The Unsettled: A novel - Hardcover

Mathis, Ayana

 
9780525519935: The Unsettled: A novel
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0525519939 ISBN 13: 9780525519935
Verlag: Knopf, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK • A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR •  From the best-selling author of The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, a searing multi-generational novel—set in the 1980s in racially and politically turbulent Philadelphia and in the tiny town of Bonaparte, Alabama—about a mother fighting for her sanity and survival  
 
"Emotionally propulsive ... Through a chorus of distinctive and virtuosic voices, we gather the story of a mother, a daughter, and the land that both unites and divides them.”– Oprah Daily • "Showcases Ayana Mathis's grace on the page, as writer, as storyteller. A book to be read and re-read." – Jesmyn Ward, author of Let Us Descend
 

Two bold, utopic communities are at the heart of Ayana Mathis’s searing follow-up to her bestselling debut, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie. Bonaparte, Alabama – once 10,000 glorious Black-owned acres – is now a ghost town vanishing to depopulation, crooked developers, and an eerie mist closing in on its shoreline. Dutchess Carson, Bonaparte's fiery, tough-talking protector, fights to keep its remaining one thousand acres in the hands of the last five residents. Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, her estranged daughter Ava is drawn into Ark – a seductive, radical group with a commitment to Black self-determination in the spirit of the Black Panthers and MOVE, with a dash of the Weather Underground’s violent zeal. Ava’s eleven-year-old son Toussaint wants out – his future awaits him on his grandmother’s land, where the sounds of cicada and frog song might save him if only he can make it there. 
 
In Mathis’s electrifying novel, Bonaparte is both mythic landscape and spiritual inheritance, and 1980s Philadelphia is its raw, darkly glittering counterpoint. The Unsettled is a spellbinding portrait of two fierce women reckoning with the steep cost of resistance: What legacy will we leave our children? Where can we be free?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

AYANA MATHIS’s first novel, The Twelve Tribes of Hattie was a New York Times best seller, an NPR Best Book of 2013, the second selection for Oprah’s Book Club 2.0. and has been translated into sixteen languages. Her nonfiction has been published in the The New York Times, The Atlantic, Guernica, and RollingStone. Mathis is a graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop. She was born in Philadelphia, and currently lives in New York City where she teaches writing in Hunter College’s MFA Program.

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1985

Philadelphia

Cherry Street

It tinseled down on Ava Carson clutching her two suitcases in front of the Cherry Street Intake Center for the Homeless. Ava cried out and dropped her bags. The latches unlatched when they hit the pavement and the suitcases popped their guts like a melon thrown from a great height. Visions are not real, or they aren’t real yet, but they do terrify.

“Toussaint!” Ava called out.

He was standing right behind her, just as he had been before the vision struck: a little boy of ten, small for his age, with both hands around the handle of his own suitcase. There they were, on a late August morning: mother and son, with three cases between them and a black trash bag bulging with their belongings.

“What were you doing on that street? Why did you . . . ?” Ava paused. She was shrieking, she realized. “No,” she said. “Nothing.”

She had never heard of Ephraim Avenue. Hallucinations. This is the sort of thing that happens when you haven’t slept for days and you’re so exhausted that your vision goes black at the sides where the peripheral ought to be.

Ava got to to her knees and scrabbled at the things on the ground: pajamas and her silk top with a tie at the collar, and a couple of nice skirts she had managed to pack, Toussaint’s good Buster Brown school shoes and his sequined Michael Jackson glove, a few Avengers comic books. She stuffed them back into the suitcase fast as she could, only they wouldn’t fit like they had before.

“Ma! You have to fold them. Ma, they’re just falling out again.”

Brisk feet stepped around them. A pair of scuffed black lace-­up shoes stopped next to one of the suitcases. A woman’s head lowered into view.

“You need some help, miss?” she said.

Ava shook her head.

“Let me help you.” Her hands swung down and hovered over Ava’s things, cracked palms, ashy knuckles, dirt under the nails.

“No!” Ava said. “I mean, that’s all right.”

“Mmph,” the woman said. Her heel went down on a pair of slacks as she walked away.

Inside, Cherry Street smelled of sweat and stale junk food and hair.

The waiting room was big like the DMV, with rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor. The man at intake kept calling Ava and Toussaint up to the window to ask a single question: Names? All right, sit down. ID? Okay. Take a seat. It was grim, but it was busy. The people working there had an urgency about them, like they were fixing things, phones pressed to their ears and their desks piled with folders. In the corner of the waiting room a skinny lady rubbed Vaseline on her kid’s elbows like her life depended on it. That was a comforting sight. One monkey don’t stop no show, like the saying goes. She squeezed Toussaint’s hand. “Maybe we won’t have to wait too long,” she said.

But they did wait. An hour passed, then two. Afternoon came, or Ava guessed it was afternoon because the sun turned white and the room was broiling. The intake man called them up again to give Ava a stack of forms attached to a clipboard. When they turned back to their seats, a go-­head-­say-­something kind of woman was sitting there next to a kid with his arm deep in a bag of Doritos. Not a free chair left in the place. There wasn’t anywhere to be but leaned up against the wall with their bags at their feet. The thick air pressed on Ava’s chest and stomach till she heaved a gob of sick into a used wad of tissues she picked up from the floor. A woman sitting at the end of a nearby row frowned and looked away. Who is going to help, Ava thought, if there’s nobody here but these women and their kids, all of them poor as cracks in the floor? People who ain’t got nothing can’t do nothing, like her mother used to say.

“Ma, you want me to hold it?” Toussaint asked. Ava couldn’t balance the clipboard against the wall and the papers kept slipping to the floor. Her boy put his hand on her arm. His eyes were big as plums and flitted from one thing to the next: a nut-­brown baby slung over a shoulder, a little girl who kept undoing her barrettes till her mama popped her one, a lady shaking her papers at the intake man. Ava swallowed back another wave of sick and focused on the forms.

The forms had questions like: Last address. 245 Turnstone Pike, James Creek, New Jersey. Next of kin. N/A. Marital status: Married. Separated. Emergency contact: N/A. What circumstances led you to seek assistance at Homeless Services? Two weeks ago, my husband Abemi Reed threw us out of our home his home in New Jersey.

Then she wrote: Last night me and Toussaint were sitting on a bench in a bus shelter across the street from a lady’s house out in the Northeast. She had a pitcher of iced tea on her table. It was dark in the bus shelter, then the streetlight came on right over us and we were lit up. That woman in her kitchen saw us so I didn’t think we should stay there. And we were so tired. I spent nearly all the money on a motel. In the morning my son asked where we’d go after we left there. Are we going to spend the night here again, is what he said. I got him an egg sandwich at the McDonald’s down the street. We sat in the air-­conditioning and watched some kids on the slide in the Playland. I had put aside enough for bus fare, so that no matter what, we could get somewhere. We used the bus fare and came here on the El.

Ava ran out of space and had to write down the margins. She knew that wasn’t the kind of answer they wanted, but she had to tell somebody. The man at the intake window was talking on the phone and didn’t even look up when she pushed the clipboard through the slot. She stood with her arms at her sides and waited. After some time, he glanced up at her and sighed.

“Come on, miss. Take it easy.” He picked up the clipboard. “You can’t cry in here. You need to calm—­ Gloria! Come out here cause this lady is . . . Don’t put your hands all on the glass, miss.”

Gloria was noisy coming out of a side door: “Okay. You got to be easy or we can’t . . .” But it wasn’t just Ava—­half people in there were crying, or trying not to. Wouldn’t any of them look each other in the eye though.

Gloria assigned Ava and Toussaint to the Glenn Avenue Family Shelter. She gave them carfare—­tokens and paper transfers, not cash. Three hours later they were back out on the street. The skinny-­boughed Center City trees drooped in the heat, and the business ladies’ hair-­sprayed dos were limp. Ava and Toussaint dragged their suitcases and trash bag down Broad Street to the subway. They took turns hauling their things down the subway stairs: Toussaint guarded the stuff and Ava took two suitcases down. Then switch. Then switch. People stared but nobody helped. A dark collar of sweat spread around Ava’s neck. Toussaint’s eyes were glazed and his lips were whitish and dry. The other passengers kept their distance, even though they were sweating too, even though some of them were taking up too much space with shopping bags and laundry carts. People are funny like that.

Ava and Toussaint got off the subway, took two buses, and at last found themselves trudging through the streets with their bags. The directions said walk four blocks to Tulpehocken. Turn left. They walked five blocks, then six. Mosquitoes buzzed in their ears.

“Ma? Ma! Is this it?” Toussaint asked of every building they passed.

They arrived at an...

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Verlag
Knopf
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0525519939
ISBN 13 
9780525519935
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
49078
Deutschland

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