Trust is a masterpiece. It contains no fewer than four different voices and genres, each with its own section, and it somehow manages to tie them all together. A novel-within-a-novel opens the book, the 1937 bestselling “Bonds: A Novel by Harold Vanner.” It details the lives of the unfathomably wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Rask during the 1920s. The novel, however, is really about the Bevel family, as we learn in the second section, an autobiography called “My Life by Andrew Bevel.” That’s followed by yet another character’s memoir, which gives way to a diary. (All of this is in the table of contents, so I’m not giving anything away.) How much of any of these narratives can we believe? Is a memoir any more trustworthy than a well-researched novel? Is it the diary that truly holds all the secrets, or is this simply an account that’s as unreliable as the others? All the secrecy and competing but interwoven narratives make it difficult to talk about this one without giving some things away. I will say that the novel revolves around its heroine, first called Helen Rask, then Mildred Bevel. Another character embodies the force that drives us to unravel the mystery of this woman’s life, but the fascination with that central figure is there from the very beginning. For the sake of clarity, I’ll call her Mildred, her “real” name.
Mildred seems to have traded an increasingly chaotic family life among American aristocrats for a still, quiet life with a famous financier. It’s a plot out of an Edith Wharton novel—an old name marries “new” money. Giving this main character two names twice over (her maiden and married names, as well as her “fictional” and “real” names) paradoxically reflects the way she hides her true self behind the stories of those outsized names. Her fiercely guarded privacy prevents even close family from really knowing her, and only a few chinks in that armor allow the reader to know her at all. In an era that gives women little agency, Mildred uses the benign neglect women so often suffer in order to carve out some independence for herself.
Even among the wealthy, Mildred and her family remain an enigma. Diaz includes a lot of skyscrapers and tall mountains as symbols for the rarified air only the extremely wealthy breathe. How do these people really spend their days? Sometimes hyperbolic, the depiction of this family is an exaggeration of how we try to peek into the lives of the privileged. How do any of these people pass the time, knowing that they have more money than they could ever spend? While their peers seem to enjoy that kind of voyeurism, making frequent appearances in society pages, the Bevels’ public appearances only diminish over time.
Each section we read sometimes feels like it’s unraveling the mystery surrounding the couple at its heart, Mildred in particular. However, as each narrator reveals that they are unreliable, the enigma actually deepens. The title of the first section, “Bonds: A Novel,” immediately clues us in that we cannot rely on this narrative, entertaining as it is. But as Trust continues, we play detective, comparing notes with what we remember from previous sections to try to piece together the “true” story. In fact, detective novels come up more than once. This parallels life once more—can we ever know how the extremely privileged manipulate the economy that determines all our lives? What are the machinations behind the scenes? All we have are the bits and pieces we’re allowed to see, such meager crumbs that we must rely on experts and investigative journalists to uncover what these clues might actually mean.
Mildred herself occupies labyrinthine and liminal spaces, whether that’s in her chaotic upbringing all over Europe or her married life in a mansion so enormous that we never do understand its layout. In each setting, she carves out a space for herself. But does she mind the loneliness this brings about, or is this simply the life she has always known? In childhood, she is neither American nor European. In adulthood, her life is neither public nor private. Diaz makes sure that the reader is always just a bit disoriented, hoping that with the next chapter we will finally unlock the secrets of Mildred’s heart.
There are also themes around what constitutes true charity and what is simply a self-aggrandizing, condescending gesture. Mildred seems to sponsor causes she truly believes in, specifically in the arts and in helping impoverished individuals and businesses. How much of this serves to build her reputation, however? Even when she works anonymously, how does each project give her a sense of purpose? Her efforts do seem to help outsiders and the less fortunate, but she is using her husband’s money. How many of the problems she tries to solve are actually caused by her family’s efforts to acquire even more money?
Diaz manages to build a novel around questions, many unanswered, without leaving the reader unsatisfied or confused. The world is always filled with beautiful details and great depth. The story is always fascinating. No matter how unreliable the narrators become, we still examine intersecting clues in order to build our own narrative. We can’t know for certain whether we have arrived at the truth, but the journey itself feels so satisfying in the end. After all, no one can fully understand a life.
This work won the 2023 Pulitzer and made it onto so many other awards lists, recommendations, and book clubs that my eyes glazed over trying to read them all. The entire Trust page on Diaz’s website is a list of these, with quotes from glowing reviews thrown in. I’m not the only one dazzled by his genius. But the novel is also accessible, a critique of capitalism that everyone can understand.
I have been challenging myself to read novels in Spanish and I just ordered this one en español. I may be over my head, but I know how to swim! Thanks for another great review!