Nobody makes historical fiction burn like Kevin Baker. After working as the chief researcher for Harry Evans's The American Century , Baker stepped out of the wings and published his first novel, Dreamland , a spectacular, sprawling tale about the violent underbelly of New York in 1910. He followed that three years later with Paradise Alley , an even more incendiary story about the destruction of Manhattan during a Civil War draft riot in 1863. And now he's completed what he calls his "City of Fire" trilogy with Strivers Row , a novel about Harlem during World War II.
It's the least fantastical of his three novels and, I'm sorry to say, the least fantastic. Readers coming to Baker for the first time will discover in Strivers Row a panoramic recreation of Harlem in all its explosive opportunity and vice. But his many devoted fans, like me, are bound to find this final volume surprisingly muted, as though the author had decided it was high time to put away the melodrama and pyrotechnics that inflamed his first two books.
Part of this shift stems from the fact that Baker is now stepping into more recent and, one might argue, more sensitive history. His work has always blended fictional and historical characters -- many of the violent encounters described in Paradise Alley were drawn directly from contemporary newspaper accounts; in Dreamland , Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung make hilarious appearances. But with Strivers Row, Baker for the first time places a real person at the center of his story: Malcolm Little, the black activist later known to the world as Malcolm X.
An author -- particularly a white author -- dare not play with the image of Malcolm X the way one might with Freud, Col. O'Brien, Kid Twist or Gyp the Blood, historical figures so widely caricatured, exaggerated or forgotten that they've passed into the public domain for any kind of fictional treatment one might desire. But Strivers Row labors under a burden of respect that's ultimately constraining. Baker writes in his acknowledgments, "Nearly every incident from Malcolm's life as a child in Michigan, in Boston, on the train, and in Harlem, has been drawn either from the Autobiography , or from other reputable sources. Nothing that Malcolm's character does in this novel is inconsistent with the tenor of his thoughts or actions, even as he presented them himself. These scenes have, furthermore, been drawn with great sympathy for their subject."
He's entirely right. Scenes of Malcolm's adolescence with his mentally ill mother, his experiences in foster care and his early days in Harlem as a petty gangster are lifted directly from the autobiographical descriptions by Malcolm X and his co-author, Alex Haley. But Baker's "great sympathy" effects an odd sort of alteration. In The Autobiography, Malcolm X describes his childhood eagerness to please white people, his outlandish costumes, his foolish interests and his casual criminality with unrelenting scorn. Every scene of ignorance and debasement is told from the point of view of someone who has seen the light and converted. But Baker's earnest, deeply sympathetic approach to these early years, combined with his decision to end this very long novel in 1943, before Malcolm X's incarceration and his membership in the Nation of Islam, drains much of the tension and purpose from the story of Malcolm's early life. His rendition is full of the young man's pathos and doomed hope, but it leaves him there in a way that makes the story surprisingly static and truncated.
The other protagonist of Strivers Row presents a more dynamic and nuanced figure. The fictional Rev. Jonah Dove is a light-skinned black man, reminiscent of Adam Clayton Powell Jr., caught in the vise of his own conscience. The devoted son of a retired charismatic minister, he feels wholly inadequate to lead the Harlem congregation his father built by the force of his own will. "He was gripped in the old fear," Baker writes, "knowing that his father was the church, that he [Jonah] could not possibly replace him."
That personal anxiety is exacerbated by his ominous sense of black people's precarious position in white society. Even on his genteel block on Strivers Row, a virtual oasis in Harlem, Jonah knows the deference they receive from white policemen is all pretense: "Their smiles more than a little patronizing . . . full of the guileless joy one might see on the faces of people watching a particularly cunning monkey in the Central Park Zoo: Well, well, look at the wealthy darkies!" Rumors about what's happening to the Jews in Poland have made Jonah terrified that America might pursue a similar "final solution" to its problem with blacks. "Of course they would take the opportunity to get rid of everyone they hated," Jonah thinks. "Of course they would, if they thought they could get away with it. And if the Jews, why not us next?"
Depressed about his own inadequacy, disgusted by the sins he sees his people committing all over Harlem and terrified about the next step in America's racial conflict, Jonah is drawn again and again to a private vice that fills him with as much shame as relief: He sneaks out of the house, finds a dirty bar, slips "into the squalid booth of a men's room, and emerges a new man" -- a white man. These harrowing scenes of Jonah passing -- moving confidently through white barber shops, restaurants and hotels -- are an extraordinary demonstration of Baker's power as a novelist, and they provide Strivers Row with its most incisive commentary on the psychological violence that racism internalizes. As his sister notes, in a wry allusion to Ralph Ellison, Jonah doesn't really want to be white; he just wants to be invisible.
In a dramatic finale during the Harlem riot of 1943, Jonah finally manages to shed that desire, but elsewhere in the city an invisible young man is still preparing to capture the attention of blacks and whites. Long as this novel is, it's hard not to feel disappointed that it couldn't have stretched a little longer to capture his transformation, too. ·