Lynne Perri
The writing is stark; the dialogue is simple, short. The story is terrifying and disturbing in its directness. It is so graphic that at times it is difficult to read. What emerges are questions of identity and what we think ourselves capable of. What we're left with is the notion that grief and hate can overtake us, no matter who we think we are.
— USA Today
Publishers Weekly
In this tight first novel, Tristram skillfully ponders fidelity to one's self, spouse and identity in a post-9/11 world. A widow who has spent lots of television time talking about her husband's death at the hand of terrorists arranges to meet a married man at a rundown hotel, stepping into a veritable "film noir." By taking a Muslim lover on the anniversary of her husband's death, she hopes for catharsis, "to do something so unexpected, so clearly outside the role that she had been forced into by her circumstances!" The Muslim man quickly catches on and realizes "he was playing the role of a dead man. The thought fell over him as if he had discovered the truth of a great mystery and he wanted to weep." In and out of their hotel bedroom, the two hijacked lovers ground their physical acts with thoughtful reflections on true love and life. After a harsh, raw kiss, the widow tells the Muslim man, "Individuals are all the same, you know. Cut off from what they are. They are nothing at all. It's the context that matters. My husband was a Jew. Not a good Jew. But he gave up everything to acknowledge who he was. You are a Muslim. I am a widow of a Jew. That is who I am." This point is made several times in different ways over the course of the book, many times astutely, a few times improbably. After a purifying role reversal, the characters are reminded of who they are; the future is embraced. This book, raw like the characters' wounds, resonates long after the last sentence is read. (May) Forecast: Tristram's original, up-to-the-minute take on the psychological fallout of living in an era of terrorism should strike a chord with readers and reviewers. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Reading journalist Tristram's debut novel After is like looking at an Edward Hopper painting in all its anonymity, with isolated sadness and shadowy hotel rooms. Tristram has written the slim story of a young American widow whose husband was killed by Muslim extremists and the Muslim lover (he is actually Persian American) she adopts for 24 hours at a rundown hotel on the anniversary of her husband's death. No one has a name and everyone is shrouded in enigmatic fog. The title refers to the world following disaster-both personal and public-and the novel charts the repercussions and reverberations of events outside its frame, raising the question of the future after its final page. Tristram sets up a compelling psychological portrait about grieving, race, and sex that is never fully developed within its poetic minimalism. Beyond the initial shock of the situation and the couple's intense sexual encounter, it seems oddly predictable. Characters like the fat, racist man also staying at the hotel remain caricatures. Nevertheless, disappointment in the book stems from its great promise, and Tristram is clearly an author to watch. Recommended for large collections.-Prudence Peiffer, Cambridge, MA Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Anyone looking to take a walk on the wild side will relish this fiercely erotic debut. In the jittery aftermath of 9/11, two strangers have a tryst. He's a married man with daughters, a Muslim who has been drawing hostile glances since the attacks. She's the ex-Catholic widow of an American Jew killed by his Arab captors because of his religion; the incident (never detailed) outraged the American public and put the widow on the front pages. He needs a break from the monotony of married life; her motivations are more complex. She's sexually hungry, keen to end her celibacy on this first anniversary of her husband's murder. A Muslim holds out no prospects of becoming a life partner (good), and represents "forbidden fruit" (better). They rendezvous at a spooky beachfront hotel on the Pacific. Tristram alternates viewpoints as the pair embark on an all-night roller-coaster, both mindful that there are four people in the room, counting a dead husband and a living wife. They have different sexual tastes. His orgasm is messy. Hers is an astonishment. Misconceptions abound. She thinks he's an Arab. No, he's from Persia: Persians are not Arabs; he's a naturalized American, and secular to boot. They break for dinner and are seated with another couple; the man, a drunken loudmouth, threatens the "Arab." Back in their room, they find themselves exchanging roles. Now the widow dominates, blindfolding the Muslim and binding his wrists and ankles. It's all playful, isn't it? Once the spanking starts and the widow draws blood, the Muslim cannot be sure, and when she forces him to leave an ambiguous message on his wife's answering machine, uncertainty turns into terror. Tristram does a fine job of keepingthe reader on a knife-edge. Our uneasiness over the contrived setup fades as the bedroom furies take over in a swirl of desire and disgust, magic and menace. Newcomer Tristram comes racing out of the gate with this bold, splashy debut. Agency: Sobel Weber Associates
