This is a noir-indebted alternative history novel focusing on the urbanized Cahokia in the 1920s—it’s a weird mix of elements, but one that seemed quite tailored to what I would like. And fortunately, I wasn’t wrong. It does get off to a slow start—some of the more standard detective-y openings, seemingly stunted characters, etc. But don’t let that put you off it—it does get better, and the characters and plot are more interesting than they would seem at first glance. As far as historical fiction goes, this book manages to ace that core aspect of transporting the reader to a certain time and place. The storytelling is concise and well-paced, too. Spufford is certainly an author I am going to look out for—and his catalogue of previous novels seems promising.

The characters were delightfully complex and palpably flawed beings. Our protagonist, Joe Barrow, is an everyman character that the reader can easily empathize with. He is of indigenous and Black descent, but he was a child of the foster system and thus is disconnected from his identity. Yet, this is still the 1920s in America, so the color of his skin is a significant part of the plot. (I related a lot to his difficulties in being spoken to in a language he is expected to know but does not understand.) But more than being a detective, he plays jazz piano. At first, I was confused by the title’s emphasis on this part, but while reading, I came to realize that it is, more than anything else, what makes Barrow fundamentally Barrow. His attempts to grapple with his sense of found-family was also endearing and heartfelt.

The novel opens to Barrow and his partner discovering a grisly murder crime scene on top of a state building. Spufford populates this fictionalized Cahokia with a large cast of characters—yet they all have distinct personalities and voices. Some of the backstory and gradually revealed motivations of certain characters was surprisingly in-depth. Some of the characters will seem familiar to people familiar with history—the Klan members, the robber barons, and the mobster bosses. These are all part and parcel of the noir type, too. Yet Spufford manages to incorporate them in a way that doesn’t feel so cut-and-paste, but… realistic. For an alternate history novel, this was a stellar accomplishment. Spufford also clearly knows his way around language, as his fictionalized racial terms and conlang, Anopa, show. (He based Anopa largely on a pidgin used as a trade language by indigenous Americans at the time of European colonization.) He even manages references to Latin and Cicero, which only won me over further. His prose is clever and imaginative without being cumbersome.

Of course, any novel that touches on race relations, police-work, and America is going to feel oddly contemporary. Perhaps the oddest thing about this novel is that it is alternate history, despite reading so pertinent—just switch around a few descriptors. There is a KKK mob scene that almost feels ridiculously dramatic, but recent history has taught me otherwise. Barrow’s greatest obstacle in the novel is figuring out who he is and where he belongs—eternal themes, to be sure, but deftly handled here. The narrative wraps up quite satisfyingly, though I did have some issues with some of the villainous figures being a bit static or the pacing of how Spufford develops his characters’ depth.

This is a novel I look back on fondly, and one that reminds me why historical fiction (especially alternate history, which I feel doesn’t get as much love these days) and noir can be such great genres. Also, this may be a silly point to end on, but I was rather surprised to learn that Spufford isn’t even American—he’s British; yet it seems oddly fitting that his understanding of indigenous language and history in the US is only leagues ahead of Americans. I can only hope to see more from him (and a part of me really wishes he would turn the final appendix section explaining his narrative choices into its own book), and I really ought to go see the mounds!

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘It is a circular dance, from birth to death to resurrection, through arches of flowers, and arches of bread, and arches of skulls. We dance the turning world, and it dances us.’
※ ‘Everything he saw, he packed away in the suitcase of his heart. He was Thrown-Away Boy, and that was how he possessed things.’