Stringer Read Free Page A

commotion.
    â€œLook, it’s a new one!” Nana chewed twice, then reached for the box. “Let him eat,” Jose said. Nana retracted her hands and hurried off, her heavy steps resounding on the cement, to find me a fork and a plate. At the end of the corridor she shook the cistern handle. There was a gurgle, and the tiresome hissing stopped.
    I had rarely dined with the family—our routines had seldom coincided—and I had still not learned their ways. The stew was in a large casserole, and a ceramic bowl contained white rice. The place mats had drawings of fruits on them. Nana passed me the bowl, indicating I was the guest. I served myself a spoon of rice. Then Jose heaped a ladle of rice on his plate, protecting the falling grains; his fingers tickled the air. He hummed contentedly. I tried to pass the bowl to Nana, but Jose’s hand reached again. Grains tumbled from the bowl. Then Nana tipped the dish over her plate and shook it empty, banging with her spoon. Jose mumbled a prayer.
    â€œAmen.”
    The family ate only one meal a day. Jose called it lunch; Nana called it dinner. And it was custom to serve oneself all at once, without expecting the food to pass around again. A small grilled fish was produced. Nana gave me a piece of tender meat, picking it off with her hands. We ate at a rapid pace—as though the meal were a stress and had to be consumed quickly, so that the house could return to its regular, foodless state. I finished my plate still hungry.
    Jose said, “You met the president?”
    â€œHe was in meetings all day. An ambassador visited unexpectedly.”
    Jose took a moment to chew. “Where did you buy the fan?”
    â€œHere at the market. Twenty-five dollars.”
    â€œGood price.”
    His few words lifted my spirits, and after dinner, in the living room, together we unpacked the box.
    Soon the fan stood on a tall metal pedestal with its plastic blades housed in an enormous cage. It looked magnificent, and Jose circled it excitedly. Nana was outside, telling the neighbors. At this time in the evening the neighbors were usually out and about, drinking beer and chatting up the ladies, but as word of the fan spread, our living room filled. People took turns putting their faces against the wind and delighted at having their coiled hair stretch behind like stiff wires.
    â€œThe twenty-first century has come to Bozene,” proclaimed Jose. And if the neighbors didn’t seem jealous it was because Bozene shared all material possessions, especially items of technology. Except my computer, which, I had made clear to a perplexed Nana, was not for use by her nephews or friends. On that evening, however, everyone seemed to forget my foreign ways—and I was Mr. Popular during the half hour for which the fan spun and spun. I stood beside the fan, talking up my purchase. Until suddenly the house was plunged into darkness.
    The neighbors moaned. The fan slowed until it hardly moved; it stopped completely. The neighbors squatted, as if it was as much their business as mine to wait for the power, to protect the fan and make sure Made in China survived the electric modulations. In the dark the appliance looked like a dead bird with caged wings; beside it Jose was sprawled on the sofa, half-asleep, his sweat-beaded head over his shoulder. From inside I heard Nana, “Tapé tapé tapé,” trying to distract Bébé Rhéma from the heat.
    â€œJose,” I said, testing if he was awake.
    â€œOuais,” he drawled.
    â€œYou know they say the riots happen around here.”
    â€œHmm.”
    â€œWhere do these riots start?”
    â€œAround Victoire.”
    â€œWhere, exactly.”
    Jose rolled in his sofa, licking his dry lips. “You know where Anderson sits? . . . But now is not the moment for riots.”
    I turned the fan’s cage from side to side, making it move as if it were working. “The current will