Ramadan Ramsey
Page 34
In a spiraling pattern, he lowered the chain onto the seam where his father’s palms met, forming a lopsided little pedestal, on top of which he rested the crucifix. He watched as Mustafa’s eyes moistened again, just as when he had taken his first long look at Ramadan, that look of recognition and recovery.
Ramadan sensed there was no need to explain, but he said, “It belonged to—”
“Alicia . . . ,” Mustafa said, staring down at the crucifix, as his tears fell around it, trickling between the silver strands of the necklace. “The love of my life,” he said. “The love of my life . . . ” A casual observer might have thought him in worship, which perhaps he was.
“Mustafa!” Tariq had returned, though he kept his distance.
Mustafa snapped his right hand into a fist over his gift, and then he pounded his fist against his chest and said, “Thank you, my son.”
“Thank you.”
“Is time.”
“I know,” Ramadan said, picking up the Quran, holding it in his lap.
Mustafa rose from his knees and put the chain around his neck. Ramadan stood up, too, holding the Holy Book at his side, looking at once studious and learned—and resigned to his departure. They turned to face Tariq, and Mustafa draped his arm around Ramadan’s shoulder.
Then he spoke in English, more, it seemed, for his son’s understanding than his comrade’s, or perhaps for the convenient translation of anyone close enough to hear the sound of his voice. “Ramadan is ready!”
* * *
RAMADAN HEARD, UNDERSTOOD, and took his father’s words to heart. He had felt Mustafa not only wanted him to remember what he said, but also wanted to be remembered as the one who had said it.
In the coming days—the few that would press him homeward, the many plotting the course of his life—he would return, one way or another, consciously and not, to this pronouncement again and again, having added it to his little secret list of gospels.
Mama Joon’s commandment. Everything depends on how hungry you are.
Miss Bea’s psalm. It’s so easy.
Ahmet’s verse. Everything is a mystery.
But it was Mustafa’s declaration, spoken in a cave but as if from a mountaintop, that mattered most. Ramadan is ready.
It emboldened him when, upon returning to Istanbul, he had stepped forward in the Adem dining room and interrupted Ahmet’s rambling-sounding Turkish explanation. “Mr. Emir, I told you I was here to meet my father. I wasn’t lying! You drove me to the hotel. Mehmet brought me here to your house. Ahmet just took me the rest of the way.”
Emir had slumped in his chair, his rage defused.
And that evening, Ramadan is ready had quickened his smartphone finger-tapping as he bought his plane ticket back to New Orleans, and kept his voice from cracking when he told Mr. Emir he would be leaving on Monday, the day after Eid.
“I just need you to check me in at the airport.”
“Of course. But why?”
“They say I’m too young to go alone.”
“They don’t know you.”
* * *
WHEN MEHMET TOOK him to the Grand Bazaar the next day, Mustafa’s expressed confidence in him had informed his purchase of a leather-bound notebook for Ibrahim at his father’s shop. He inscribed it:
To Ibrahim,
Now you can speak any language you want.
Happy Bar Mitzvah!
Love,
Ramadan
There was even affirmation the next day, when the DJ, as Ibrahim requested, played Drake’s “Take Care,” and after they’d finished the feel-the-beautiful dance, Mehmet and Ibrahim agreed—Ramadan’s moves were the best.
* * *
ONE DAY LATER, the first day of Eid-al-Fitr, he felt the confusion of himself with the season become, at last, a clarification. As he witnessed the communal revelry marking the end of Ramadan, he privately celebrated a beginning.
* * *
“WHY DID YOU do it?” he asked Clarissa, when, bolstered by his readiness, he had called last night to tell her he was coming home.
“I found a letter . . . from my . . . from your grandfather.”
She didn’t say anything else, but Ramadan could hear her sobbing. A letter? Mama Joon’s deathbed mutterings came back to him. His grandfather? Maybe everything really was a mystery. He was curious about the details, of course, but he didn’t ask. Anyway, Clarissa was too busy having a good cry to answer. So this all had something to do with his mother’s father. Clarissa’s father. He was aware of what such relationships could do to you and what they could make you do. Things that if you didn’t do them could make you feel crazy. Things that if you did, could make you seem crazy.
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound consoling. Even if he wasn’t sure he could trust her, he still loved her. “We’ll talk about it when I get home.” And he really wanted to go home now. In fact, nothing could keep him away—he had to read that letter.
* * *
THEN, AT THE airport earlier today, when it was boarding time and Mr. Emir asked, “Are you ready, Ramadan?”—all he could do was laugh.
* * *
BUT RECLINING ON the plane, cruising somewhere over the Atlantic, he woke up in his window seat in the middle of the night. Still drowsy but restless, he rolled onto his side and was shocked by what he saw reflected in the pane. It didn’t look like someone who had in him what he was so convinced he had in him now. It wasn’t reminiscent of any man, not even Mustafa. It was the face of a child.
Acknowledgments
My gratitude to the following, for making this novel and its author possible:
Joy Harris, who not only finds homes for books, but who once, during the great evacuation of 2005, even found a home for me.
Patrik Bass at Amistad for seeing and believing—and conjuring, out of digital dust, Ramadan Ramsey into being.
George Wein and my festival family. Especially Quint Davis, who called me one day in 2012 and asked, “Lou, you wanna go to Istanbul?” E.J. Encalarde, who, when I told her about the character I was writing, said, with an oracular clarity, “He’s blessed.” George Wright, who for years patiently listened to more of Ramadan’s story than anyone else—and who is no doubt as relieved as I am that it’s finally done. Nalini Jones, my twin in balancing literature, festivals, and life—which she’s accomplished with enviable grace. Reginald Toussaint, for insisting, despite my occasional misfortune, that I remain “Lucky Lou.” My brothers, Matthew Goldman and David Foster. And my sister, the late Susan Mock, who in our decades as inseparable colleagues always treated me like an artist.
Defne Akman, whose charm, intelligence and generosity in guiding me around Istanbul and answering questions, helped turn a boat ride on the Bosphorus into a mission.
Dear friends, who have encouraged and nourished me with laughter and wisdom: Denise Turbinton, Darren Jackson, Dwayne Aaron, Gwen Richard, and Joshua Feigenbaum.
Alexa Birdsong, without whom I suspect I’d become, like this book, a work of fiction.
And finally, Mama and Bea—our little trinity of Faye, Marla, and Louis has always made me feel as if I’m part of something holy.
About the Author
The Guggenheim Fellowship and Whiting Award–winning LOUIS EDWARDS has published three acclaimed novels, including Ten Seconds, N, and Oscar Wilde Discovers America. His fourth novel, Ramadan Ramsey, is his eagerly anticipated comeback.
Born and raised in Lake Charles, Louisiana, Edwards attended Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge and Hunter College in New York City. After graduating from LSU with a BA in journalism, he moved to New Orleans, where he has had a decades-long career as a producer of music festivals and other special events. He is currently the chief creative officer and chief marketing officer of Festival Productions, Inc.-New Orleans, which produces the world-famous New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival (aka Jazz Fest).
Over the past thirty-five years, Edwards has worked on countless events, including the JVC Jazz Festival-New Y
ork and the Essence Music Festival, as well as festivals in Philadelphia; Washington, DC; Los Angeles; Houston; Newport; and elsewhere. He lives in New Orleans.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“To Zion.” Words and Music by Lauryn Hill, Charles Fox, and Norman Gimbel © 2001 Roadli Music, Fox-Gimbel Productions, Inc. and Obverse Creations Music. All rights on behalf of Rodali Music administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. (Contains samples of “And the Feeling’s Good” by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, Roadli Music.) All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.
“To Zion.” Written by Lauryn Hill, Charles Fox, and Norman Gimbel Copyright © 1998 Sony Music Publishing LLC, Obverse Creation Music, Rodali Music, and Words West LLC. All rights on behalf of Sony Music Publishing LLC, Obverse Creation Music, and Rodali Music administered by Sony Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International copyright secured, all rights reserved—contains elements from “And the Feeling’s Good” by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, published by Rodali Music (administered by Sony Music Publishing LLC) and Words West LLC (P.O. Box 15187, Beverly Hills, CA 90209 USA). Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
RAMADAN RAMSEY. Copyright © 2021 by Louis Edwards. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
COVER DESIGN: GRAY318
COVER PHOTOGRAPHS: © IVONNE WIERINK/SHUTTERSTOCK (BOY); © ILNURKHAYRULLIN/SHUTTERSTOCK (PATTERN)
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition AUGUST 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-301205-9
Version 06292021
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-301203-5
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