THE MUSEUM OF HUMAN HISTORY

A treatment that pauses aging and pain affects an entire city in unforeseen ways in this debut novel.

Maeve Wilhelm is asleep. She’s been asleep for 25 years, since she nearly drowned in a community swimming pool at the age of 8. But Maeve’s sleep is not a coma: She’s breathing on her own and, more importantly, not visibly aging. Hers isn’t the first family tragedy: Maeve’s mother, Naomi, a senior researcher at a biotech company, also drowned under strange circumstances. Naomi’s body was found with a mysterious red rock in her pocket, apparently related to the red algae bloom that appeared off a private beach where her company was conducting top-secret research. This rock, this algae—what does it have to do with Naomi’s death or Maeve’s sleep, which occurred not long after she ingested some of the algae at the closed beach on a dare? How does it connect to Naomi’s biotech work on a procedure designed to pause outward signs of aging as well as numb pain? And what of the Museum of Human History, a local attraction built around caves in which ancient humans—and a single doll, “in a sleeping posture…covered in beautiful red stones”—had once been discovered? Bergman’s novel, structured like a series of concentric circles, ripples out to include a number of characters affected by the anti-aging treatment in some way: a young widower, a performance artist, a museum director, and Maeve’s own identical twin. Each narrative ring reveals unexpected connections among them, images and bits of language that recur, ideas and themes—memory, death, the slippage between the past and the future—that deepen as the novel blends fairy tale, philosophy, and shades of literary-futurist classics like Never Let Me Go.

With melancholy imagination, Bergman elegantly tackles nothing less than the entire arc of human history.