“Totally.” It had been a running joke between the three of us: how to meet our shared favorite author, the famously reclusive Roza Vallo.
“That retreat must be starting soon,” Ursula went on.
“Next month.” I’d kept track of it, following the news articles as they popped up on literary sites and in the arts sections of major outlets. Wren and I had both applied, sending in our best, most polished short stories. Somehow we’d been convinced that at least one of us would get in.
Two years ago, Roza Vallo—our guru, imagined mentor, and patron saint—had come out with a shocking announcement. She was going to hold a monthlong writing retreat at her home, Blackbriar Estate, for four up-and-coming female writers who were under thirty. She wanted to foster and cultivate the next big names. Simply getting picked would mean instant fame. Wren and I had promised that whichever of us got in—hopefully both, but we didn’t want to be too presumptuous—would help raise up the other.
Of course, neither of us had been chosen. Thousands must have applied. And the reading period had lasted so long that, by the time the winners were picked, both of us had aged out of the under-thirty condition.
I’d been so curious to see who the chosen ones were, but that information had been kept from the public. I’d read on a Roza Vallo subreddit that the winners had had to sign NDAs promising not to tell anyone they’d gotten in. Some commentors guessed it was because they’d be approached by news outlets promising payment for pictures or video inside the estate. Honestly, it had been a relief not to know. It was exhausting enough to stalk one person on social media—meaning Wren, embarrassing but true—let alone four more.
“We’ll find a way to meet Roza,” Ursula said. “Don’t worry.”
“Someday. Hey, when do you go back to LA?” I felt like death, but I’d conquer it in order to see Ursula. “Want to get lunch or something? I took the day off.”
“I’d love to, but Phoebe and I are heading to the airport soon. It was a really quick trip. Let’s make plans the next time I’m here, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
After we hung up, I made myself a piece of toast and turned on some mindless reality TV. My mind drifted back to Roza. What would she do if she were in my position? She would’ve fucked Pete without a second thought. No shame or regret at all. And before, at the party, she would’ve gone right up to Wren, called her on her attitude, and maybe even slapped her sharp cheek.
I pulled up Roza’s recent New York Times Magazine interview, intent on infusing her signature badass energy into my tepid life. I’d even used the main picture—Roza lounging on stone steps in a floor-length sequined gown—as my current lock screen. Roza stared directly at the camera, her expression a little amused, maybe even teasing.
Roza didn’t do many interviews, so this was a big deal. It had come out six months before, after the contest had closed.
Who is Roza Vallo?
“People think I’m a witch.” Vallo says it lightly as she picks up her stoneware mug of peppermint tea. We’re in Blackbriar Estate, her famed home in the Adirondacks of New York. The mansion has been renovated to re-create the home originally built in 1881 by oil tycoon Horace Hamilton. Driving up to the circular drive to view the imposing Victorian mansion reminded me of approaching Daphne du Maurier’s Manderley or even Shirley Jackson’s Hill House. There’s a sense of unease beyond the stonework and sun-blocked windows.
Vallo had answered the front door herself, barefoot in a floaty black dress. She’s in her midfifties, but—like many wealthy, well-kempt women—she could easily pass for a decade younger. Now we sit in the library, a stunning repository of more than 10,000 books.
When I ask if she’s a good witch or a bad witch, she laughs.
“Bad.” She swings back her long auburn tresses. Her voice contains just a hint of her Hungarian heritage, a slight emphasis on the consonants. “Is there really any other kind?”
Vallo has cultivated this witchy, mythical existence around herself, starting at 19 when her first novel, “Devil’s Tongue,” was published. The prose is lyrical and lush, and it’s astounding to remember it was written by a teen. Perhaps even more surprising is the depth and complexity of the story itself, which I believe holds important clues to unlocking the mysteries of Vallo. （Spoilers ahead.） The plot begins with 12-year-old Kata, whose best friend Eliza has just died. The reasons for her death are murky but somehow related to an early sex scene between Eliza and her male teacher. After the funeral, as Kata tearfully contemplates her best friend’s open coffin and the grown-ups settle payment with the funeral director in the back, Eliza wakes up. She climbs out of the coffin and beckons Kata to follow her outside.
The problem: Eliza is still dead. But as she begins to decompose, she and Kata share a few more days together, stunned by this occurrence, talking and holding each other and, eventually, sexually exploring together. They also discover what’s keeping Eliza alive: an elderly woman at the edge of town is actually a witch who wants Eliza’s essence for herself. Eliza is convinced that if they kill the woman she’ll come fully back to life, so she and a reluctant Kata make plans to murder her in her sleep.
But the plan doesn’t work. In a last-ditch attempt, Kata tries to cast another spell with the witch’s spell books. Eliza’s soul enters the body of a hunter in the woods nearby. Kata and Eliza continue their love affair in Eliza’s new form. Eventually, Kata catches Eliza casting another spell to jump into Kata’s body. She must decide whether to save herself by destroying Eliza or to sacrifice herself for her friend’s existence.
Vallo wrote the book while her own best friend, Mila, was dying of stomach cancer.
“I couldn’t believe it when she got sick.” Vallo picks at a sugar-dusted molasses cookie. “She was so tough. Always the one who wanted to rebel. She loved stealing lipstick from the store. Teasing boys. But I think it’s because she felt safe. Secure. Her father was a rich man, a lawyer.” Though Vallo and Mila were neighbors in Budapest, and both Jewish, they came from vastly different economic backgrounds. Vallo’s father worked in a factory while her mother was a seamstress. The family struggled under Soviet rule and the ongoing economic depression.
“They were older,” Vallo says of her parents. “My mother had me at forty, which I think was an accident. And they were always financially struggling. They worked a lot and expected me to take care of myself, even when I was very young. So I’d entertain myself with books. There was a used bookstore nearby they took me to and there was such a variety to choose from. Nancy Drew, Dostoyevsky; I read it all. And when I got a little older, I would steal from my mother’s purse and buy books myself.” She leans forward, conspiratorial. “That’s when I was able to get what I really liked. The pulp. Mystery, horror. And to my delight, these were the books that had the most sex in them. Hurray! Real sex, I mean, not those stupid romance books with soft embraces in the moonlight.” She rolls her eyes. “That didn’t appeal to me at all.”
Vallo’s known for the “real sex” in her books. “Devil’s Tongue” is considered an early queer classic, with explicit sex scenes that later caused the Hungarian government to censor it.