"...Carola, who was sitting facing the door, gasped. Natasha turned and joined her in a chorus of aghast surprise. Annabelle took note, without surprise, that the theatricality was there even when the emotion was genuine."
Tl;dr: This is an earthy adventure story, a sly piece of literature, and an important record of trans life in the US in the late 70s. Originally written in the 80s, it was finally published in 2016, and won the Lambda Literary Award for Best Trans Fiction. I recommend it, with the caveat that there is sex, violence, and sexual violence. It would make a terrific movie.
(Wait. Where does a random cis girl get off reviewing a trans book? Looking for something positive to contribute, I said I'd read and review some books by trans authors. Maybe I can draw attention to a few books.)
To review any book, I have to read it twice; first to gain a broad impression, second to see the details more clearly. My first time through Tiny Pieces of Skull I only saw Annabelle's adventure: her trip from London to New York and then Chicago, at the behest of the selfish Natasha; the betrayal; the rescue by Alexandra; and Annabelle and Alexandra's sexual adventures as they struggle to pay the rent. In the end, Annabelle becomes part of a small, marginal community with its own expectations and rules.
It was on the second read that I realized the novel's preoccupation, present on nearly every page: authenticity. In particular, feminine beauty as a measure of authenticity. Right on page 1, Natasha warns our heroine: "You'll never be a woman if you eat that cream cake."
Of course, authenticity -- being seen as authentic, passing -- means safety, survival. Natasha warns Annabelle that she cannot relax, she cannot be "lazy". Vain Alexandra will admit 'even I'm not perfect or safe, not really'. But Natasha also uses this as a means of control. In fact, she is in the habit of rebuilding her friends: "... she was never one to leave her dear friends with a problem, a blemish, or anything that was unreconstructedly them." (There's a lot of it about. Alexandra remakes Annabelle in her own image: a john thinks they are literally sisters. The American characters can't tell that the received accent Annabelle affects is not her natural one.)
At the same time, Natasha has fallen into the clutches of a romantic con man, Carlos, who is naturally careful to isolate her from her friends -- leaving Annabelle stranded in Chicago. Carlos, too, is engaged in a rebuilding project: rewiring Natasha's self-confidence, her relationships, her taste in art, while taking her for every penny he can. Natasha summarises the relationship when she quotes Carlos: "He says I'm much too beautiful for it to matter much."
"It" is, of course, the fact that Natasha is "a sister"; she is a trans woman. I think the book's subtitle, "A Lesson In Manners", derives from everyone's careful use of euphemism. A sister might be described thus: "she's, well, like you"; perhaps someone has breast implants but wants "the other thing done" -- or call it "taking care of business". Is it simple delicacy, femininity? "It's a necessary part of having manners," comments Carola. Is it also survival, again -- relying on insiders' understanding to avoid alerting outsiders? And/or a form of bonding between those who "have the beans" -- are in the know?
In some ways Annabelle is a tourist in the US, promptly ripped off by a cabbie. She keeps her ticket home, just in case; some other sisters don't have a way out. But she is also smart and resilient, and can think and talk her way out of a situation: hilariously, she manages Bunckley the police officer by promising him a bobby's helmet. Annabelle's attitude to sex work is expressed by her comment on a customer's dirty car: "There isn't much in the way of dirt you can't brush off boots... and it was only fluff anyway." (Some moments are better than others. Annabelle seldom cries, but her eyes are sometimes irritated by her contacts, or by cigarette smoke.)
Eventually Annabelle and Natasha earn their keep by putting on private little BDSM shows for their clientele. "She was finally enjoying herself... Part of the point of coming here had been, had it not, to sit around feeling mildly and snugly wicked after years of being safe and plain and quiet and that other thing in the Civil Service." "...they all knew from their childhoods that what they were doing was very naughty indeed. They stayed up late as well." (This content is especially interesting in light of Kavaney's activism; here, BDSM is not some horrific beast, but funny, harmless, and ultimately insignificant.)
The ultimate feminine perfection is the much-admired, much-storied Mexica, who has had her skull remodeled -- hence the book's macabre title -- and so, by metaphor or implication, her brain, her self or soul. Mexica is a legend to the other sisters, her exploits mentioned more and more often until, inevitably, she is winched down from heaven for a personal appearance -- not quite what Annabelle or the reader might have been expecting.
The story finishes in a quickly escalating series of steps of violence and revenge, propelling Annabelle and Natasha back to the UK to "live quietly". It's as though they have been part of a community of superheroes with colourful identities, and now they must shuck their costumes; or that Chicago has been a sort of underworld through which they have journeyed, with the help of variably reliable Virgils.
The ultimate question, then, is whether the novel itself is authentic. Here and there are anecdotes which might be too good to be true, as when Annabelle cleverly, and absolutely, destroys a rapist. Kaveney tells us: "Most of it happened, more or less".
I think the moment when Annabelle establishes, once and for all, her own authenticity, actually comes quite early on, when she has her breasts implants done. They will prove to herself, and to her cis feminist friends, that she is sure about what she wants, that she's doing the 'right thing': they will be a 'commitment in my heart... Outward sign of inward grace, as the nuns taught us in catechism.' Afterwards, she writes a defiant postcard to an unsympathetic cis friend: 'And my tits are real... I know what imaginary tits are like, and these are not they, not ever again.'
(Will I look back at this review, years from now, and be struck by its naivety -- its own lack of authenticity?)
https://www.teamangelica.com/post/roz-kaveney-tiny-pieces-of-skull
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