In this classic Soviet-set thriller, a hustler finds himself trapped in a high-stakes web of deceit. In Moscow, a city that runs on paranoia, black marketer Robespierre Pravdin survives by hustling wristwatches and employing his ample--though slightly mad--charm to escape any close calls with the authorities. His plan to stay off the state's radar is foiled when he moves in with an enigmatic woman known only as "Mother Russia." She enlists his help to track down evidence that will prove an unthinkable crime: that their national hero, a writer, is a fraud, his most famous novel plagiarized. As Pravdin is drawn deeper into a conspiracy both literary and political, he becomes a pawn in a dangerous game. Can he find his way out of one last tight spot--possible treason? Twisty and engrossing, Mother Russia is an essential tragicomic depiction of survival in a crumbling surveillance state.
I was laughing, loving, and otherwise utterly hooked from the moment the main character, Robespierre Pravdin, began his sales pitch for Q-Tips. (It sounds lame here, but once you read the book you will never think of Q-Tips, or for that matter feminine deodorant or depilatory cream, the same way again). He crashes parties, he writes exceedingly quotable graffiti, and he says exactly what he thinks. He speaks a little Latin (though people always say, "is that Jewish?") and a little Hebrew (though people ask, "is that Latin?"). In the background, convoluted conspiracies and bureaucratic absurdity make his life as hellish as possible, eventually certifying him insane because can't be manipulated by them. This Catch-22-esque novel is a hilarious look at Communism: not condemnatory or hopeful, just irreverent.
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