Tangerine, by Christine Mangan

Tangier Matisse

View of the Bay of Tangier 1912, Henri Matisse

“You cry when you arrive, and you cry when you leave.” It’s an adage shared with Lucy Mason, one of two, alternating female narrators of Tangerine, Christine Mangan’s debut novel, as she departs the spellbinding Moroccan city of Tangier by boat. Lucy feels she has become like a “tangerine,” the term for natives.

Lucy spent every dime she had for passage to Tangier, compelled to re-establish contact with her Bennington College roommate, Alice Shipley. It’s been a year since the two separated, two years since Alice began dating a college boy, interrupting the “cloud of domestic bliss” between Alice and Lucy. Despite Alice’s move from Vermont to Morocco, Lucy finds her and appears unannounced, uninvited, and perhaps unwanted, on Alice’s doorstep.

Matisse door

The Kasbah Door by Henri Matisse

“We stood together n the front hall, and I remembered, in the space of our silence, the last words I had spoken to her that night. I had told her . . . no, I had shouted — the first time I could ever remember raising my voice to her — something awful, something wretched, something about wishing she would disappear, wishing I would never see her again. And then I remembered what had happened afterward, what I had thought, what I had said — though not to her, not to Lucy, who had disappeared long before I regained consciousness.

“I felt my cheeks go warm, felt her eyes watching me — certain in that moment, that she knew precisely what I was thinking about.”


Yet, the two seem to have much in common: orphaned at young ages, feeling an outsider (Lucy due to her scholarship-needed background, Alice who suffered when her parents died — “beyond normal grieving” — so that her guardian considered institutionalization). When Lucy entices Alice on an overnight trip away from her husband John McAllister, it seems Alice may agree to run away with Lucy.

She had convinced me I must leave Tangier, that we must leave Tangier. In secret, under cover of night, because she also knew about the money, about the allowanced passed from Maude to me and on to John, knew about what he would really lose with my absence, and I did not question how, knowing only that she must, in that way that she always knew everything. It had all made a perfect sort of sense, and so I nodded and agreed. Tangier was not mine, I had never laid claim to it, not it to me.

An exotic locale, a one-sided relationship, classmates at Bennington College. If this is sounding to you like The Talented Mr. Ripley (a classic! https://daeandwrite.wordpress.com/2016/04/28/the-talented-mr-ripley/) meets The Secret History, you are not alone. Joyce Carol Oates offered this publicity quote for the novel’s dustcover: “As if Donna Tartt, Gillian Flynn, and Patricia Highsmith had collaborated on a screenplay to be filmed by Hitchcock.” Jennifer Reese, reviewing for the New York Times, adds: “It’s as if Mangan couldn’t decide whether to write a homage to Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History” or a sun-drenched novel of dissolute Westerners abroad in the tradition of Patricia Highsmith and Paul Bowles, so she tried to do both. She mostly succeeds.” https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/27/books/review/tangerine-christine-mangan.html

tangerineThis novel is quick. Tense. Exhilarating. You find yourself guessing and second-guessing, wanting to shout advice like I always do in those teenage-slasher movies. “Don’t GO IN THERE!”

George Clooney optioned the novel to film, and word is that Scarlett Johansson has been signed to star. What I am not sure of is which role. Lucyis described as dark-haired and beautiful, Alice blond and British-patrician. I’m guessing Lucy.

It’s a hot choice for your bookclub’s summer read.

MENUtangerine fruit

Hot mint tea is mentioned multiple times and according to Epicurious.com, you can hardly walk in the casbah without tripping over mint tea offerings. There’s mention of  some gin drink and also some creation of Alice’s own involving grenadine.

I would definitely serve a tagine — and it’s always fun to have an excuse to buy a new piece of kitchen equipment. Here’s a link with a variety of recipes: https://www.yummly.com/recipes/moroccan-beef-tagine

Hummus and pita chips, fresh sliced cucumber and tomatoes.

For dessert, a tangerine cake. https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/17667/tangerine-orange-cake/


Jazz clubs serve as backdrop for a couple of key scenes. I would find some great 1950s jazz station and let it roll all night.




Oh Donna! The Goldfinch


   When I was very young, my mother had a collection of 45s and an old phonograph.   When my sisters and I grew bored with tormenting each other or the guinea pig that tried to hide under the playhouse to get away from us, we would haul out the little record box and turntable and fight over which song to listen to.  One of my favorites was a fabulous song by Ritchie Valens called “Donna.”

I had a girl, Donna was her name.

Since she left me, I’ve never been the same.

But I love that girl.  Donna, where can she be?

(You’re probably singing the refrain to yourself right now:  where can she be?)  Even the boys on the baseball teams that played Babe Ruth at Tates Creek High School’s field would sing “Oh, Donna,” serenading the girl who kept their stats — Donna L.  I don’t know if it changed any of their batting averages for the better, but Donna would blush and seemed to enjoy the song.  Need to hear the whole song for that ear worm to take full effect?  Here you go:

But however much statistician Donna enjoyed the baseball players’ serenades, it was probably not as much as I enjoyed Donna Tartt’s latest novel, The Goldfinch.  Oh Donna indeed.  It is a masterpiece of Dickensian proportions.  In fact, it may very well be Dickensian in plot, character, mood, even setting . . . but I loved it.  Loved it loved it loved it.  With the passion of a thousand white hot suns.  From the moment Theo Decker begins the retrospective tale of his life and how he ended up in Amsterdam at Christmas; cold, alone, bored and ill, I was hooked.  It’s one of those can’t-put-it-down, don’t-want-to-sleep-til-I-finish-reading books.  But at 771 pages, you must, unless you speed-read and miss the gorgeous prose, or can stay up for days on end without sleep (as Theo occasionally manages to do with the help of some not-quite-legal techniques).

The goldfinch of the title is a Carel Fabritius painting and is the last experience Theo shares with the mother he adores.

“It was a small picture, the smallest in the exhibition, and the simplest:  a yellow finch, against a plain, pale background, chained to a perch by its twig of an ankle. . . . Something about the neat, compact way it tucked down inside itself — its brightness, its alert watchful expression — made me think of my mother when she was small:  a dark-capped finch with steady eyes.”


  I am not a Dickens scholar, but I’ve read enough to recognize Donna Tartt’s use of Dickens’ types.  Theo as Oliver Twist; Boris the Artful Dodger; Larry Decker, Theo’s Fagin-like father; Pippa with whom Theo falls madly in love at the age of 13, even her name a nod to Pip’s love Estella in Great Expectations; and Hobie, the genteel, gentle and good likeness of Fezziwig and the like.

The novel ranges from New York’s Park Avenue, to a desolate desert community on the outskirts of Las Vegas, to Amsterdam.  It was recognized on most best of 2013 lists and my commendation is merely added to those.


Hobie is quite a cook and revels in making tea with jam and toast on occasion.  Theo himself says:  “dinner was the time of day I looked forward to most.  . . . I’d never gotten used to the sadness of having to scrabble around to feed myself at night, sitting on the side of my bed with a bag of potato chips or maybe a dried-up container of rice left over from my dad’s carry out.  By happy contrast, Hobie’s whole day revolved around dinner.  Where shall we eat?  Who’s coming over?  What shall I cook?  Do you like pot-au-feu?  No?  Never had it?  Lemon rice or saffron?  Fig preserves or apricot?”

I’m afraid the time constraints of making a perfect, French pot-au-feu (not to mention the intimidation factor) are a bit beyond my capacity for a book club meeting.  But if you are in the mood, here’s a lovely Springtime Pot-Au-Feu recipe from Chocolate & Zucchini blog:  http://chocolateandzucchini.com/recipes/meat-charcuterie/springtime-pot-au-feu-beef-stew-recipe/

For my book club, I would go with the hand-to-mouth existence of Theo and Boris in Las Vegas but ramp it up a notch.

Potato Chips and Dip — I mix yogurt and cottage cheese with powdered ranch dip

Individual Pizzas — buy the pre-made pizza crusts and then put out an assortment of toppings:  artichoke hearts, goat cheese, turkey pepperoni, arugula, tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, diced chicken, roasted red peppers, onions.

The boys drank constantly so anything you want to serve would probably be found in the book.  But I found a recipe for a cocktail called a Goldfinch and I would definitely serve those first.  Here’s the recipe (YUMMY!)

What you need
Image1 1/2 Measures Golden Rum (British/Caribbean Rum)
2 Measures Fresh Pineapple Juice
1/2 Measure Galliano Liqueur
1 Dash Fresh Lime Juice

Add all of the ingredients except the champagne to a shaker and shake vigorously for approximately 10-12 seconds. Strain into a Collins glass filled with ice and add the Champagne. Garnish with pineapple spears and a small pineapple wedge, stir and serve.

This cocktail works equally well with fresh orange juice and/or Prosecco instead of Champagne.


Definitely the Rat Pack.  Vegas baby.  There’s an album recorded in 1963 called Live at the Sands that features Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr. and some of their favorite, classic songs.


This is tough because the movie sweeps through years and Theo, Boris and Pippa grow from 13 year olds to 30 year olds.  As for Larry Decker my pick would be Ryan Gosling, for the washed up actor/gambling failure.  Hobie, wouldn’t it be fun to see Russell Crowe play this, totally against type?  Xandra, Larry’s Vegas girlfriend, Christina Hendrickson with a blonde wig would be perfection.