QSFer Lindsay Merbaum has a new queer feminist horror book out (bi, lesbian, non-binary): The Golden Persimmon.
Clytemnestra is a check-in girl at The Gold Persimmon, a temple-like New York City hotel with gilded furnishings and carefully guarded secrets. Cloistered in her own reality, Cly lives by a strict set of rules until a connection with a troubled hotel guest threatens the world she’s so carefully constructed.
In a parallel reality, an inexplicable fog envelops the city, trapping a young, nonbinary writer named Jaime in a sex hotel with six other people. As the survivors begin to turn on one another, Jaime must navigate a deadly game of cat and mouse.
Haunted by specters of grief and familial shame, Jaime and Cly find themselves trapped in dual narratives in this gripping experimental novel that explores sexuality, surveillance, and the very nature of storytelling.
“The Gold Persimmon is a place where grief, sex, and mystery mingle. Merbaum fills her two hotels with haunting characters, propulsive storytelling, and a dreamy, Lynchian atmosphere. Once you check into The Gold Persimmon, I guarantee you’ll want to stay till the end.”—Lincoln Michel, author of The Body Scout
Get It At Amazon | Publisher | B&N
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The lobby is cool and quiet as a tomb, the only sound the soft burble of the fountain behind the desk: a hunk of stone with a ripple of shimmer coursing through it like a silver strand of hair, a spring pouring forth from the head, washing over the persimmon tree carved into the rockface. Green moss and tiny white flowers hide in the crevices. The orchids shiver.
Cly stands behind the desk with her hands on the poreless granite, caressing the stone. The world outside is one of car horns, garbage, cell phone chatter, the obscenity of roaring trucks, the boom and clank of construction. Inside, this is her world. When guests arrive one at a time, she studies their faces as they cross the threshold. Some of them tremble. Others smile with obvious relief, float up to the check-in desk.
“Welcome,” Cly says and means it. A sleek black nametag is pinned to her cream blouse, just above her breast. Her long black hair—wavy, almost curly—is pulled back in a gold clip. She wears simple gold earrings and a matching pendant in the shape of a persimmon tree. On her desk, there is a glass bowl of persimmons. She offers one to each guest. The fruit will never go out of season. It’s grown especially for the hotel in a greenhouse somewhere.
There are people who come here so their former selves can die, so they can transform into something else. Sometimes, when guests return to the lobby to check out after their stay, Cly does not recognize them. Their faces are the same, yet not. Once in a while, someone’s hair goes white.
Cly doesn’t know what exactly happens in those rooms because it is not her business to know. Even the guests themselves probably couldn’t explain it. But she does know something about solitude, about a quiet that can be deafening. She is the priestess, offering safe passage.
When Edith arrives, Cly notes her jaunty little walk, her stylish leather jacket. She smirks and simpers, the first to survey the lobby with such obvious self-satisfaction, savoring the sight of each object—the orchids, the plush couches no one ever sits on, the fountain, even Cly herself—and finding a secret pleasure in it all.
When Edith reaches the desk, hands stuffed in her pockets, she looks Cly right in the eye and smiles. She says “Hi,” slowly, with great purpose, the word accompanied by that smirk, teeth gleaming. Her voice is too loud; Cly winces.
“Welcome,” she says. But this time, she does not mean it, not exactly. What she means to say is, Are you sure this is where you’re supposed to be?
Edith looks around again. She has no luggage, just a backpack slung over one shoulder. She tosses her head and her short, fine hair falls into her eyes, then she brushes it away. It’s light brown, almost blond, with strands of silver. Her eyes, blue-gray, are framed by tentative quotation marks. Cly thinks she looks younger than she is; there are at least ten years between them.
As Cly brings up her reservation on the computer, Edith plucks a persimmon from the bowl and casually rolls it around in her hands.
Finally, it’s time for the presentation of the key. She offers Edith the shining black card in her cupped palms, the way she’s been taught to do, the way she’s always done it.
Edith arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
Cly nods.
“Okay, then.” She takes the key, allows her finger to graze Cly’s palm. It’s full of electricity. Zip.
“You going to be down here for a while?”
Cly pulls at her shirt, composing herself. “Yes, ma’am, until one o’clock.”
Edith smirks at her again for saying ma’am. Then she glances at her nametag. “Well, if you want some company, you know where to find me, Clytemnestra.” She pronounces her full name like an inside joke. With that, she saunters off toward the gilded elevator, where an attendant awaits to shuttle her to her room. She hums to herself as she goes, tosses the persimmon in the air. She catches it, throws it again, a prince with a golden bauble.
The next day, Cly finds on her desk a small piece of heavy, cream stationary, folded in half. She knows who’s left it, though she plays coy with herself and pretends she doesn’t. Her hands tremble as she unfolds the paper to sneak a peek, then she secrets it away in her pocket. The note contains no words of flattery. No poetry or little jokes. In fact, there are no words at all, just a phone number in neat, block letters. Such delicious arrogance, her mother might say.
After her shift ends, Cly goes home and sinks into the tub. She closes her eyes, feels again the guest’s finger—Edith’s— grazing her palm. In spite of herself, she imagines Edith’s hands on her body, grasping, pawing. The scene is startling. Cly opens the tap to disguise the sound of the water sloshing with the movement of her hips.
Sometimes she ducks under. Even submerged, holding her breath, she can still taste her mother’s cigarettes. What would it be like to experience everything like this? The sounds of the world flattened and distorted, rendered distant yet incredibly close. Cly imagines drifting up, out of her body, floating through the bathroom doorway, then to the right toward the kitchen. There, on the table, she sees her mother’s notebook full of poetry she never lets anyone look at. Meanwhile, her father paces, muttering lectures to the pigeons on the windowsill. Her parents no longer sleep. They’re alert, monitoring her comings and goings, waiting for her when she gets home, no matter the hour. All their friends drifted away years ago. Their own parents are dead in countries they will never see again.
Author Bio
Lindsay Merbaum is a queer feminist author and high priestess of home mixology. Her award-nominated short fiction has appeared in PANK, Anomalous Press, The Collagist, Epiphany, Gargoyle, Day One, Harpur Palate, and Hobart, among others. Her essays and interviews can also be found in Electric Literature, Bustle, Bitch Media, The Rumpus, LARB, The Huffington Post, and more. Lindsay lives in Michigan with her partner and cats. The Gold Persimmon is her first novel.
| Author Website | https://www.lmerbaum.com/ |
| Author Facebook | https://www.facebook.com/lindsay.merbaum |
| Author Twitter | https://twitter.com/pickyourpotions |