In The Natashas, Yelena Moskovich embarks on a jarring exploration of the inseparability of name and identity. The plot centers around Parisian jazz singer, Béatrice, and aspiring actor, César, who spend their lives haunted by nicknames, watching as their own fates are borne out on other people’s tongues. At the same time, Béatrice’s sister meows in conversation as her boyfriend’s “kitty cat,” and a woman named Sabine spends her entire life vehemently instructing others to call her “anything but that.” And then of course are the ever-present Natashas, those who have been stripped of age, interiority, and potential, whose name serves as a reminder that society exerts a control over its members even as they fight to create themselves. “Whether she is Pavla or Olena or Salomeya, to the customers, her name is Natasha.”

Moskovich’s imagery in the novel is hypnotizing; blankets on the floor are “bunched like spat-out gum,” cigarette smoke “crashes like watercolor” against a wall, a man’s voice is “as soft as a boiled fish,” and a question can seem “a room full of empty shoes.” The text stacks its scenes like building blocks, creating a mosaic of surrealist serendipity in which everything you think you know dissolves, again and again. Likewise, the characters live an “inter-frequency existence,” caught in the static between two channels, privy only to snatches and symbols as these realities bleed and swerve. The Natashas presents a Murakami-esque pictogram of incomplete data that will mesmerize the reader long after the last page has been turned.

Dzanc Books.

—Review by Samantha Kirby