Emil Brod is the downright worst fictional detective I have ever read. Not in the bumbling Inspector Clouseau way; nor in the action-is-everything Elvis Cole way that he will punch his way out of – Emil Brod is earnest, honest, idealistic, and has a gentle heart. It’s just that he is a seriously bad detective.
The Bridge of Sighs is Olen Steinhauer’s first novel, and one can call it a (recent) historical mystery. It’s set in the late ‘40s, soon after the war, in an unnamed, decrepit, poor, and war-ravaged (Eastern) European city, on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Emil Brod is a very young, freshly minted Police Detective of the People’s Militia. He joins the police forces of the city, and after initial hostilities, is faced with an absolutely hopeless case with the murder of a reasonably-famous state songwriter, and a subsequent linked murder to follow.
The effort to solve the case, his first, takes him into the incredibly evil and corrupted world of state politics. And in the arms of the estranged (and exquisite) widow of said songwriter. Brod is a good egg, though – sincere and soft-hearted. He approaches the case like many wouldn’t, with no worry for life nor career, like a typical bull in a china shop. He makes innumerable mistakes and upsets way too many apple carts. Indeed, at the end of the book and after the denouement, one sits back to wonder why one of the few near-death experiences did not, actually, result in him being bumped off along the way.
But he doesn’t, and you go along for the ride. You go along because you have developed a liking for Emil Brod. He is naively hopeful (notwithstanding the tough past that he is still sometimes haunted by), he wants to be good, and he stands out among the sea of bleakness and immorality around him. You go along because this is a peek into a world one does not know of. And you go along because even though detours are frustrating at times, the story does move along at pace. As for me, I have been brought up on Robert Ludlum and Frederick Forsyth. Slow set ups and detour-esque middle-thirds don't scare me. This isn’t bad at all.
There is a point-of-view that a mystery novel should not be too "well-written" in the literary sense, such that the writing takes away from the plot. I am not an advocate of the idea, but would just like to mention that there are passages here in this book that certainly would make such haters of the "literary" apoplectic with rage. Olen Steinhauer is excellent at building up the unnamed Eastern European city, with its bleak structures, forbidding walls and open countryside. This is lovely writing.
I have one complaint though. Lena is very cardboard, very manic-pixie-dream-girl. Even tertiary characters are written better, and have more life in them. Unfortunately, that seems to be a normal thing for many mystery stories written by male writers. Steinhauer is no Dashiell Hammett in writing women. But he can write alright. Perhaps the next novels would be better at this aspect?
Four stars in five is well-earned, I think. I look forward to reading the other Yalta Boulevard Novels.