Our unnamed narrator
in an unnamed Eastern European city has agreed to take on what should be a
simple task: house-sit an apartment and two cats while his friend Oskar is away
in L.A. taking care of his divorce settlement. Easy, right? Unfortunately, Oskar
is anything but easygoing. He has left a frenzy of ultra-specific notes all
around the apartment, detailing how to care for everything in sight (right down
to the CD player) and giving stern warnings (the piano says "Do Not
Play"), particularly about his beloved wooden floors. Well, predictably,
things do not go well. What starts as a simple wine stain on the floor (oh no!)
soon threatens to take over our hero's mental health.
The novel's dry wit is
charming and engaging. I particularly liked how Oskar, who is absent from the apartment,
is actually more present than our narrator who is living there. His presence is
everywhere, from the notes, to the obsessive orderliness, to his favourite music. His apartment
reflects his personality so much that it starts to overtake the narrator's own
personality (it's no accident that we never learn the narrator's name, or even
the name of the city. All there is Oskar...well, and his cats). It's like Oskar
says, First you make your room and then the room makes you.