Read Online Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat - Free Book Online

bought a house there. He was lucky he had been left enough money to pursue his dream of being a musician. He liked to play slave songs, Negro spirituals, both on his saxophone and his piano, slowing them down or speeding them up at different tempos. One day, he would move back to Providence for good, and write his own songs.
    I told him about Croix-des-Rosets, the Augustins, and Tante Atie. They would make a great song, he said. He had been to Jamaica, Cuba, and Brazil several times, trying to find links between the Negro spirituals and Latin and island music.
    We went to a Haitian record store on Nostrand Avenue. He bought a few albums and we ate lunch every day listening to the drum and conch shell beats.
    "I am going to marry you," he said at lunch one day. "Even though I already know the problems that will arise. Your mother will pass a watermelon over it, because I am so old."
    Ever since we had become friends, I'd stopped thinking of him as old. He talked young and acted young. As far as I was concerned he could have been my age, but with more nurtured kindness, as Tante Atie liked to say.
    "You are not very old," I told him.
    "Not very old, huh?"
    "Age doesn't matter."
    "Only the young can say that. I am not sure your mother will agree."
    "We won't have to tell her."
    "She can tell I'm old just by looking at me."
    "How old are you?"
    "Old. Older than you."
    One day when I was in his house, I sneaked a peek at his driver's license and saw the year that he was born. He was my mother's age, maybe a month or two younger.
    "They say men look distinguished when they get old," I said.
    "Easy for you to say."
    "I believe in the young at heart."
    "That's a very mature thing to say."
    It was always sad to leave him at night. I wanted to go to hear him play with his band, but I was afraid of what my mother would think.
    He knocked on my door very late one night. My mother was away, working the whole night. I came out and found him sitting on the steps out front. He still had on his black tuxedo, which he had worn to work. He brought me some posters of the legends who were his idols: Charlie Bird Parker and Miles Davis.
    "Sophie, you should have heard me tonight," he said. "I was so hot you could have fried a plantain on my face."
    We both laughed loudly, drawing glares from people passing by.
    "Can you go out to eat?" he asked. "Somewhere, anywhere. I'm so high from the way I played, don't let me down."
    I called my mother at the old lady's house, on the pretense that I was wishing her a good night. Then we drove to the Cafe des Arts on Long Island, which was always open late, Joseph said.
    I drank my first cappuccino with a drop of rum. We shared a tiny cup; he was worried about driving back and finding my mother at home, waiting for me. He told me to raise my head through the roof of his convertible, as we sped on the freeway, hurrying to make it home before sunrise. I felt like I was high enough to wash my hair in a cloud and have a star in my mouth.
    "I am being irresponsible," he said. "Your mother will have me arrested. Thank God you are over eighteen."
    He held my hand on the doorstep, swaying my pinky back and forth.
    "You do wonders for my English," I said, hoping it wasn't too forward.
    "You're such a beautiful woman," he said.
    "You think I am a woman? You're the first person who has called me that."
    "In that sad case, everyone else is blind."
    I leaned my head on his shoulder as we watched the morning sky lighten.
    "Can you tell I like you?" he asked.
    "I can tell."
    "Do you like me?"
    "You will not respect me if I say yes," I said.
    He threw his head back and laughed.
    "Where do you get such notions?"
    "How do I know you're not just saying these things so you can get what you want."
    "What do you think I want?" he asked.
    "What all men want."
    "Which is?"
    "I don't want to say it."
    "You will have to say it," he said. "What is it? Life? Liberty? The pursuit of happiness?" He quickly let go of my hand. "I'm not about