without a single for- mal class or any professorial encourage- ment. The first thing she really dug into turned into her debut novel. In 2006, after four years of writing, she had finished Last Night in Montreal, about a young woman with a peripatetic child- hood who can’t stop fleeing the lives she cre- ates. Her agent at the time, the late Emilie Jacobson of Curtis Brown, submitted it to 35 publishers, one by one, waiting to hear back from each before sending it on to the next. Two years later, it was bought by Unbri- dled, a small house that published her first three novels, all noirish mysteries. Each sold a few thousand copies and earned small industry press, especially in France, where she was beloved on the crime circuit. They’re so distinct from Mandel’s current preoccu- pations that they seem to come from a different author. “I’ve always seen myself as writing literary novels with the strongest possible narrative drive, which pushed me in the direction of genre,” Mandel says of her early work. But she yearned for a broader audience and felt that if she kept going down the same path, she’d end up “boxed into that marketing category.” She decided to do something entirely different for her next book. It began as a story about a Shake- speare troupe, a way for Mandel to write about theater and her experience with dance. But as a child of the forest, she wanted to see what her characters might do without technology. That’s when the idea of a global calamity came to mind. She placed her troupe in a dystopian setting, traveling through what was once Michigan, offering kinship through art. Her agent sent out the Station Eleven manuscript, and while the then-34-year-old Mandel paced her family’s living room, an auction with six publishing houses ensued. It would go on to blow past all her parameters for how successful a novel could be. The five-city tour mushroomed into 17 cities, then spread around the globe. Year-end lists “rained down on us,” Jackson said. “That’s when sales really spiked.” They reached 450,000 after a year. Then it sold a million more copies.

the first sentence of The Glass Hotel that Mandel put to paper is now in the middle of the novel. A Greek-chorus-like collective of Wall Streeters who work at doomed billionaire Jonathan Alkaitis’s financial firm suddenly begins to speak: “We crossed a line, that much was obvious, but it was difficult to say later exactly

where that line had been.” The we in question are party to “The Arrangement”—the falsifications required to prop up a multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme. We learn about the next 24 hours for each of them: who stays to drunkenly shred papers, who calls the FBI. The details are similar to those newspapers relayed after Madoff ’s sandcastle washed away in

But Mandel is careful to note “the
Madoff character is not Madoff. His family
is not Madoff ’s. But the crime is the same.
The crime is what fascinated me.” The
author professes a good deal more anxiety
about economic collapse than cough-splat-
ter pandemics. In part, it’s personal. A close
family member, whose identity she doesn’t
want to disclose, invested with Madoff. “I
think they had put in $100K, and it per-
formed well, obviously, because the funds
were totally fictional.” This relative wasn’t
financially ruined — Mandel calls them “the
lucky minority who got more money out of
the fund than they put in.” They had simply
trusted.
Like Station Eleven, Mandel was drawn
to a narrative of downhill momentum. But
reading Station Eleven is a soothing expe-
rience. Connections align. There is a defin-
itive before and after. The world settles
into something new. The Glass Hotel
doesn’t offer the same reassurances. The
disaster, perhaps because humanity
caused it, feels crueler. What do we do
when the world explodes, it asks, but most
of the population carries on as before? Like
the rest of Mandel’s work, there are char-
acters all over the globe—from parched
Dubai terraces to the extravagant bou-
tiques of Fifth Avenue. Its expansiveness
is central to the premise that the world’s
interconnectivity magnifies calamity.
It also gives weight to disaster’s unbear-
able banality. The Glass Hotel, notably,
includes a shipping executive whom Sta-
tion Eleven readers will remember: Leon
Prevant, who, in this iteration of his life,
invested with Alkaitis. Just before Leon
discovers his life savings are a fabricated
string of numbers, he’s in a meeting with a
colleague who was his secretary in the par-
allel universe of Station Eleven. They’re
discussing the economy’s general down-
turn when she wryly says, “There’s some-
thing almost tedious about disaster. Don’t
you find? I mean, at first it’s all dramatic,
‘Oh my god the economy’s collapsing ...
but then that keeps happening, it just
keeps collapsing, week after week.’ ” In a
novel full of Easter eggs for devoted Man-
del fans, it’s a sly note of camaraderie. And
in a world where rolling disasters fade into
one another, it’s a reminder that Mandel
PREVIOUS PAGE: HAND COLORING BY LINDA SCHOONOVER wants to lurch us out of the tedium. ■

PANDEMICS: A READING LIST by tobias carroll

With stakes so high, it’s easy to see why novelists find outbreaks of disease so compelling. Here, ten great fictional takes.

katherine anne porter Pale Horse, Pale Rider (1939) A young woman falls in love with a soldier during the 1918 Spanish-flu pandemic.

michael crichton The Andromeda Strain (1969) A group of scientists deal with an epidemic caused by a constantly evolving extraterrestrial micro-organism that has no precedent in human history.

gabriel garcía márquez Love in the Time of Cholera (1985) A tale of star-crossed lovers where death is never far from the reader’s mind. “Plagues are like imponderable dangers that surprise people,” Márquez told the New York Times in 1988. “They seem to have a quality of destiny.”

geoff ryman The Child Garden (1989) Envisions a futuristic society in which viruses are used as a tool to benefit and educate humans.

mario bellatin Beauty Salon (1994) The pandemic here only affects men, leading to their rapid deaths. The narrator runs a beauty salon that becomes a hospice for those afflicted.

josé saramago Blindness (1995) A growing number of people within a city find themselves unable to see. The government’s response is heavy-handed and authoritarian.

margaret atwood Oryx and Crake (2003) The first volume in her near-future “MaddAddam” trilogy describes a world wrecked by the effects of genetic engineering, including a virus that has wiped out much of humanity.

yuri herrera The Transmigration of Bodies (2013) Set near the border between the U.S. and Mexico, this novel centers on two crime families at war in a single town weathering the aftereffects of a deadly plague.

ling ma Severance (2018) Ma’s fictional epidemic taps into anxieties about nostalgia. Shen Fever, you see, has a way of making you repeat old routines endlessly.

peng shepherd The Book of M (2018) In Shepherd’s tale, those infected discover they cast no shadow; once that’s occurred, their memories begin to vanish.

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march16–29, 2020 | newyork 71

habitstuckwithher. Mandelknew a novel-
ist inNewYork—“somebodynotterribly
wellknownwho’s alsoslightlyderanged,
maybelet’sleavethenameout”—whomade
herrealizeit couldbea career.Sheputher
mindtoit, justlike that, withouta singlefor-
malclassoranyprofessorialencourage-
ment.Thefirstthingshereallyduginto
turnedintoherdebutnovel.
In2006,afterfouryearsofwriting,she
hadfinishedLastNightinMontreal,about
a youngwomanwitha peripateticchild-
hoodwhocan’t stopfleeingthelivesshecre-
ates.Heragentat thetime,thelateEmilie
Jacobsonof CurtisBrown,submittedit to 35
publishers,onebyone,waitingtohearback
fromeachbeforesendingit ontothenext.
Twoyearslater,it wasboughtbyUnbri-
dled,a smallhousethatpublishedherfirst
threenovels,allnoirishmysteries.Eachsold
a fewthousandcopiesandearnedsmall
industry press,especiallyinFrance,where
shewasbelovedonthecrimecircuit.They’re
sodistinct fromMandel’scurrentpreoccu-
pationsthat they seemtocomefroma dif-
ferentauthor.“I’vealwaysseenmyselfas
writingliterary novelswiththestrongest
possiblenarrativedrive,whichpushedme
inthedirectionof genre,”Mandelsaysof her
earlywork.Butsheyearnedfora broader
audienceandfeltthatif shekeptgoingdown
thesamepath,she’d endup“boxedintothat
marketingcategory.”Shedecided todo
somethingentirelydifferentforhernext
book.Itbeganasa storyabouta Shake-
spearetroupe,a wayforMandeltowrite
abouttheaterand herexperiencewith
dance.Butasa childof theforest,she
wantedtoseewhathercharactersmightdo
withouttechnology. That’swhentheideaof
a globalcalamitycametomind.Sheplaced
hertroupeina dystopiansetting,traveling
throughwhatwasonceMichigan,offering
kinshipthroughart.Heragentsentoutthe
StationElevenmanuscript,andwhilethe
then-34-year-oldMandelpacedherfamily’s
livingroom,anauctionwithsixpublishing
housesensued.It wouldgo ontoblowpast
allherparametersforhowsuccessfula novel
couldbe.Thefive-citytourmushroomed
into 17 cities,thenspreadaroundtheglobe.
Year-endlists “raineddownonus,” Jackson
said.“That’swhensalesreallyspiked.”They
reached450,000aftera year. Thenit solda
millionmorecopies.

thefirstsentenceofTheGlassHotel
thatMandelputtopaperisnowinthe
middleofthenovel.A Greek-chorus-like
collectiveofWallStreeterswhoworkat
doomedbillionaireJonathanAlkaitis’s
financialfirmsuddenlybeginstospeak:
“We crosseda line,that muchwasobvious,
butitwasdifficulttosay laterexactly

where that line had been.” The we in question are party to “The Arrangement”—the falsifications required to prop up a multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme. We learn about the next 24 hours for each of them: who stays to drunkenly shred papers, who calls the FBI. The details are similar to those newspapers relayed after Madoff ’s sandcastle washed away in

But Mandel is careful to note “the
Madoff character is not Madoff. His family
is not Madoff ’s. But the crime is the same.
The crime is what fascinated me.” The
author professes a good deal moreanxiety
about economic collapse than cough-splat-
ter pandemics. In part, it’s personal. A close
family member, whose identity she doesn’t
want to disclose, invested with Madoff. “I
think they had put in $100K, and it per-
formed well, obviously, because the funds
were totally fictional.” This relative wasn’t
financially ruined — Mandel calls them “the
lucky minority who got more money out of
the fund than they put in.” They had simply
trusted.
Like Station Eleven, Mandel was drawn
to a narrative of downhill momentum. But
reading Station Eleven is a soothing expe-
rience. Connections align. There isa defin-
itive before and after. The world settles
into something new. The Glass Hotel
doesn’t offer the same reassurances. The
disaster, perhaps because humanity
caused it, feels crueler. What do we do
when the world explodes, it asks, but most
of the population carries on as before? Like
the rest of Mandel’s work, there are char-
acters all over the globe—from parched
Dubai terraces to the extravagant bou-
tiques of Fifth Avenue. Its expansiveness
is central to the premise that theworld’s
interconnectivity magnifies calamity.
It also gives weight to disaster’s unbear-
able banality. The Glass Hotel, notably,
includes a shipping executive whom Sta-
tion Eleven readers will remember: Leon
Prevant, who, in this iteration ofhis life,
invested with Alkaitis. Just before Leon
discovers his life savings are a fabricated
string of numbers, he’s in a meeting with a
colleague who was his secretary inthe par-
allel universe of Station Eleven. They’re
discussing the economy’s general down-
turn when she wryly says, “There’s some-
thing almost tedious about disaster. Don’t
you find? I mean, at first it’s all dramatic,
‘Oh my god the economy’s collapsing ...
but then that keeps happening, it just
keeps collapsing, week after week.’ ” In a
novel full of Easter eggs for devoted Man-
del fans, it’s a sly note of camaraderie. And
in a world where rolling disasters fade into
one another, it’s a reminder that Mandel
wants to lurch us out of the tedium. ■