Breath, Eyes, Memory - Softcover

Danticat, Edwidge

 
9781616955021: Breath, Eyes, Memory
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1616955023 ISBN 13: 9781616955021
Verlag: Soho Press, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

The 20th anniversary edition of Edwidge Danticat's groundbreaking debut, now an established classic--revised and with a new introduction by the author, and including extensive bonus materials

At the age of twelve, Sophie Caco is sent from her impoverished Haitian village to New York to be reunited with a mother she barely remembers. There she discovers secrets that no child should ever know, and a legacy of shame that can be healed only when she returns to Haiti—to the women who first reared her. What ensues is a passionate journey through a landscape charged with the supernatural and scarred by political violence. In her stunning literary debut, Danticat evokes the wonder, terror, and heartache of her native Haiti—and the enduring strength of Haiti’s women—with vibrant imagery and narrative grace that bear witness to her people’s suffering and courage.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Edwidge Danticat is the author of numerous books, including Brother, I’m Dying, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a National Book Award finalist; Breath, Eyes, Memory, an Oprah Book Club selection; Krik? Krak!, a National Book Award finalist; The Dew Breaker, winner of the inaugural Story Prize; The Farming of Bones, which won an American Book Award for fiction in 1999; and Claire of the Sea Light. The recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she has been published in The New Yorker, The New York Times, and elsewhere.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1

A flattened and drying daffodil was dangling off the little card that I had made my aunt Atie for Mother’s Day. I pressed my palm over the flower and squashed it against the plain beige cardboard. When I turned the corner near the house, I saw her sitting in an old rocker in the yard, staring at a group of children crushing dried yellow leaves into the ground. The leaves had been left in the sun to dry. They would be burned that night at the konbit potluck dinner.
     I put the card back in my pocket before I got to the yard. When Tante Atie saw me, she raised the piece of white cloth she was embroidering and waved it at me. When I stood in front of her, she opened her arms just wide enough for my body to fit into them.
    “How was school?” she asked, with a big smile.
    She bent down and kissed my forehead, then pulled me down onto her lap.
    “School was all right,” I said. “I like everything but those reading classes they let parents come to in the afternoon. Everybody’s parents come except you. I never have anyone to read with, so Monsieur Augustin always pairs me off with an old lady who wants to learn her letters, but does not have children at the school.”
    “I do not want a pack of children teaching me how to read,” she said. “The young should learn from the old. Not the other way. Besides, I have work.”
    A blush of embarrassment rose to her brown cheeks.
    “At one time, I would have given anything to be in school. But not at my age. My time is gone. Cooking and cleaning, looking after others, that’s my school now. That schoolhouse is your school. Cutting cane was the only thing for a young one to do when I was your age. That is why I never want to hear you complain about your school.” She adjusted a pink head rag wrapped tightly around her head and dashed off a quick smile revealing two missing side teeth. “As long as you do not have to work in the fields, it does not matter that I will never learn to read that ragged old Bible under my pillow.”
    Whenever she was sad, Tante Atie would talk about the sugar cane fields, where she and my mother practically lived when they were children. They saw people die there from sunstroke every day. Tante Atie said that, one day while they were all working together, her father—my grandfather—stopped to wipe his forehead, leaned forward, and died. My grandmother took the body in her arms and tried to scream the life back into it. They all kept screaming and hollering, as my grandmother’s tears bathed the corpse’s face. Nothing would bring my grandfather back.

The bòlèt man was coming up the road. He was tall and yellow like an amber roach. The children across the road lined up by the fence to watch him, clutching one another as he whistled and strolled past them.
    This albino, whose name was Chabin, was the biggest lottery agent in the village. He was thought to have certain gifts that had nothing to do with the lottery, but which Tante Atie believed put the spirits on his side. For example, if anyone was chasing him, he could turn into a snake with one flip of his tongue. Sometimes, he could see the future by looking into your eyes, unless you closed your soul to him by thinking of a religious song and prayer while in his presence.
    I could tell that Tante Atie was thinking of one of her favorite verses as he approached. Death is the shepherd of man and in the final dawn, good will be the master of evil.
    “Onè, mes belles, Atie, Sophie.”
    Chabin winked at us from the front gate. He had no eyelashes—or seemed to have none. His eyebrows were tawny and fine like corn silk, but he had a thick head of dirty red hair.
    “How are you today?” he asked.
    “Today, we are fine,” Tante Atie said. “We do not know about tomorrow.”
    “Ki nimewo today?” he asked. “What numbers you playing?”
    “Today, we play my sister Martine’s age,” Tante Atie said. “Sophie’s mother’s age. Thirty-one. Perhaps it will bring me luck.”
    “Thirty-one will cost you fifty cents,” he said.
    Tante Atie reached into her bra and pulled out one gourde.
    “We will play the number twice,” she said.
    Even though Tante Atie played faithfully, she had never won at the bòlèt. Not even a small amount, not even once.
    She said the lottery was like love. Providence was not with her, but she was patient.
    The albino wrote us a receipt with the numbers and the amount Tante Atie had given him.
    The children cringed behind the gate as he went on his way. Tante Atie raised her receipt towards the sun to see it better.
    “There, he wrote your name,” I said pointing to the letters, “and there, he wrote the number thirty-one.”
    She ran her fingers over the numbers as though they were quilted on the paper.
    “Would it not be wonderful to read?” I said for what must
have been the hundredth time.
    “I tell you, my time is passed. School is not for people my age.”
    The children across the street were piling up the leaves in Madame Augustin’s yard. The bigger ones waited on line as the smaller ones dropped onto the pile, bouncing to their feet, shrieking and laughing. They called one another’s names: Foi, Hope, Faith, Espérance, Beloved, God-Given, My Joy, First Born, Last Born, Aséfi, Enough-Girls, Enough-Boys, Délivrance, Small Misery, Big Misery, No Misery. Names as bright and colorful as the giant poincianas in Madame Augustin’s garden.
    They grabbed one another and fell to the ground, rejoicing as though they had flown past the towering flame trees that shielded the yard from the hot Haitian sun.
    “You think these children would be kind to their mothers and clean up those leaves,” Tante Atie said. “Instead, they are making a bigger mess.”
    “They should know better,” I said, secretly wishing that I too could swim in their sea of dry leaves.
    Tante Atie threw her arms around me and squeezed me so hard that the lemon-scented perfume, which she dabbed across her chest each morning, began to tickle my nose.
    “Sunday is Mother’s Day, non?” she said, loudly sucking her teeth. “The young ones, they should show their mothers they want to help them. What you see in your children today, it tells you about what they will do for you when you are close to the grave.”
    I appreciated Tante Atie, but maybe I did not show it enough. Maybe she wanted to be a real mother, have a real daughter to wear matching clothes with, hold hands and learn to read with.
    “Mother’s Day will make you sad, won’t it, Tante Atie?”
    “Why do you say that?” she asked.
    “You look like someone who is going to be sad.”
    “You were always wise beyond your years, just like your mother.”
    She gently held my waist as I...

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Verlag
Soho Press
Erscheinungsdatum
2015
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1616955023
ISBN 13 
9781616955021
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
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Pärnu mnt 139b-14
Tallinn
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Estland

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