What To Read

We have a contender for the most seductive literary fiction release of the summer. The Nude by C. Michelle Lindley follows an art historian who journeys to a small Greek island in order to procure a newly found marble sculpture. What might have been a routine project, however, quickly turns into something much more complicated, after her relationship with her translator and his enigmatic wife develops into something unexpected.

The book was named one of the most anticipated books of the summer by publications including The Boston Globe and LitHub. In a list of the standout releases for July, Town & Country called the debut a gripping and delicious read that "brings together ideas about art, ethics, gender, power, and the economy of culture and somehow makes them into a novel that's just begging to be read beneath an umbrella by the sea."

Read an excerpt below.

In the early evening, I got a call from Niko. He wanted to know how I was doing—how I was feeling, actually. I gripped the phone and told him I was fine. In my head, I made up some lie about how hard I’d been working—but he hadn’t called to discuss business. He said he and Theo were eating dinner at his favorite restaurant that night. “It is off the beaten path. No tourist is allowed.” I imagined myself sharing an authentic meal with them, Theo asking me questions about art, about life, my responses effortless and moving, nimble, and humorous.

I said, “Aren’t I a tourist?”

He laughed, too easily. “Join us.” He said, “It will clear all ailments.”

I sensed a restlessness in his plea. I thought about their apartment together, overcome with the spontaneity of young romance: a coiled-up comforter, thigh-high piles of books and records. Bent, bespoke silverware.

“And after,” he said. “We can show you an exceptional place.”

“A what place?”

“An exceptional one. Only if you are equipped to take part in the activity, Doctor.”

I heard a shuffle. On the other end of the line, I perceived a presence, another breath. I focused on trying to act natural, laid-back.

“Yeah, all right, we’ll see,” I said.

In the background, Theo laughed. Blood shot to my scalp. The phone felt warmer, a muffled noise filled my ear, and then a second later, her voice.

“Elizabeth?” it said.

“Yeah, yes? Hi?”

“You should come to dinner.” Surprising me, she appended, “Please.” And with that, I could do nothing but agree. I was sure they both knewI would.

Niko gave me the restaurant’s address and I looked it up on the map the rental had left for guests. It was about a ten-minute walk. I ruffled through the contents in my luggage. An outfit that appeared easy—that’s what I needed but didn’t have. Everything too structured: pencil skirts, blazers, starchy slacks in various dark blues, grays, and blacks; items that discouraged projection; items that made of my body a pleading blankness.

I didn’t really know what kind of clothing I liked outside of work. Even on the rare occasions Julian and I went out to dinner, I stuck with what I knew. You don’t have to go all the way up to your neck, Julian used to tell me, popping my top button loose and declaring, It’s like you’re afraid to let people know that you’re a woman. Not that he’d dressed any better himself. Ill- fitting jeans. T-shirts with stains on them. I hated how superficial I could become inside a relationship. How much I cared what people thought of him, and therefore us, and therefore, me.

I decided on something simple, something I reserved only for sleep: a black, satin slip dress. It was revealing, unsupportive, evoked the kind of boldness I lacked, and back home, I’d have never worn it in public. But I enjoyed how it hung on me, its uncomplicated elegance. I nabbed a light jacket and shrugged it over my shoulders, then took it off and draped it over my arm. I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, wondering what Julian would think. For a second, I saw a flash of myself sitting in the middle of our living room floor with a broken glass in my hand, a few drops of blood on the carpet below. The way he looked at me, like I’d done it on purpose, like he was not scared for me, but of me.

I shook my head to let it go, surveyed myself once more in the mirror. That the slip did nothing to hide my bra straps seemed uncouth, but the thought of leaving the rental without support made me queasy, preemptively sore. I stalled, sure I’d change my mind about the dress. I never did.

As I walked outside, a rush of adrenaline moved my feet from cobblestone to cobblestone—it had been years since I’d shown this much skin, but amongst the crowded streets, I felt anonymous, invisible. I could have been anyone, or no one at all, parading through the teeming heat, the air lush with the smell of overripe apricots, yeast. Sound flickered from build- ing to building—the swish of a broom, the hiss of an espresso machine, the mumble of a handheld radio. A mosquito landed on my hand, and I slapped it off. In every shop window I passed, I searched for my reflectionbut never stopped long enough to find it.

I tried to plan what I would say to Theo and Niko, but I had no way to know the types of questions they would ask, the kinds of charades I’d have to keep up. For this reason, I struggled to make new friends: too much unknown, too much to get wrong, and why should Theo want to listen to what I had to say? She probably thought I was trivial and boring and too serious, and I wondered if I felt threatened by the truth of this perception, or else pleasantly challenged to prove it wrong.

Deep in these thoughts, I got lost on the way to the restaurant, pass- ing the same church twice before I realized I had already come down that road. But this time, I saw something new, a small fountain tucked away in between buildings, its plinth choked in dead branches. I strolled closer and surveyed the stone figure—a woman perched on a rock, holding a large vase on her shoulder, from which water poured and poppled. Her one breast exposed, the other concealed in modeled cloth. Usually, a single exposed breast signified an act of violence against a mortal woman—rape by some divine creature. Leda and the Swan, for instance. I thought, specifically, of the rendering from the 300s BCE, where Leda’s peplos covers only the left side of her chest, the cloth sculpted in waves. On the other side, a swan nestles into her abdomen, its feathers softly etched.

But this statue seemed disconnected from that history. Its body bore no details: no nipples, no belly button. Her knees and elbows, creamily wrinkleless, her face rendered warmly. A pert nose, eyes dreamy and downturned, lids half-open. I stepped closer and craned my neck. The marble had cracked around the figure’s thigh, and in this space, the cac- tus had made a home. I touched my finger on one of the needles and pressed, but it didn’t break skin. My eyes traced her back, landing on the thickness of her neck, the delicate ornament of her hair, swept up into a bun—pulled a little too tight, but full of purpose. The bridge of her nose protruded forward. A transgression of her femininity, a refusal of the ideal.

I envisioned someone else on the other end of the road, studying me, as I studied her.

Excerpted from THE NUDE: A NOVEL by C. Michelle Lindley. Copyright © 2024 by C. Michelle Lindley. From THE NUDE: A NOVEL by C. Michelle Lindley. Reprinted by permission of Atria Books, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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