A Good American Read Online Free PDF Page A

with food. There were hams dotted with cloves; thick, dark slabs of Creole pork; vast platters of fried chicken; piles of shrimp the size of a child’s fist and coated in fiery red sauce; and ribs, more ribs than you could imagine, glistening sweet and brown. There were huge ears of corn, shining with butter; potatoes, fried and boiled; buckets of green beans; and, at the center of the table, a huge, bubbling pot of jambalaya. There was a hill of white rolls, so fresh that they spilled steam, and plates of fresh fruit—oranges, bananas, mangoes, thickly sliced pineapples, plums. Jette and Frederick piled their plates high and then went back for more. They were silent as they ate, every mouthful a new eruption of strange flavors. Their lips tingled with the kiss of spice.
    When the meal was over, Jette let out a small moan, equal parts distress and satisfaction. “I’ve never eaten so much in my life,” she said. “I need to lie down.”
    Frederick looked around him. Some passengers were still eating, blinking in astonishment as they chewed. His first night in America! He sat at the bar and drank a glass of cold beer and thought about the new world waiting for him outside the hotel. His fellow passengers had begun to sing again, but this time he did not join in. He pushed his empty glass across the counter and stepped out onto the street.
    It was murderously humid, even though the sun had long since gone down. Frederick stood for a moment on the street corner. He caught the sharp aroma of fresh tar from the nearby docks, then the sweet scent of bougainvillea, drifting by on a languid breeze. He planted his hat firmly on his head and set off down the street, away from the water: into America.
    Frederick must have been quite a sight. He had not shaved for two weeks, and his ginger beard was even wilder than usual. He still wore his velvet suit, which by now was filthy and crumpled. Trams shuttled past him, bells clanking loudly as they sailed up the wide street, clouds of gravel dust floating in their wake. On the sides of the tall brick buildings were paintings of giant bars of chocolate and bottles of milk. Beneath the pale glow of the streetlamps, the sidewalks teemed with life. Couples walked past arm in arm, their heads close together. Sharply dressed men prowled, their hats pulled down over their eyes. Packs of thin-limbed Negro children scuttled by in the shadows. Frederick felt their hungry eyes upon him. As he walked on, the cobbled streets narrowed. The windows of upstairs apartments were flung open to the night and the warm air was punctuated by raucous laughter and angry shouts. Women leaned out of their kitchen windows and gossiped to their neighbors across the street. He listened to snatches of their crackling, high-pitched conversations, not understanding a word.
    After an hour or so, Frederick sat down on a bench and rested. He was thirsty, and hot. He wiped his brow and thought about returning to the hotel. Just then, the sound of a cornet floated through the air. This was not the sort of dry fugue that echoed through Hanover concert halls. The instrument had been unshackled: it spiraled upward, a whirlwind of graceful elision and complex melody. The music streaked into the night, every note dripping with joy. He stood up and followed the sound.
    Halfway down a nearby side street stood a building lit up like a beacon, bathing the sidewalk in its warm glow. A sign hung over the door: chez benny’s . The music spilled out of open windows. As he approached, Frederick could hear other instruments—clarinets, a trombone, a banjo. He peered inside and saw a large room crammed with people, some at small tables, some standing, others dancing. At the far end of the room, six musicians stood on a stage. The cornet player was at their center, his eyes tightly closed as he blew his horn. Staccato flurries of notes ripped into the night, ragging the up-tempo tune. Behind him the other men were swinging in a sweet,