We died that night at Roseland, he says. And as he talks he pulls her into the story. But in this memory they enter the story entirely and together. Just as she wishes it could have been. In this memory they are inside a memory, side by side in a slowly moving car. It is night and they step onto the sidewalk. The world glitters. She squeezes his hand. They dance together. She is sitting on the subway and at the same time somewhere else they are dancing, the two of them, together.
Honor slept on a pull-out couch in the living room, the baby curled beside her. That night she had strange and radiant dreams and when she woke up she had a visitor.
So many visions, he said, so few visitors.
Hello there, she said to the darkness.
Her eyes adjusted. It was blue in the room. There were no shades. The night poured in.
I couldn’t go on, he said.
I know, she said.
I’m sorry, he said.
I miss you.
They were quiet in the darkness for a long time.
Your son is beautiful, she said. Look.
I’ll always be looking, he said.
Outside, cars and voices and life went on in the distance. Then silence. Then she understood that her soldier was gone.
She sat up in bed and held the baby.
Tell our son where he comes from, the voice in her head spoke.
I will.
Tell him our stories.
I will.
Once upon a time there was a place where the music always played. American music blew like smoke out the windows. A dance palace where the people spun around and around, circling endlessly in the swing of time. Men lifted their legs and the sharp creases in their pants broke and their cuffs batted their socks and their leather shoes shone. Women threw their heads back and their hair flew out behind them like water flung from a glass. Everything seemed original and free. The voices of the instruments called out innocent and strong. The piano keys pushed the hammers and the hammers hit the strings and the strings pulled the hearts of a country. The songs were simple and the words were sometimes beautiful and sometimes they broke your heart. And the people sang them anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank: Ann Close, for her loyalty and wisdom. Melanie Jackson, for her intelligence and guidance. Caroline Zancan and everyone at Knopf, for all their expertise. Melissa Marks, Pamela Koffler, Alice Naude, Andrew Solomon, Rachel Abramowitz, and Cynthia Zarin, for friendship and reading. Stephen Bitterolf, for assistance a long, long time ago. Deborah Joy Corey and Bill Zildjian, for telling me that there was a secret formula for making cymbals. My parents and the extended Mendelsohn and Davis families, for their love and support. My husband, Nick, for every day. And, finally, my daughters, Lily and Grace—everything you do and say is music to me.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Mendelsohn is a graduate of Yale University. She is the author of two previous novels, including the New York Times best seller I Was Amelia Earhart, which was shortlisted for the Orange Prize and has been translated into many languages. She lives in New York City with her husband and two daughters.
This Is a Borzoi Book
Published by Alfred A. Knopf
Copyright © 2010 by Jane Mendelsohn
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Nick Cave for permission to reprint an excerpt from “The Ship Song” by Nick Cave. Reprinted by permission of Mute Song Ltd. on behalf of Nick Cave.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mendelsohn, Jane, 1965–
American music / by Jane Mendelsohn. —1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59368-9.
Families—Fiction. 1. Title.
PS3563.E482A8 2010
813′. 54 —dc22 2009037382
v3.0
American Music Page 18
