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There is a certain literary, evocative note to the prose found in THE SILVER SWAN. John Banville, Black's name in the world of letters, has won more than one award, so no doubt that accounts for the standard of THE SILVER SWAN. It's a shame, though, that he didn't concentrate on lightening the tone of this very depressing work, for all it is so beautifully written. It is the mid-1950s and Quirke, the pathologist, is approached by a former school contemporary not long before he is to perform a post mortem on a woman whose body, presumed a suicide, was pulled from the water in Dublin Bay. Billy Hunt, husband of the drowned woman, Deirdre, can't bear the thought of her body being cut up. Quirke, being an obliging sort, says he will abide by Billy's request but goes ahead and performs the autopsy. Interestingly, Deirdre did not drown – but Quirke finds a puncture wound on one of her arms. The narrative flashes back to Deirdre's girlhood and her time working for the local pharmacist, Mr Plunkett. There she encountered another of the major players in the tale, the thin, dark man who described himself as an Austrian and called himself Dr Kreutz. It appears that middle-aged women comprise the totality of Dr Kreutz's practice. Leslie White, whose name does not reflect the quality of his character, is a friend of Dr Kreutz. He is also the business partner of Deirdre Hunt. They run a beauty parlour called the Silver Swan and, professionally, Deirdre has taken the name Laura Swan. Leslie has run several failing business ventures which his wife, Kathryn, realises are scams. She also has no illusons about the quality of his fidelity to her – he is an entrepreneur in matters of bedding women. Quirke is possessed of a voracious curiosity and determines to follow up the Hunt case and try to find out exactly what happened to the victim and who had killed her. As I said previously, this is a very dark and depressing work. No one is happy. Phoebe, Quirke's daughter, who has only recently learned of her parentage, is a brittle, mistrustful woman. Quirke, much as he would like to have his daughter know of his love, seems condemned to be hated by her – on the surface, at any rate. Leslie (and this in pre-Viagra days) seems intent on adding the metaphorical scalps of every woman he comes across to his already overcrowded belt, but even he is suffering. The characters of this unhappy book are all too credible – and miserable. Quirke, caught between the dislike of his daughter, the unhappiness of his antecedents and his current attempt to give up alcohol, is understandably disconsolate. The other characters, amidst the gloom of the 1950s and their dour surroundings, are, equally understandably, pessimistic. While the mystery of just who is responsible for the demise of Deirdre Hunt is eventually resolved, the real puzzle is, to my mind: will the characters be able to resist the lure of suicide in order to survive to a possible third outing?
Reviewed by Denise Pickles, November 2007
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