Indigo

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It is a color the human eye cannot truly see, a slice of the spectrum imbued with the promise of invisibility. But for Jack Chambers, the son of a scientist renowned as both a genius and a madman, it will lead to places of unknown treachery. As executor of his estranged-father's will, Jack is appointed two ominous tasks: publish Timothy Chambers' bizarre manuscript Invisibility: A Manual of Light, and track down an unknown woman who stands to inherit the substantial estate. Jack's mission leads him to reunite ...
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Overview


It is a color the human eye cannot truly see, a slice of the spectrum imbued with the promise of invisibility. But for Jack Chambers, the son of a scientist renowned as both a genius and a madman, it will lead to places of unknown treachery. As executor of his estranged-father's will, Jack is appointed two ominous tasks: publish Timothy Chambers' bizarre manuscript Invisibility: A Manual of Light, and track down an unknown woman who stands to inherit the substantial estate. Jack's mission leads him to reunite with his half-sister, Louise, now grown into a stunning woman. Bound by a tense attraction, Jack and Louise head to Rome, where a cultlike group pursues the intoxicating secrets of the elusive indigo -- and where Jack perceives its horrid danger only when it's too late.
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Editorial Reviews

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An Eerie Quest for Invisibility
Trust me on this: Graham Joyce is one of the best British novelists to arrive on the scene in the last ten years, and you need to read him. He is, at the moment, better known in England than he is over here, but that situation could change, and quickly. In the last few years, three of his novels have been published on this side of the Atlantic: Requiem, The Tooth Fairy, and Dark Sister, each of which received the British Fantasy Award as Best Novel of its respective year. His latest, Indigo, has just been issued in America by Pocket Books, and it should go a long way toward securing Joyce the readership he deserves.

According to the publicity material, Indigo is being touted as Joyce's "first suspense novel," a marketing ploy that makes the book sound a good deal more conventional than it actually is. Indigo is, certainly, a novel of suspense. But it is also a subtle, deliberately ambiguous exploration of the mysteries of human perception; a novel about parents, children, and family relationships; a case study in the corrupting effects of power; and a lovingly detailed evocation of two very different cities: Chicago and Rome. Most of all, it is a story about the universal search for transcendence, for a higher level of reality hidden beyond the borders of the visible world.

The hero of Indigo is Jack Chambers, a childless, twice-divorced British process server, who comes to Chicago to act as executor for his recently deceased father's estate. Tim Chambers, Jack's father, was a mysterious, manipulative, charismatic figure, who had a profound, sometimes destructive, influence on the lives of those around him, and who continues, even after death, to preside over the novel's central events. While attempting to dispose of his father's various bequests, Jack Chambers travels from Chicago -- where he develops uncomfortably close feelings for Louise Durrell, the half-sister he has never known -- to Rome -- where he enters into a powerfully erotic relationship with an enigmatic American sculptress, a relationship that almost results in his death. Along the way, Jack encounters, either directly or through various outside accounts, a number of the victims of Tim Chambers's messianic obsessions.

The nature of these obsessions is spelled out in an unpublished manuscript entitled Invisibility: A Manual of Light, chapters of which are scattered throughout the primary text. Invisibility is a kind of user's guide to alternate states of being, providing the uninitiated with a series of exercises designed to lead to a new -- and dangerous -- level of awareness: the ability to perceive the invisible, possibly non-existent shade of indigo. According to Tim Chambers, the manuscript's author, access to the color indigo -- which, if it exists, would fall somewhere between blue and violet on the visible spectrum -- also implies access to a higher level of being, a world of color and clarity beyond the limits of the five standard senses. Indigo is the Holy Grail of this novel, a physical and spiritual goal to which every major character -- Jack Chambers included -- eventually aspires.

Against the backdrop of this larger, all-encompassing mystery, Joyce presents us with a series of smaller mysteries and skillfully delineated personal dramas, including: Jack's incestuous attraction to Louise Durrell; the motives and identity of his artist/lover, who goes by the name of Natalie Shearer, and whose essential character is predatory, even wolf-like; and the interrelated fates of two young artists who died or disappeared while under the influence of Tim Chambers. But the real heart of the novel -- the still point around which everything else revolves -- is the eternal quest for transcendence, for a sense of personal connection to the hidden, animating forces of the world.

For some of the characters, transcendence takes unusual forms. One man, a vanity publisher and connoisseur of Chicago's strip clubs, searches obsessively for the ultimate, impossibly perfect nude dancer. A woman subject to epileptic seizures finds hints of the sublime within the seizures themselves, which seem to offer her "a promise of revelation, as if the universe itself might split open and admit an incident of angelic ferocity. A message. A meaning." But for most of the characters, the quest for perfection is inextricably connected to the quest for indigo, which, as Jack's Roman lover eventually tells him, "represents what you hope to find. Love. Revelation. Inspiration. The moment that pours into your life and makes it bigger than it was before."

Joyce's ability to articulate this fundamental sense of longing gives his novel a depth, a visionary clarity of purpose, that lifts it well above the level of the garden variety suspense novel. Indigo, like virtually everything else Joyce has published, is a genuine original, the product of a writer with enormous gifts and a highly individual vision. Indigo does what very few novels manage to do: It entertains and enlightens, and alters our perception of the ordinary, everyday world. If you're the kind of reader who is constantly in search of intelligent, original, unsettling fiction, then give this book -- and all of its predecessors -- a try. Graham Joyce is everything you've been looking for. You can trust me on this.

--Bill Sheehan

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Erstwhile fantasy novelist Joyce (Requiem; Dark Sister) switches genres with this enticing, if finally underwhelming, work of literary intrigue. Jack Chambers, a London process server, is summoned to Chicago after the death of his mysterious father, whose will mandates that Jack arrange to publish a manuscript called "Invisibility: A Manual of Light." In Chicago, Jack also meets his attractive half-sister Louise and her young son, Billy. Soon Jack, Louise and Billy are in Rome, where the secrets of Jack's father's life emerge: the elder Chambers led a secret cult of artists, who sought the power of invisibility through psychological and surgical practices related to the elusive color indigo. The cult's efforts, Jack discovers, have resulted in "one psychotic, one suicide, and one dead junky." As Jack investigates its sinister workings, his illicit passion for Louise grows. Joyce's asides on perception and science can fascinate; sections of the manual's delightfully convincing arcane text appear as little chapters of their own. His writing is fine though sometimes precious in its symbolisms. Lupine themes from Roman myth and history jostle uneasily with the color codings; the two sets of metaphorical connections are too much for this short novel to sustain. Nor does the plot keep its initial vigor. Joyce offers (though he doesn't quite insist on) plausible explanations for all his supernatural events, but by the end, magic has become mere allegory, suspicious schemes acquire quotidian explanations, and the fantasy is aborted, contained by a disappointingly thin psychology. (Jan.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Science Fiction Chronicle
An impressive, thoroughly enjoyable, stimulating, and often genuine creepy novel.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780671039370
  • Publisher: Atria Books
  • Publication date: 1/1/2000
  • Pages: 272
  • Product dimensions: 6.45 (w) x 9.59 (h) x 1.11 (d)

Meet the Author

Graham Joyce's books include The Facts of Life, which won the 2003 World Fantasy Award, Smoking Poppy, Indigo (a New York Times Notable Book of 2000) and The Tooth Fairy. He is a four-time recipient of the British Fantasy Award and winner of the French Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire. He lives in Leicester, England, with his wife and two children.

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Read an Excerpt

O'HARE AIRPORT, CHICAGO, ONE MONTH EARLIER

A nervous flyer, Jack Chambers was on his fifth scotch and soda when the plane began its descent to O'Hare. Stewardesses made scissor-like strides up and down the aisles, too fast to be asked for another scotch. Jack drained his plastic cup, wiped his corrugated brow with a tiny lemon-scented paper towel, and settled back to fret about the Birtles matter.

It was a good time for all this to happen, he decided. He'd left behind in London only one outstanding case in a frankly declining business. He had instructed his secretary, Mrs. Price, a lady of pensionable years, to take on any new cases but to stall while he was away, and to process the Birtles case. He had neglected to tell her the circumstances under which he'd left things.

Chicago, then, early October, sunlight like salt and lime outside the terminal. Jack shivered in the crisp, cold air, feeling a little lost. Before the taxi stand was a row of curious kiosks, inside which earmuffed female attendants stared dead ahead, bored into narcosis. Like the cab drivers, they had a chopped, bruised look, as if smarting from the sharp wind. Jack would soon find that all Chicagoans looked as though they'd taken a few jabs in a boxing ring. He tapped on the tough Plexiglas window of one kiosk and a woman minimally inclined her head toward a waiting yellow taxi.

It was a long drive into Chicago, with the taxi meter ticking away to doom. A great canyon, but of glass, steel, and prestressed concrete instead of sedimentary rock, rose gradually on either side; glinting, mercurial traffic formed the riverbed. Instead of caves and hemp ladders in the canyon walls, there would be elevators and carpeted lobbies. In one of those lobbies on West Wacker Drive he met Harvey Michaelson, the man who had originally telephoned him in England.

"When I called, I wasn't aware that you didn't know. I didn't expect to be breaking news."

"We hadn't seen each other in over fifteen years. We were not close," Jack told the lawyer.

Michaelson ushered Jack into his plush, oak-paneled office. He offered him fresh coffee, sandwiches, and pastries, asked about the flight, the weather in England. He treated Jack to an account of his visit, when he was a student, to London. His largesse was so great and his manner so relaxed that Jack calculated he must be paying handsomely for Michaelson's time. He stole a glance at his watch, just to let the attorney know he knew.

Michaelson wore gold cufflinks. "As I told you on the phone, you're more of an executor than a beneficiary." In England, no one wore cufflinks anymore, neither aristocrat nor underclass; here they seemed to signal a status that went with perfectly capped teeth, smooth hair, and a polished beech nameplate on the office door. "Oh, you do get something, conditional on you overseeing the will. There's a lot to sort out."

"Bet I don't get as much as you out of this," Jack said, and Michaelson laughed, even though they both knew it wasn't a joke.

Despite being forthright about the money coming to him, Jack wasn't a callous person. He just hated his father. He didn't have a psychological complaint about this. He couldn't understand why Freud made such a fuss. Jack hated his father and assumed that his father had in turn hated his.

Michaelson said, "Extraordinary man, your father."

"He was a shit."

Michaelson laughed again, but let it die when he saw Jack wasn't rolling with it. "Not the easiest man to get along with," he conceded. "Did he give you a rough time?"

With the lawyer's eyes opened wide in anticipation of an answer Jack saw that the sockets were just a little too red: late nights in dark places. "I don't want to talk about it." Not at these prices he didn't.

But Michaelson wasn't slow. "I can relate to that. Let's check out the paperwork, shall we?"

The paperwork, when it was laid out, was considerable. Jack's role as executor of the will was complicated. In order to receive a handsome executor's fee, he had to dispose of assets and deal with some curious provisions. There was an obscure manuscript to be published with funds made available. The will also required Jack to trace someone called Natalie Shearer, who was the main beneficiary.

"I've made some initial efforts at tracking down Shearer. Want me to keep on it?"

"Please. It's too much like the work I do at home."

"Oh? What is that?"

"I'm a process server." This was close enough to the legal world for Michaelson to understand, but far enough down the ladder for him not to want to ask any more. Jack wished he hadn't mentioned it. It was like a sandwich-board man hinting to an advertising executive that they were in the same line of business.

"Interesting. This is a set of copies of all the paperwork. You'll want to go over them in your own time. Where are you staying in Chicago?"

"I came directly from the airport. I thought you might recommend an inexpensive hotel."

"The hell with that. I'll have my assistant check you into the Drake. You get to draw your expenses from the will. It's provided."

"But if I read this correctly," said Jack, "anything left over after these provisions goes to me. So it may be my money after all."

Michaelson smiled indulgently. "Then you've got to pay inheritance tax, not to mention...look here." The lawyer then explained to Jack how he could actually make money by staying in a more expensive hotel, and Jack saw why his father had employed the man in the first place.

"And if I fill the room with call girls do I make still more money?"

Michaelson blinked.

"I'm kidding," said Jack. "Really I am." That's lawyers for you, he thought: If you don't laugh at their fees, they won't laugh at your jokes.

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First Chapter

O'HARE AIRPORT, CHICAGO, ONE MONTH EARLIER

A nervous flyer, Jack Chambers was on his fifth scotch and soda when the plane began its descent to O'Hare. Stewardesses made scissor-like strides up and down the aisles, too fast to be asked for another scotch. Jack drained his plastic cup, wiped his corrugated brow with a tiny lemon-scented paper towel, and settled back to fret about the Birtles matter.

It was a good time for all this to happen, he decided. He'd left behind in London only one outstanding case in a frankly declining business. He had instructed his secretary, Mrs. Price, a lady of pensionable years, to take on any new cases but to stall while he was away, and to process the Birtles case. He had neglected to tell her the circumstances under which he'd left things.

Chicago, then, early October, sunlight like salt and lime outside the terminal. Jack shivered in the crisp, cold air, feeling a little lost. Before the taxi stand was a row of curious kiosks, inside which earmuffed female attendants stared dead ahead, bored into narcosis. Like the cab drivers, they had a chopped, bruised look, as if smarting from the sharp wind. Jack would soon find that all Chicagoans looked as though they'd taken a few jabs in a boxing ring. He tapped on the tough Plexiglas window of one kiosk and a woman minimally inclined her head toward a waiting yellow taxi.

It was a long drive into Chicago, with the taxi meter ticking away to doom. A great canyon, but of glass, steel, and prestressed concrete instead of sedimentary rock, rose gradually on either side; glinting, mercurial traffic formed the riverbed. Instead of caves and hemp ladders in the canyon walls, there would be elevators and carpeted lobbies. In one of those lobbies on West Wacker Drive he met Harvey Michaelson, the man who had originally telephoned him in England.

"When I called, I wasn't aware that you didn't know. I didn't expect to be breaking news."

"We hadn't seen each other in over fifteen years. We were not close," Jack told the lawyer.

Michaelson ushered Jack into his plush, oak-paneled office. He offered him fresh coffee, sandwiches, and pastries, asked about the flight, the weather in England. He treated Jack to an account of his visit, when he was a student, to London. His largesse was so great and his manner so relaxed that Jack calculated he must be paying handsomely for Michaelson's time. He stole a glance at his watch, just to let the attorney know he knew.

Michaelson wore gold cufflinks. "As I told you on the phone, you're more of an executor than a beneficiary." In England, no one wore cufflinks anymore, neither aristocrat nor underclass; here they seemed to signal a status that went with perfectly capped teeth, smooth hair, and a polished beech nameplate on the office door. "Oh, you do get something, conditional on you overseeing the will. There's a lot to sort out."

"Bet I don't get as much as you out of this," Jack said, and Michaelson laughed, even though they both knew it wasn't a joke.

Despite being forthright about the money coming to him, Jack wasn't a callous person. He just hated his father. He didn't have a psychological complaint about this. He couldn't understand why Freud made such a fuss. Jack hated his father and assumed that his father had in turn hated his.

Michaelson said, "Extraordinary man, your father."

"He was a shit."

Michaelson laughed again, but let it die when he saw Jack wasn't rolling with it. "Not the easiest man to get along with," he conceded. "Did he give you a rough time?"

With the lawyer's eyes opened wide in anticipation of an answer Jack saw that the sockets were just a little too red: late nights in dark places. "I don't want to talk about it." Not at these prices he didn't.

But Michaelson wasn't slow. "I can relate to that. Let's check out the paperwork, shall we?"

The paperwork, when it was laid out, was considerable. Jack's role as executor of the will was complicated. In order to receive a handsome executor's fee, he had to dispose of assets and deal with some curious provisions. There was an obscure manuscript to be published with funds made available. The will also required Jack to trace someone called Natalie Shearer, who was the main beneficiary.

"I've made some initial efforts at tracking down Shearer. Want me to keep on it?"

"Please. It's too much like the work I do at home."

"Oh? What is that?"

"I'm a process server." This was close enough to the legal world for Michaelson to understand, but far enough down the ladder for him not to want to ask any more. Jack wished he hadn't mentioned it. It was like a sandwich-board man hinting to an advertising executive that they were in the same line of business.

"Interesting. This is a set of copies of all the paperwork. You'll want to go over them in your own time. Where are you staying in Chicago?"

"I came directly from the airport. I thought you might recommend an inexpensive hotel."

"The hell with that. I'll have my assistant check you into the Drake. You get to draw your expenses from the will. It's provided."

"But if I read this correctly," said Jack, "anything left over after these provisions goes to me. So it may be my money after all."

Michaelson smiled indulgently. "Then you've got to pay inheritance tax, not to mention...look here." The lawyer then explained to Jack how he could actually make money by staying in a more expensive hotel, and Jack saw why his father had employed the man in the first place.

"And if I fill the room with call girls do I make still more money?"

Michaelson blinked.

"I'm kidding," said Jack. "Really I am." That's lawyers for you, he thought: If you don't laugh at their fees, they won't laugh at your jokes.

Copyright © 1999 by Graham Joyce

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 1, 2000

    Astonishing, I didnt know what was going to happen next

    It was great i loved it because I truley didnt know what was going to happen. I know you are supposed to really reveiew this but all i have to say is 'YOU HAVE TO READ IT'.

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