What a puzzling writer Hensher is - from the vindictively acerbic Kitchen Venom to the inch-perfect The Mulberry Empire to this puzzling, almost enervating book. Philip Hensher doesn't do ventriloquism here exactly, although it might be a ventriloquism that imitates his own voice, for there is a sense that he is attempting a book that is nothing if it is not different from its predecessor. However, he cannot but shine through the perplexing, out-of-sync, clever prose and bewilderingly obtuse dialogue, by virtue of the voice alone.
Set in Vienna some time around the early 70s, the story concerns Fredereike, a talented singer in a family of eccentric musicians and music lovers. She falls in with Archy, a dissolute Englishman and the latest in the line of voice coaches hired by her mother to train her up for the opera circuit. There is a vein of light humour, gradually turning heavier as the book progresses. There is the shock of a lost version of the opera Lulu, supposedly re-written by Alban Berg, for Fredereike's grandmother, which turns out to be other than what it seems. There are truncated conversations where people lie to each other with witty insouciance and instantly retract, if not their words, at least their meaning. The whole novel takes place in a cloud of deceit. In the end, one finds it quite hard to care.