This novel, the first from Australian anthropologist and Director of Women’s Studies at George Washington University, Diane Bell, is a fable of the contest between good and evil, where evil is a patriarchal conspiracy of silence and good is feminist solidarity at its upbeat best. The out-and-out villainy of the chauvinists and the indomitable optimism of the feminist heroes are somewhat grating, but the gradual unravelling of a web of sin and secrecy makes for compelling reading—all the more because the issues (if not their handling) ring true. There is genuine drama in the climactic stand-off, and while the tidy dishing out of justice in the end is unlikely, it is satisfying nonetheless.
The story unfolds in St Jude’s, a Jesuit Liberal Arts college in New England, where Australian anthropologist Dee Per Scrutari (one of many punny names) takes up a tenured appointment in the Religious Studies department. Dee—mid-fifties, divorced, agnostic—observes as an outsider the rituals of this ancient tribe of non-reproducing males. Her vivid clothes and perky confidence are out of place among them, but she listens to their liturgies (and confessions) with an open mind. She is disturbed by the backward nature of their curriculum and the pre-eminence of the young white males on campus, but her efforts to promote Women’s Studies and grassroots groups are frustrated by the powers that be. As Dee’s anthropological enquiries turn into serious detection, it becomes obvious that there is more at stake than simply the status quo. Why are accusations of rape dismissed so quickly? Why does no-one care that women are receiving death-threats? Why will no-one speak about her dead predecessor? By sheer personal magnetism (more apparent to the other characters than to this reader) Dee draws together a group of women—teachers and students, cleaners and secretaries—and enlists her black-feminist-human-rights-activist-AIDS-researcher-doctor boyfriend, Christian, to plan a peaceable campaign of resistance. Her sleuthing uncovers the guilt of several abusers and their protectors, and the unstoppable gusto of her band of merry women works to overthrow the evil regime, bringing liberty, equality, and sorority to the decaying cloisters of St Jude’s.
Scattered among the episodes of this plot are Dee’s copious and unceasing notes about anthropology, feminist theory, and Catholic theology. The incoherence of these thought fragments adds a shade of realism, but weakens the intellectual power of the book. Complex ideas, rather than being integrated into the texture of the fiction, are festooned around an undemanding narrative like concept-maps or scribbled ‘post-its’, leaving the reader to make the connections between story and theory. The book, under its capacious title, masquerades as a cerebral exposé; a subtle exploration of the notion of evil in sociological and religious contexts. In fact it’s more like a thinking woman’s Da Vinci Code: religious cultures are subjected to journalistic scrutiny amid deepening mystery and blossoming romance. While purporting to offer a feminist critique of relationships and power, the story is in the end a fairly conventional romantic whodunit superimposed on a blurry background of sophisticated political theory.
It is also, however, a provocative dredge through the murky waters of sexual abuse and institutionalised injustice. Dee’s investigations raise important questions about truth and suppression, and reveal the power of cultures—whether an indigenous tribe in Central Australia or an academic board in North America—to defend and perpetuate evil under the habits and hierarchies of generations. Indeed its value lies not so much in its blunt defiance of patriarchy, but more in an understated questioning of cultural relativity and tolerance. Dee’s scrutiny of her own anthropological gaze is much more interesting than the object of that gaze, and her genuinely unsettling doubts about cross-cultural interventions are both thought-provoking and germane. As a feminist novel, it is theoretically underworked and politically oversimplified. As a story about culture, interesting and even ingenious flashes of insight emerge from its mid-nineties context to confront current local and international neuroses.
With its fellowship of brave and devoted heroes piecing together the clues to a grave mystery, and struggling against a nebulous malevolence, it works best as a fairy tale. The Catholic ancien régime is attended by all the horrors of a rotten fiefdom under the sway of brutal and bad-mannered men. The heroes, autonomous middle-aged princesses, break the spell of the powers of darkness by the stronger power of their courage and camaraderie. Like all fairy tales, its mythic simplicity requires of a modern reader the willing suspension of disbelief. Yet like all fairy tales, its precipitous possibilities don’t need to be believed to be seen.
Frances Cruickshank has a PhD in English Literature from The University of Queensland and is currently working as a researcher, writer, and tutor in Brisbane.