Jerusalem on the Jukebox: Chabon's Yiddish Noir
Which is to say, a shammes. Which is derivative of Chandler's shamus - which actually comes from (wait for it) the Yiddish word shammes - the sexton in a synagogue. Bringer of light to the darkness. Chabon's experiment with language - of taking Yiddish, changing its context to a hard-boiled Alaskan Jewish state in its final days of American sufferance, and creating the street lingua of the "yids" of Sitka. It's brilliant.
So are the characters. Homicide detective Meyer Landsman of the District Police is alcoholic, down, almost out and still in love with his former wife - a tougher cop than he, who happens to be his boss. His best friend and cousin - and partner - is half Tinglit native Berko Shemets. Mix in dozens of the "frozen chosen" - as a waggish Times headline writer put it last month - of all religious stripes, from the Lubavitcher-like sect that runs most of the rackets to the most secular of Jews. Then there's the victim: too much here would prove spoilerish, but it's safe to assume Chabon had a bit of Dostoevsky's Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin in mind when he created the dead man in Landsman's fleabag hotel.
Chabon's writing deftly shifts both viewpoints and time itself, mixing in flasbacks and working seamlessly between the characters. About halfway through the book when we realize that Landsman will never get over his ex-wife, Bina Gelbfish, and that his desire is both simple and the only reason for his life:
If he lets her go, he will never again lie in the hollow of her breast, asleep. He will never sleep again without the help of a handful of Nembutal or the good offices of his chopped M-39.
Down the page, Bina regards the decrepit man she married and we learn more about her, and why she's more successful as a cop:
She zips up her coat and then stands there a long few seconds, submitting him to her shammes inspection. Her gaze is not as comprehensive as his - she misses the details sometimes - but the things that she does see, she can link up quickly in her mind to the things that she knows about women and men, victims and murderers. She can shape them with confidence into narratives that hold together and make sense. She does not solve cases so much as tell the stories of them.
The book rambles a bit. There are several "endings." And there are a few plot courses that are a tad too convenient. Who cares! Chabon is the rare modern novelist who both embraces genre fiction and rises above its limits. In short: a doll, a beauty.
Some other voices:
