By Lyndsay Faye

Rs 350

It can be a map into the future or a boring lesson, an intriguing puzzle or some lost facts; since history can be so many things at the same time, it makes the ideal dough for a novel.
In Lyndsay Faye’s novel The Gods of Gotham, history is all of the above and a bit more.
In America, the first half of the 19th century was that of the Second Great Awakening. A Protestant religious revival movement flourished in 1800-1840 in every region. Heavily grounded in religion, new social movements arose, as well as many new alternatives to traditional religious thought. This period of American history was marked by the destruction of some traditional roles of society and the erection of new social standards.
In Faye’s New York City of 1845, an assortment of 55 odd men is pronounced the police of the Sixth Ward.
This year also coincides with the potato blight in Ireland that pushed thousands of Irish Catholics to the American shores.
Timothy Wilde, the narrator, is a 27-year-old barman, something he has been doing for the last 10 years. He knows how to spot a secret and is frequently told things he hasn’t asked.
In a fire that guts a swathe of lower Manhattan, Timothy’s loses a lot: his bar, 800 silver pieces, skin above his right eye and the hope of marrying the girl of his dreams. Tim’s influential brother offers him the job of a copper star, and despite the exaggerated hatred Tim has for Valentine’s ways (narcotics, alcohol, bribery, violence, whoring, gambling, theft, cheating, extortion, sodomy), he has little choice but to accept.
Tim’s relationship with Val, is a rather romanticised one. The boys had lost their parents early in a fire. Val, however, goes ahead and becomes a firefighter, which is the cause of Tim’s constant bile.
While his “disgraceful” brother gives “concussions to sombre swallowtailed Whigs” Tim will have nothing to do with politics and intends to lay down his copper star even before he has got it.
Faye’s New York is one of sick children, helpless migrants, prostitutes and edgy blacks. The language spoken on the streets, referred to as flash, is understood by the “rogue fraternity”.
In Flash-speak children become kinchin, clothes are togs, harlots are mabs and child prostitutes are kinchin-mabs. Two children set in motion the mystery that Tim gets down to solving. One kinchin, a 12-year-old boy, is found dead in a trash barrel, devoid of blood and his torso sawed open in the shape of a cross. Dr Peter Palsgrave, an expert in child health pronounces his verdict: Religious rites, treasure hunting or cannibalism. The other child, a girl of the same age, runs into Tim wearing a nightshirt covered in blood and faints after muttering “They’ll tear him to pieces.”
The dead boy is identified by Mercy Underhill, daughter of a local priest and Tim’s love interest. She is a social worker of sorts, who is not afraid of stepping into the heart of disease and squalor despite the fact that her mother died in a similar pursuit of humanitarian work. The dead boy came from the house of Silky Marsh, a brothel owner, where Mercy had been to treat sick children. Silky Marsh is a madam with eye for politics and a significant contributor to party funds.
The other kinchin, Bird, is a compulsive liar. She has witnessed something horrifying but can’t be brought round to telling her tale as she veers off to spinning yarns. Her tales range from domestic violence, death of pet to stabbing a “client”.
Faye does a tremendous job of keeping the cards hidden as the needle of suspicion moves from Val, to Silky Marsh, to doctor, to priest and to Mercy.
A tense New York is one of the best portrayals in the novel, with growling mobs and violent clashes. Faye gets under the pulse of the city as it must have been in those years, panning from New York’s news hawkers to priests, child prostitutes to the destitute. The answers that come are not simple either. As in the case of female characters, Mercy Underhill and Madam Marsh are different women but each is immensely affected by the narrow role relegated to females in the 19th century. Each makes her bid for independence and tries to ruthlessly surmount the economic hurdles that stand her way.
The murder mystery and its resolution are executed with surgical precision, so is the historical backdrop of the novel. From Tombs (city prison) to Five Points slums, Faye is accurate and engaging. The only grain in the eye is human relations that appear a little too thick on drama. The language, particularly generous use of Flash, gives the novel a fresh appeal on one hand and enhances its peculiar historic flavour on the other. Faye also tries to draw a larger lesson from this bit of history: New communities facing cyclical resistance everywhere; the lesson if fair, but the story risks turning preachy.