'If you don’t pay attention to what things mean, you miss a piece of the puzzle. Without the meaning of things, without the stories people tell about them – that people believe about them – you can’t understand events, Detective. You can’t understand this city.’ [loc. 475]
Joe Barrow is an orphan who's drifted south from the icy winds of Chicago to Cahokia, that cosmopolitan city on the banks of the Mississippi 'where red and white and black have lived together in trust and confidence for fifty years'. It's 1922: the Ku Klux Klan is popular amongst the minority takata (folk of European origin); the taklousa (of African origin) have flocked south in the Mississippi Renaissance, to a city without Jim Crow laws; and the takouma (Native American), the majority of the city's population, have ensured that land, water and power are communally owned. Barrow, of mixed takouta and taklousa blood -- but without any comprehension of Anopa, the takouma lingua franca -- is working as a policeman, but that's just a job. He'd like to be playing piano with one or another of the jazz bands that swings through the city. The events of the week chronicled in Cahokia Jazz will force him to decide which life he truly wants.
The novel opens with a gruesome murder atop the Land Trust building. An inoffensive clerk has been murdered, and his heart torn out. It looks -- as the tabloid press are quick to point out -- exactly like an Aztec sacrifice. But the takouma aren't Aztecs (cue a delightful cameo from cultural anthropologist Professor Alfred Kroeber, who will later -- we hope -- become the father of Ursula Kroeber Le Guin, to whose memory the book is dedicated) and the crime scene may be an elaborate setup designed to discredit the takouma. For the city, unique in the United States, is led by the Man of the Sun, takouma royalty who might as well be a king: Barrow finds himself drawn into the myths and symbols of the takouma -- and to the Man of the Sun's niece, the Woman of the Moon. As his investigations into the Land Trust murder take Barrow and his partner Drummond into the dives, factories, churches and palaces of Cahokia, and reveal unsettling alliances and enduring symbols, some difficult truths are revealed.
This is basically a noir detective novel in the mode of Chandler or Hammett, with added Jesuits and Native Americans: also Jazz Age poets, bootleggers, dreams of California and an altered North America where history has played out rather differently, for reasons Spufford only really explains in his afterword. Barrow's ignorance of the city allows a great deal of information to be imparted without too many infodumps. His growing sense that he might have found a place to belong is balanced by some uncomfortable realisations about the unique character of Cahokia. (‘That’s what you get for living where the mythic order of things is alive and well. You want less magic, you should move to Indianapolis,’ Professor Kroeber tells him.)
Cahokia Jazz dragged me in: I laughed, I wept, I voluntarily listened to jazz. The Man of the Sun is especially fascinating; so's Oscar, his bodyguard; so, gradually, is Barrow. But Cahokia itself, and the altered America which skews around it (fewer, and different, states; a different Civil War; significant differences in Griffiths' Birth of a Nation) is the main attraction. I'm already looking forward to rereading ... perhaps around the spring equinox.
The Man was standing on the topmost point of the Mound, Couma beside him. The grass was turning green around his shoes. Through an arch of flowers, an arch of bread, an arch of bones, comes the spring.
Fulfils the ‘Time frame spans a week or less’ rubric of the 52 books in 2024 challenge.
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