Salon

Popular playwright Yevgeny Grishkovets has captured Moscow's theater crowd with a revival of the old-fashioned "melodrama": a solo recital of events so mundane that virtually anyone could find something with which to identify. Accompanied by atmospheric music and fragments of old Soviet films, this is a recipe for that kind of nostalgia that grabs everyone -- even those born long after the good old days passed.

In his debut novel, "The Shirt," Grishkovets puts the same device to work with an account of a day in the life of a regular Moscow middle-class professional. Sasha, a small-town architect who has been living in the capital for years, makes his way through a bleak winter day: on the road, in a barbershop, at central and suburban bars, at the airport, at home, at work. Once again, this pattern is something that Grishkovets' target audience will recognize. It's their life, too.

There are at least three details that make this day memorable for the narrator (and, consequently, for the readers). First, Sasha is in love. Or rather, he is not just in love; he's "very-very much in love, like never before." This, and the burning sensation of the cellphone in his pocket, gives a whole new dimension to his everyday odyssey. Second, the day starts out with the arrival of Sasha's longtime friend Max, which permeates the book with the strong flavor of male friendship -- a rather unusual theme for modern Russian prose that has led many literary critics to compare Grishkovets with Ernest Hemingway (who plays a special role in the friends' lives). Third, everywhere the hero goes, his shirt goes, too, and its condition -- immaculate in the morning, soaked and soiled by the end of the book -- opens up endless possibilities for interpretation.

Grishkovets has said that the idea of the novel came to him in a dream. Upon waking up, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write. This probably explains the prominence of visions in his character's world; Sasha falls asleep a couple of times during the book and dreams of violent naval warfare. Why? Well, don't we all see some weird dreams now and then?

Manipulating the audience is where Grishkovets excels. He pulls off things no freshman writer could afford, filling the text with ellipses and capital letters. But somehow, in his case, it almost seems endearing.

"Being a playwright is like being a lieutenant," Grishkovets has said. "But once you've written a novel, you are entitled to feel like a major." Whatever its rank, the book is almost guaranteed to be a success -- and, if so, one might as well congratulate the debutant on his promotion.