last novel, , ended with infanticide, necrophilia, cannibalism, and the ritualistic, livestreamed suicides of three teen delinquents suffering from HIV/AIDS. Readers familiar with it (and its only slightly less violent predecessor, ) may be anxious to know how, in his latest novel, the ante can possibly be upped. In , the Québécois writer shifts his attention from the factory-town horrors of the Saguenay (where he was born and raised) to the more subtle monstrosities that lurk in Montreal West mansions.
The book opens with a virtuosic party scene that carries on uninterrupted for sixty-two pages, in which Montreal luminaries gather in “a ravishing apartment, high ceilings, wood mouldings, white marble floors.” One of the guests is Céline Wachowski. As the narrative flits between the consciousnesses of the guests, we discover that Céline is many things: a feminist pioneer, a shrewd businesswoman, a television personality with her own Netflix show, and a celebrity architect whose company, Atelier C/W, has created stunning buildings in cities around the world, from San Francisco to Abu Dhabi.
Céline is also suffering premonitions of disaster. The disaster, when it hits, is relatively straightforward. Céline has been commissioned to build the Montreal headquarters of Webuy, an Amazon-like company.
When a man evicted during Webuy’s construction winds up unhoused and takes his own life, she becomes the focus of the city’s rage at the ravages of the housing crisi.