Jeeves and the Leap of Faith by Ben Schott

Published by Little, Brown and Company on October 13, 2020

Jeeves and the Leap of Faith is Ben Schott’s second homage to P.G. Wodehouse. It is, I suspect, the first Jeeves novel to end with a cliffhanger. The hanging question involves romance, and for once the question isn’t how Bertie Wooster will escape an impending engagement. In fact, Bertie deftly avoids romantic entanglements throughout the novel, with the able help of Jeeves.

As fans of Bertie Wooster well understand, nothing good comes of having an English aunt. They are given to arranging unwanted marriages and scolding, reacting to poor displays of posture and manners with swift correction and responding to tardiness with “What time do you call this?” They live in a place of their own invention where standards are kept and stations are known. Bertie plainly does not occupy that realm. At Oxford, Bertie was more admired for night climbing than for scholarship (night climbing: a sport involving the scaling of old buildings that school administrators wish to discourage despite its venerable tradition). In the present, Bertie banters with his friends at the Drones Club, gambles on unlikely competitions, ponders crossword clues until Jeeves suggests an answer, experiments with hangover cures, haggles with Jeeves about clothing and wallpaper choices, and does his best to avoid being productive.

This book has more of a plot than the typical Wodehouse Jeeves novel, in that Schott focuses part of the story on Jeeves’ role as a clandestine agent of the British government. Fortunately, the plot does not distract the reader. The Wodehouse books were, like Bertie Wooster’s life, delightfully aimless, and Schott again captures Bertie’s essence. Still, as a service to the government, Bertie does impersonate a man of the cloth (making rather a bungle of the prayers) and tests his night climbing skills, culminating in a leap between buildings to which the title alludes.

The novel takes us to the racetrack in the hope that the Drones Club (with the help of Jeeves) can pay its back taxes with a well-placed bet. Other eventful moments largely involve romance (or the lack thereof). Bertie conspires to avoid the latest match contrived by his aunt while various friends and enemies pursue a confusion of women, including a maid who is apparently an old flame of Jeeves. The same aunt has been trying to convince Bertie to discharge Jeeves, so another scheme must be concocted (with Jeeves’ help) to avoid calamity. A diamond heist lurks in the background.

Schott has given intense study to Wodehouse and his characters, as is evidenced by the extensive notes he appends to the text. For the casual reader, it suffices to understand that there is little distance between Schott’s version of Bertie and Jeeves and the originals as crafted by Wodehouse. The writing style and dialog are much the same, as is the flavor of the stories. The plot, such as it is, is light and silly and full of the digressions that characterized Wodehouse’s work.

The Wodehouse novels are celebrated as some of the best comedic works of the first half of the twentieth last century. I suspect that most Wodehouse fans can’t get enough of Bertie and Jeeves. Thanks to Schott, the Jeeves well has not yet run dry.

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A Song for the Dark Times by Ian Rankin

Published by Little, Brown and Company on October 13, 2020

The venerable John Rebus has a pulmonary disease that impairs his ability to climb stairs, but he isn’t letting retirement or disability stop him from solving crimes. In A Song for the Dark Times, his daughter Samantha is under suspicion for murdering her ex-lover. Some of the drama comes from Samantha’s fear that Rebus, who was never the best of fathers, suspects she’s guilty but is trying to protect her anyway. That fear might be legitimate, but regardless of his motivation, Rebus encourages the police to keep an open mind rather than pinning the murder on the most obvious suspect.

The murder victim is Keith Grant. He is the father of Samantha’s child and was her partner before she began a fling with Jess Hawkins, who is associated with a group that some describe as a New Age cult. Grant had been investigating the history of Camp 1033, one of several internment camps in Scotland that were used during World War II to house and abuse people born outside of the UK. Since Grant’s laptop was stolen (but not his wallet), Rebus wonders if the questions Grant asked about a long-ago death at the camp might be connected to his murder. Alternatively, he wonders if it might be connected to the cult or to the land that the cult and nearby camp occupy.

Meanwhile, Siobhan Clarke is trying to solve the murder of Salman bin Mahmoud. whose father “is worth squillions but thought to be under house arrest somewhere in Saudi Arabia.” Salman has been splashing his money around and emulating his hero, James Bond, in an effort to attract women. Salman’s involvement in a shady investment scheme might have something to do with his demise. The two murder investigations, as is usually true in thrillers with multiple killings, might be linked, but whether and how that could be true is for the reader to ponder.

A subplot involves ACC Jennifer Lyons, whose career with Police Scotland might be jeopardized by photographic evidence that her husband is cheating on her. The criminal who has those photos, Morris “Big Ger” Cafferty, contacts Malcolm Fox to act as an intermediary with Lyons regarding a proposition that might be regarded as blackmail.

Ian Rankin keeps the various plots in motion with his usual flair. He brings a number of supporting characters to the table, ranging from families of Germans who were held captive in Camp 1033 to a bar owner and locals who reside near the camp, from aristocrats doing business with Salman to police officers who butt heads with Rebus as he intrudes on their investigation. Rankin gives each character a unique and believable personality.

Rebus has always been portrayed as a character with a strong sense of justice — as he defines it — and an inability to play by the rules if the rules get in his way. The risk that Rebus will frame an innocent person to save his daughter lurks in the novel’s background, adding another spot of darkness to his blemished character.

The overlapping plots are complex but Rankin’s internal summaries keep the details fresh in the reader’s mind. While the solutions to the two murders are less than obvious, Rankin doesn’t strain credibility to produce surprising resolutions. Each plot thread is convincing, while the story as a whole is reasonably suspenseful. In short, A Song for the Dark Times delivers exactly the kind of murder mystery and strong characterizations that fans of Rankin’s twenty-something Rebus novels have come to expect.

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Cuyahoga by Pete Beatty

Published by Scribner on October 6, 2020

Cuyahoga revives a tradition of American storytelling: the tall tale. Impossible deeds and thrilling contests. Remember Paul Bunyan digging the Grand Canyon with his axe and eating more pancakes than the other contestants combined? Big Son is the new Paul Bunyan.

Cuyahoga is the story of two brothers, Big Son and Medium (“Meed”) Son, but Big is the character of legend. Unlike Paul Bunyan, Big has no ox, although a well-loved ox named Asa plays a role in the story. Like Paul Bunyan and John Henry and Davy Crockett, Big’s improbable deeds remind us of a time when the American frontier was wild and untamed, a time when Americans looked to wild and untamed characters for inspiration.

Big helped settle the land that lies to the west of Cleveland, across the Cuyahoga. “The first settlers found the place full of discouragements, such as mosquitoes, ague and poorly behaved wildlife wanting chastisement.” Big cleared the forest in record time and used the timber to build the houses that became Ohio City. When a lake objected to the settlement with storms and shipwrecks, Big brawled the lake and taught it a lesson. Tales come no taller than those that are told about Big Son.

Meed narrates Cuyahoga, telling us early in the novel that the stories of Big are “mostly” true, “simple and moral, easy to grab, the better to encourage someone over the head with.” Meed assembles tall tales about Big into an almanac that satisfies the American thirst for exaggeration. Yet the almanac doesn’t tell the whole story. Meed feels brotherly love for Big but — drawing on another book of tall tales — Meed also tells a Cain and Abel story of resentment.

Big and Meed both feel a desire for Cloe Inches, but Cloe has a tendency to run off when pressure begins to build. Perhaps she represents the first stirring of women’s liberation, or simply the American desire for freedom. Being chained to a life of domesticity clearly isn’t for Cloe. Although Cloe tells a competing suitor where her heart lies, adventure seems to be her heart’s true yearning.

The conflict that drives the plot splits the residents of Cleveland and the newer Ohio City: how many bridges, if any, should span the Cuyahoga to connect the old and new cities? When Cleveland builds a bridge, it charges Ohio City residents a toll to go back home (and charges an extra penny for peanuts), so one bridge is not the answer. Some people think that blowing up that bridge is the answer; others think a second bridge would solve the problem. In 1937, a new solution arrives after the other alternatives fail.

A key theme of Cuyahoga is the American character. Meed tells us that it favors “motion above nearly everything else.” Hence the need for bridges and steamboats, the desire to keep expanding the nation, “to move toward every compass point, always.” Betting on chance, whether in “rastling” contests or by starting a business, is another component of the American character.

Uneducated eloquence describes the voice in which Cuyahoga is told. In part because of Pete Beatty’s ability to link words into unexpected sentences, Cuyahoga coaxes guffaws and belly laughs that break up a steady stream of chuckles and grins. I particularly enjoyed the dentist who treats teeth with creosote and tells patients not to smoke for a few hours, lest they set their mouths on fire.

Near the novel’s end, Big swims in a race against his rival’s steamboat, human strength versus machine power, one of the enduring themes of American folklore. Tall tales represent the spirit of America, the struggle to defeat long odds, to overcome formidable obstacles and achieve unattainable goals, to become the master of one's fate. While Cuyahoga gives a modern twist to the tall tale, Big Son is a worthy addition to the tradition of larger-than-life American folk heroes.

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Earthlings by Sayaka Murata

Published in Japan in 2018; published in translation by Grove Press on Press October 6, 2020

Like Convenience Store Woman, Sayaka Murata’s Earthlings explores the theme of personal freedom in a society that values conformity to social norms. Both novels address, in very different ways, the belief that Japanese women should have the right to choose the life they want to live, unconstrained by the conventional notion that women must marry and reproduce soon after reaching adulthood.

As a child, Natsuki convinces herself that she is a magician and that her doll is an alien from the planet Popinpobopia. Every year she attends a family gathering with her parents. One year, her cousin Yuu tells her that he is also an alien and is just waiting to return home. Natsuki falls in love with Yuu because he is the only person who understands her. They stage a mock wedding and Natsuki eventually convinces Yuu to have sex with her. Natsuki and Yuu are discovered, scolded, and kept apart until well after they reach adulthood.

Natsuki’s only other experience with sex involves a college student who teaches cram sessions. When Natsuki tells her mother that the student had touched her and tricked her into giving him oral gratification, Natsuki’s mother dismisses the report as the product of Natsuki’s imagination. It seems likely that, true or not, Natsuki’s mother doesn’t want discussion of the incident to bring shame upon the family. Without giving her actions much thought, Natsuki eventually puts an end to one problem and creates another.

As an adult, Natsuki is unenthused about the idea of dating and sex. Succumbing to social pressure, she joins an online dating site and finds a man named Tomoya who wants to marry but does not want intimacy. That suits Natsuki, but the parents of Natsuki and Tomoya are soon pressuring them to have children. Tomoya would like to leave it all behind and visit the place where Natsuki’s family used to gather, a place that seems magical as he listens to Natsuki describe it. When they make that trip, they meet Yuu and change their lives in unusual ways.

The theme of freedom is first expressed in Natsuki’s belief that her town is a factory for the production of human babies. She believes her womb is simply a factory component designed to couple with a different factory component. Yuu and Tomoya agree that “everyone believed in the Factory. Everyone was brainwashed by the Factory and did as they were told. They all used their reproductive organs for the Factory and did their jobs for the sake of the Factory.” Like the protagonist in Convenience Store Woman, Natsuki rejects society’s expectations about her duty to have sex and bear children. That simply isn’t the life she wants, but other options are lacking if she wants to live as an earthling.

The story becomes a bit loopy at the end, relying on dark humor to make its point about the dark side of human nature. The alternative lifestyle that Natsuki, Yuu and Tomoya eventually adopt takes on an absurdist quality. While I didn’t find the ending to be particularly satisfying, the entertaining story that precedes it makes a strong point about the difficulty that ordinary women in Japan encounter when they elevate freedom and individuality above the patriarchal society’s definition of a woman’s duty.

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Snow by John Banville

Published by Hanover Square Press on October 6, 2020

Most of Snow takes place in 1957, although an epilog recounts a meeting between two characters ten years later. Snow is the first of a two-book deal featuring St. John Strafford, a Protestant detective in Catholic Ireland. The same character appeared in The Secret Guests, a novel set during World War II that John Banville published under his penname Benjamin Black. Apparently, Banville has decided that he no longer needs to publish crime novels under a penname, or perhaps his publisher told him that his books will sell better if he publishes them under his real name.

Strafford is assigned to investigate the death of a priest named Father Tom in a prosperous Protestant home where Father Tom was a frequent guest. The killer cut off Father Tom’s junk, perhaps making the motive for the crime obvious, priests being notorious for misusing their junk.

Since the house was locked on the night of the priest’s death, suspects are limited to family members and the stable boy. The semi-doddering patriarch has a new wife, the first one having died in a fall on the same staircase where Father Tom was murdered. Most of the story’s modest intrigue comes from the interaction of the family members. Banville also tries to generate interest with the church’s desire to avoid publicizing the circumstances of the priest’s death and the discomfort that Strafford is made to feel as a member of a religious minority in Ireland.

Banville gained fame as a prose stylist. Reading the well-crafted language of a Banville novel is always pleasant, but he clearly doesn’t make the same effort in genre novels that he once devoted to literary fiction. His genre prose isn’t as dense or as lyrical as his literary prose. Nor does Banville’s genre work have the depth of his earlier books. While crime is a theme in some of Banville’s literary novels, including his most celebrated work, The Book of Evidence, his genre crime novels lack the heft of his best work.

The difference is evident in Snow. The novel follows the formula of a mystery novel by asking the reader to decide which of several suspects might be the murderer. While the clues seem to point in the direction of one or two characters, Banville employs the misdirection that characterizes the genre, only revealing the full truth of the crime in the epilog. The revelation doesn’t come as much of a surprise, giving the sense that Banville just isn’t trying very hard. The plot is certainly no better than average for a genre crime novel.

A writer can’t be faulted for writing books that sell, and crime fiction typically outsells literary fiction, but the best writers in the crime genre fuse the strongest qualities of literary fiction and genre fiction. Banville hasn’t done that.

I’m giving Snow a cautious recommendation because Banville holds the reader’s interest with a mildly entertaining if undemanding story. Readers who are looking for something more from a writer who was once regarded as a rising literary giant will likely be disappointed.

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