Novels about affairs have become so commonplace that it takes a fresh perspective to set one apart. Agnès Riva’s debut novel, Geography of an Adultery, translated from French by John Cullen, does just that. By documenting an affair according to the places the couple meets, the novel offers a wholly original exploration of how real and imagined spaces constrain how we conceptualize ourselves and others.

The novel opens not with a character but with the interior of his car, yet the description transcends the car itself, as if it is a stand-in for the man to whom it belongs:

The interior of Paul’s car is a space rather limited in volume and distributed with a certain stringency. The design of the four ergonomic seats is so precise that squeezing a fifth person into the back would be practically impossible. The front seats are separated by a short armrest half their height; it contains no storage console and provides no place to put such small objects as sunglasses or CDs.

Riva’s use of place as representative of character is what makes Geography of an Adultery distinctive. Rather than being character-driven, this novel is propelled by place. Each chapter’s specific location — the corner of a house between the sink and the refrigerator, a tearoom in a shopping mall, the labor court where the protagonists work — is so thoroughly described that it’s clear how much room the characters have, as well as how visible they are to others.

Riva provides only minimal details about the main characters, Paul and Ema. Both are married with children, but there the similarities end. Throughout the novel Paul is often simply “the man,” while Ema is “the young woman,” and Paul has had an affair while Ema has not. His wider experience allows him to set the terms of their relationship: “We’ll see each other at social gatherings, but face-to-face meetings, just the two of us — those won’t happen very often,” he tells Ema. He even gives her advice: “Spare yourself. Don’t make comparisons, don’t compile a list of all the things we can’t do. Otherwise, you’ll run into a wall.” Ema pretends to agree while hoping he’ll change his mind. In such instances, Riva’s use of “young” to describe Ema seems to refer not only to her age, but to her innocence. Throughout the novel, her hope for this union to be more than it is, or can realistically be, is apparent, and often aching. She wonders, “Why doesn’t he ever arrange an evening for the two of them? How can she bear the humiliation of being the only one to want more, the only one to beg for a little intimacy?”

Little is offered about Paul and Ema’s respective marriages, as if there is no need to explain any unhappiness or justify their actions — and in truth, there isn’t. Novels focused on adultery often provide lengthy explanations for why a character gets caught up in an affair, as if understanding the circumstances is needed to grasp the relationship. Here, Paul and Ema’s mutual attraction is sufficient to understand their motivations. Yet despite their chemistry, again and again these lovers are confined by the places they’re able to meet. The tension builds until it’s necessary for the couple to go “outside the circle of their daily lives.” They retreat to a new place, an apartment hotel. But even here, the lovers do not have the freedom they crave — or rather, Ema doesn’t; Paul remains more of a mystery.

Both characters’ thoughts are filtered through an omniscient narrator, but in shaping this story, Riva favors Ema’s perspective — understandably, since her emotional journey is more conflicted than Paul’s. The story’s central arc, while directed by locations, is largely Ema’s eventual understanding of the relationship — and of herself — as the intoxication of her desire and anticipation of its fulfillment lead her to act recklessly. The messy unraveling of Ema’s private life contrasts with Riva’s spare, controlled, almost clinical prose.

By detailing the story’s locations, Riva shifts the focus from why the affair happens to how it does. If this is not a more interesting perspective on extramarital liaisons, it is at least a fresh one. In this way, Geography of an Adultery transcends the old trope of the affair, making it less an examination of an illicit relationship than of how setting informs character. Riva’s emphasis on place over character makes this debut notable, suggesting that our actions can sometimes be dictated less by our personalities than the limitations of the spaces in which we find ourselves.

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