David Mitchell’s “Number9Dream” (Random House, 400 pages, $24.95) is a hilarious account of a young man’s search for his father and, by extension, himself in modern-day Tokyo. It’s also a frustrating example of a talented writer gone awry.
Mitchell’s first novel, the dreamlike “Ghostwritten,” was widely praised for its inventiveness and Mitchell’s amazing ability with language. In “Number9Dream” he earns that praise again. His writing is creative and precise.
The story is equally surprising, even as it employs the centuries-old picaresque form. Eiji Miyake, a 20-year-old with a chip on his shoulder, leaves his provincial Japanese island for Tokyo, where he hopes to find his father, whose name he does not know. It’s a fool’s quest: His father is powerful enough to have had his name left off the birth certificates for Eiji and his twin sister, Anju. He’s not likely to open his fortune and connections to an illegitimate bumpkin.
Eiji’s mother, who was the man’s mistress, is no help, having suffered a breakdown. But Eiji continues with his quest because he made a promise to Anju, who died nine years earlier.
In telling his tale, Mitchell veers from reality to dream to altered reality. How well that works depends on the patience of the reader. And maybe the reader shouldn’t ask what Mitchell meant, but what the story means to him, the reader. As the pianist with whom Eiji falls in love says: “Look at `The Well-Tempered Clavier.’ To me, it means molecular harmony. To my father, it means a broken sewing machine. To Bach, it means an experiment in writing for every available key. To Bach’s wife, it means money to pay his wig maker. Who is right? Individually, we all are. Generally, none of us are.”
If “Number9Dream” were as focused as that, it would have been amazing, not frustrating.
