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By JOHN FREEMAN
© St. Petersburg Times, published August 20, 2000
With the exception of John Steinbeck's 1952 classic, East of Eden, writers have been reluctant to revisit the story of Cain and Abel. But in his 780-page behemoth, The Royal Family, William T. Vollmann boldly picks up where Steinbeck left off, giving us a haunting novel full of murder, betrayal and shame. Using that primordial tale, he meditates on the yawning gap between the chosen and the dispossessed in contemporary America.
Vollmann's story begins with John and Henry Tyler, two Sacramento-born brothers living in present day San Francisco. In spite of their shared upbringing, the brothers have wound up on opposite ends of the social spectrum. John is a high-powered attorney with a penchant for Italian neckties. Henry, a private investigator, lurks among the dingy bars of the city's seedy Tenderloin district, trying to locate the legendary Queen of prostitutes for a client.
Henry falls in love with John's wife, plunging the brothers' into an urgent sexual rivalry. When the wife commits suicide, leaving no explanatory note, the novel commences a noirish descent into San Francisco's underworld. John, ever the rationalist, coldly applies himself to moving on; Henry can't let go. Despondent, he continues his search for the Queen, hoping she can help him conquer his grief.
Vollmann has always been known as a poet of the demimonde, but in The Royal Family he has created his most memorable cast of characters yet. There is Domino, a sweet-talking blond who flatters her johns as she steals their wallets; there is Beatrice, a Mexican woman who came into the business after surviving a gang rape south of the border; and there is Sapphire, a mentally disabled woman who murmurs about "l-l-luff" as she crawls around on the floor. The intriguing centerpiece of this crew is Queen herself -- a small, African-American woman skilled in black magic. For a 10 percent cut of the proceeds she keeps her family housed and spiritually nurtured. After winning her trust, Henry becomes the Queen's lover and virtual slave, searching for salvation in their desolate affair.
Vollmann's writing veers between the hard-boiled and poetic, but it never flinches. The grisly sections are not for the weak of heart, but they lend an authenticity and emotional resonance to the narrative.
Vollmann shifts deftly between the Tenderloin and the nearby Financial District, drawing parallels between the ways people use one another in each. John's mistress, for example, is hardly different from Domino. These two worlds collide when Jonas Brady, the mogul who hired Henry for his P.I. work and later John for his legal advice, attempts to shut down the royal family, who threaten "The Feminine Circus," his adult entertainment casino franchise. In the shadow of this corporate war on street prostitution, the novel moves to its climax of ritualistic killing, brotherly disaffection and redemption from grief.
Vollmann asks the reader to empathize with a fundamental humanity in society's shunned souls. Those who make the leap with him are rewarded with a vision that is as powerful as it is horrifying.
John Freeman writes frequently for Salon, the Village Voice and other publications. He lives in New York City.
By William T. Vollmann
Viking, $40