The Point of the Past

Early on, Zadie Smith became something of a reluctant poster child for multicultural Britain. Her new, historical novel excavates her country's history. Zing Tsjeng goes along for the journey.

- By Zing Tsjeng

I’M SPENDING THE morning with Zadie Smith, and she’s taking me to a cemetery. It’s Kensal Green Cemetery, to be exact, the largest one in London. (The interred include Thackeray and a few minor royals which, Smith informs me, is the sign of a “respectable” graveyard.) “Ready to get our legs stung?” she asks, as we veer off the gravel path and plunge into thick undergrowth. I’m more concerned about Smith, who is dressed in denim dungaree shorts, a black tank top— “Walmart,” she says apologetically—and Palmaira sandals that look pretty timeworn. Will the literary establishment forgive me if I let one of its finest living novelists trip over an overgrown tombstone and sprain her ankle?

Smith—now 47, having spent the last few decades briskly dispensing of the condescending literary ingenue label that attached itself, remora-like, in the wake of her 2000 debut, White Teeth—is in adventure mode. Various local maps have been shoved under her armpit with determination. That leonine face and the striking, wide-set eyes are today mostly covered up with a cheerfully giant pair of sunglasses, the signature headwrap discarded in favor of braids with golden hair rings. The effect is less artistic luminary and more cool downtown aunt at a farmers market.