Book of Revelation: A Novelby Rupert Thomson
Stepping out of his Amsterdam studio one April afternoon to buy cigarettes for his girlfriend, a dashing 29-year old Englishman reflects on their
In an edgy psychological thriller that is as mesmerizing as it is profound, Rupert Thomson fearlessly delves into the darkest realm of the human spirit to reveal the sinister connection between sexuality and power.
Stepping out of his Amsterdam studio one April afternoon to buy cigarettes for his girlfriend, a dashing 29-year old Englishman reflects on their wonderful seven-year relationship, and his stellar career as an internationally acclaimed dancer and choreographer. But the nameless protagonist's destiny takes an unthinkably horrifying turn when a trio of mysterious cloaked and hooded women kidnap him, chain him to the floor of a stark white room to keep as their sexual prisoner, and subjected him to eighteen days of humiliation, mutilation, and rape. Then, after a bizarrely public performance, he is released, only to be held captive in the purgatory of his own guilt and torment: The realization that no one will believe his strange story. Coolly revelatory, meticulously crafted, The Book of Revelation is Rupert Thomson at his imaginative best.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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I can see it all so clearly, even now. The studio canteen was empty, and I was sitting in the corner, by the window. Sunlight angled across the table, dividing the smooth, blond wood into two equal halves, one bright, one dark; I remember thinking that it looked heraldic, like a shield. An ashtray stood in front of me, the sun's rays shattering against its chunky glass. Beside it, someone's coffee cup, still half full but long since cold. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day -- a break between rehearsals. . . .
I had just opened my notebook and was about to put pen to paper when I heard footsteps to my right, a dancer's footsteps, light but purposeful. I looked up to see Brigitte, my girlfriend, walking towards me in her dark-green leotard and her laddered tights, her hair tied back with a piece of mauve velvet. She was frowning. She had run out of cigarettes, she told me, and there were none in the machine. Would I go out and buy her some more?
I stared at her. "I thought I bought you a packet yesterday."
"I finished them," she said.
"You've smoked twenty cigarettes since yesterday?"
Brigitte just looked at me.
"You'll get cancer," I told her.
"I don't care," she said.
This was an argument we had had before, of course, and I soon relented. In the end, I was pleased to be doing something for her. It's a quality I often see in myself when I look back, that eagerness to please. I had wanted to make her happy from the first moment I saw her. I would always remember the morning when she walked into the studio, fresh from the Jeune Ballet de France, and how she stood by the piano, pinning up her crunchy, chestnut-coloured hair, and I would always remember making love to her a few days later, and the expression on her face as she knelt above me, a curious mixture of arrogance and ecstasy, her eyes so dark that I could not tell the difference between the pupils and the irises. . . .
Brigitte had moved to the window. She stood there, staring out, one hand propped on her hip. Smiling, I reached for my sweater and pulled it over the old torn shirt I always wore for dance class.
"I won't be long," I said.
Outside, the weather was beautiful. Though May was still two weeks away, the sun felt warm against my back as I walked off down the street. I saw a man cycle over a bridge, singing loudly to himself, as people often do in Amsterdam, the tails of his pale linen jacket flapping. There was a look of anticipation on his face -- anticipation of summer, and the heat that was to come. . . .
I had been living with Brigitte for seven years. We rented the top two floors of a house on Egelantiersgracht, one of the prettier, less well-known canals. We had skylights, exotic plants, a tank of fish; we had a south-facing terrace where we would eat breakfast in the summer. Since we were both members of the same company, we saw each other twenty-four hours a day; in fact, in all the time that we had lived together, I don't suppose we had spent more than three or four nights apart. As dancers, we had had a good deal of success. We had performed all over the world -- in Osaka, in São Paulo, in Tel Aviv. The public loved us. So did the critics. I was also beginning to be acclaimed for my choreography (I had created three short ballets for the company, the most recent of which had won an international prize). At the age of twenty-nine, I had every reason to feel blessed. There was nothing about my life I would have changed, not if you had offered me riches beyond my wildest imaginings -- though, as I walked to the shop that afternoon, I do remember wishing that Brigitte would give up smoking. . . .
I followed my usual route. After crossing the bridge, I turned left along the street that bordered the canal. I walked a short distance, then I took a right turn, into the shadows of a narrow alley. The air down there smelled of damp plaster, stagnant water, and the brick walls of the houses were grouted with an ancient, lime-green moss. I passed the watchmaker's where a cat lay sleeping in the window, its front paws flexing luxuriously, its fur as grey as smoke or lead. I passed a shop that sold oriental vases and lamps with shades of coloured glass and bronze statues of half-naked girls. Like the man on the bicycle, I had music in my head: it was a composition by Juan Martin, which I was hoping to use in my next ballet. . . .
Halfway down the alley, at the point where it curved slightly to the left, I stopped and looked up. Just there, the buildings were five storeys high, and seemed to lean towards each other, all but shutting out the light.
The sky had shrunk to a thin ribbon of blue.
As I brought my eyes back down, I saw them, three figures dressed in hoods and cloaks, like part of a dream that had become detached, somehow, and floated free, into the day. The sight did not surprise me. In fact, I might even have laughed. I suppose I thought they were on their way to a fancy-dress party -- or else they were street-theatre people, perhaps. . . .
Whatever the truth was, they didn't seem particularly out of place in the alley. No, what surprised me, if anything, was the fact that they recognised me. They knew my name. They told me they had seen me dance. Yes, many times. I was wonderful, they said. One of the women clapped her hands together in delight at the coincidence. Another took me by the arm, the better to convey her enthusiasm.
While they were clustered round me, asking questions, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my right hand. Looking down, I caught a glimpse of a needle leaving one of my veins, a needle against the darkness of a cloak. I heard myself ask the women what they were doing -- What are you doing? -- only to drift away, fall backwards, while the black steeples of their hoods remained above me, and my words too, written on the sky, that narrow strip of blue, like a message trailed behind a plane. . . .
It is only five minutes' walk from the studio to the shop that sells newspapers and cigarettes. I ought to have been there and back in a quarter of an hour. But half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes, and still there was no sign of me.
I had last seen Brigitte standing at the canteen window, one hand propped on her hip. How long, I wonder, did she stay like that? And what went through her mind as she stood there, staring down into the street? Did she think our little argument had upset me? Did she think I was punishing her?
I imagine she must have turned away eventually, reaching up with both hands to re-tie the scrap of velvet that held her hair back from her face. Probably she would have muttered something to herself in French. Faít chier. Merde. She would still have been longing for that cigarette, of course. All her nerve-ends jangling.
Maybe, in the end, she asked Fernanda for a Marlboro Light and smoked it by the pay-phone in the corridor outside the studio.
I doubt she danced too well that afternoon.
That night, when I did not come home, Brigitte rang several of my friends. She rang my parents too, in England. No one knew anything. No one could help. Two days later, a leading Dutch newspaper published an article containing a brief history of my career and a small portrait photograph. It wasn't front-page news. After all, there was no real story as yet. I was a dancer and a choreographer, and I had gone missing. That was it. Various people at the company came up with various different theories -- a nervous breakdown of some kind, personal problems -- but none of them involved foul play. My parents offered a reward for any information that might throw light on my whereabouts. Nobody came forward.
All this I found out later.
There was a point at which Brigitte began to resent me for putting her in such a difficult position. She found it humiliating, not knowing where I was; I was making her look ridiculous. It must have been then that it occurred to her that I might have left her -- for another woman, presumably. How cowardly of me to say nothing. How cowardly, to just go. Brigitte was half French, half Portuguese, and her pride had always resembled a kind of anger. There was nothing constant or steady about it. No, it flared like a struck match. When she was interviewed by the police she told them that I had abandoned her, betrayed her. She couldn't produce any evidence to support her theory, nor could she point to any precedent (in our many years together I had never once been unfaithful to her), yet the police took her seriously. A woman's intuition, after all. What's more, she lived with me. She was supposed to know me best. So if that was what she thought. . . . The police did not send out any search parties for me. They did not scour the countryside with tracker dogs or drag the city's waterways. They did not even put up Missing Person posters. Why would they? I was just a man having an affair.
This, too, I found out later.
One other thing. The last person to see me before I disappeared was not Brigitte, but Stefan Elmers. Stefan was a freelance stills photographer who worked for the company. He took pictures of us dancing, black-and-white pictures that were used in programmes and publicity. Both Brigitte and I counted Stefan as a friend.
As I was walking along the canal that afternoon -- and this could only have been moments before I turned into the alley -- Stefan happened to drive past me in his car. Usually he would have stopped and talked to me, or else he would have shouted out of the window, something cheeky, knowing Stefan, but there was another car behind him, right behind him, so he just kept going.
Apparently, I looked happy.
For the next eighteen days no one had the slightest idea where I was.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Meet the Author
Rupert Thomson is the author of five previous novels -- of which Soft!, The Insult, Air & Fire, and The Five Gates of Hell are available in Vintage paperback. He lives in London.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I thought the book was brilliant. I¿ve read several reviews of the book saying they were disappointed with the second half of the book, specifically the ending and his inability to ¿get on with his life¿ after the abduction and subsequent abuse ¿ but to me the ending was the entire point of the book. Yes the beginning (the 18 days imprisoned) was enthralling reading, but to me the book was about the dissociation from life resulting from abuse, using the somewhat taboo subject of male sexual abuse by women. But what makes the book for me is at the end, when he starts to explain his actions to a policeman friend of his who suspects that he has a story to tell ¿ the ultimate line ¿you¿ve started from the middle, go back to the beginning¿. In a way it¿s telling you to start the book again, almost as if the book is a transcript of his conversation with the policeman (hense the name of the book), but in another way it¿s also saying maybe go back to the very beginning and look at the motives of the women who kidnapped and abused him, they would have had stories to tell, were their actions a result of abuse they themselves had experienced in the same way his abusive actions to women at the end of the book were as a result of theirs.
The premise was great. The execution was shoddy. The main character is brutally tortured and humiliated, yet does nothing to his unarmed captors when he has a chance? And THIRTY people watched as he danced nude with a lock on his penis? Very unbelievable.
The beginning was captivating, but the book becomes increasingly irritating. The main character makes no real attempts to recover from his kidnapping and, subsequently, the book just continues to frustrate the reader. I kept reading for the hope that something - anything - would happen, but it didn't, which may be what the author wanted. In any case, the book was mediocre and the ending was worthless.
Rupert Thomson (1955) is one of my favourite authors. His latest sixth novel, `The Book of Revelation¿, is a compelling story, and once you start reading it, it¿s difficult to put the book down. A nameless 30-year old english dancer/choreographer lives and works in Amsterdam. He has a succesful career and for some years he¿s been living happily with his nice girlfriend Brigitte, also a dancer. In his life there are no real troubles, until... everything changes forever. He¿s abducted in Amsterdam by three cloaked and hooded women, who hold him captive and chained naked to the floor of an anonymous white empty room for eighteen days. For no apparent reason. During his captivity the only option there for him is total submission. The young women, presumably of his own age, appear often naked -though always hooded- to him. They have their way and play all kinds of games with him, mostly for their sexual pleasure. When the women¿s demands become more fierce, total dehumanisation and humiliation follows. The man is defenseless against this depraved performance of power, domination and desire. The ordeal he¿s subjected to includes rape and even brutal mutilation. For the reader this is a shocking nightmare as well. The captivity-part of the book reminded me of Pascal Bruckner's bizarre and weird, but brilliant novel 'les voleurs de beauté' (1997), and of two films where a similar sort of events takes place: Pasolini¿s `Salo: the 120 days of Sodom¿ (1975) and Michael Haneke¿s `Funny Games¿ (1998). What happens there is that you¿re forced to witness extreme atrocities, while you know there will be no escape from these brutal violations of human dignity. And of course, as a `witness¿, it makes you sick, you feel horrible. It¿s the same with Thomson¿s `Book of revelation¿, with one big difference, ... a relief. The man regains his freedom. After eighteen days the women all of a sudden decide to release him. The book is really about what follows then. Of course, after his release he¿s not really free. He will carry the horrible events he endured in captivity for the rest of his life, probably without ever knowing the identity of his torturers. In a brilliant way Thomson manages to describe the psychological process that accompanies the quest that now lies ahead of this deeply wounded man. His life-after looks like an endless re-evaluation. How to live with yourself, with these scars, how to deal with your sexuality, with the people around you, and how to put your life in some sort of right track again... Facing all these problems the man begins a search for the women who made a ruin of his life. A search that will also bring his innermost self to the fore, in a way he never could have imagined. The outline and structure of the novel is well balanced, and the shifting of perspective, using the first person (`I¿-form) and third person (`he¿-form) alternately in different sections of the novel, works fine and efficient. One of Thomson¿s best writing skills throughout his work is the use of analogies. In `The Book of Revelation¿ display of that skill may not be as abundant as in `The five gates of hell¿ and `The insult¿ -his most mesmerizing and intoxicating novels- but the outline and the psychological development of the main character is as good as ever. And, what¿s more, in `The Book of Revelation¿ Thomson reveals a deep wisdom to everyone of us about the essences of life, concerning relationships, sexuality, human dignity and freedom. A remarkable achievement, and taking into account the difficult subject Thomson is dealing with here, I consider `The Book of Revelation¿ a succesful `tour de force¿. In an oeuvre that¿s far from complete I hope.
This book was an insight to the very core of a fantasy many males have often dreamed of but as a reality is actually quite daunting. The autor has the tenseness and thrill of any good book but what makes it exceptional is the originalality. I really enjoyed this book and would recommend it to anyone who has ever wondered what happens when fantasy becomes reality.
Imagine that you have the perfect life: a lover who loves you no matter what, a job that is your true talent and a life that could not possibly contain a flaw. One day you walk outside your spacious apartment into the cool outside and you are kidnapped and taken sexual prisoner by three robed figures of the opposite sex. This scenario sounds wonderful, right, and completely ludicrous. Those were exactly my feelings on the novel by Rupert Thomson, entitled 'The Book of Revelation,' not to be confused with the other book, 'The Book of Revelations.' They do not even begin to compare, except that the nameless main character of this novel undergoes many self-revelations throughout this incredibly odd story. The main character remains nameless throughout the entire story, something that I find incredibly hard to identify with. He is strangely two dimensional, although the author tries his hardest to makes him have feelings and in-depth thought about what is happening around him. It starts off as the above says, with the young man living the perfect life with his beloved girlfriend and a job as a dancer and choreographer in Amsterdam. Everything is perfect in his life, or so it seems. It takes an extremely bizarre incident to realize what is really missing in his life. Another thing that must be noted about this novel is that the story seems to be written in three parts, or possibly by three different people because each main part of the book-his being taken prisoner, his travels and soul searching and his life after his return-varies so much from the others. That is just one more thing that makes this book very inconsistent. All of the first section is incredibly shocking, perverted and yet gruesomely entertaining. It shows the creative side of the author's mind, as the second part of the book remains questionable. The second part of the novel is not even worth mentioning as he is aimlessly wandering around, trying to 'search for himself' and what has been done to him. This section is so random that it makes no sense. Basically, he wastes part of his life because he gets nothing out of his travels. There was a basic lack of common sense on his part, or maybe the author's to leave this out of the story. The kidnapping screwed up his entire life; it meant so much to him, yet he made no effort to tell anyone about it. The ending is very disappointing; you want to scream at him to stop looking and move on wit