The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu Read Free Book Online Page A

what he says. He used to have the grandest ambitions for me when I first arrived from Ethiopia. “Just wait and see,” he would tell me in that soft-spoken, eloquent voice of his. “You will be an engineer or a doctor. I only wish your father could have lived to see it.” Tears would well up in his eyes sometimes as he spoke about the future, which he believed could only be filled with better and beautiful things. Here in Logan Circle, though, I didn’t have to be anything greater than what I already was. I was poor, black, and wore the anonymity that came with that as a shield against all of the early ambitions of the immigrant, which had long since abandoned me, assuming they had ever really been mine to begin with. As it was, I did not come to America to find a better life. I came here running and screaming with the ghosts of an old one firmly attached to my back. My goal since then has always been a simple one: to persist unnoticed through the days, to do no more harm.
    In my monthly letters and phone calls to my mother and brother in Ethiopia, I tell them only that I own my own business, and that business is okay. Never good. Never bad. Simply okay. Could be better. Grateful it’s not worse. I send them money once every few months when I can afford to, even though I know they don’t need it. I do it because I am in America, and because sending money home is supposed to be the consolation prize for not being home. For Christmas last year my mother sent me a money order worth three hundred dollars more than all of the money I had ever sent. I still have the receipt in the nightstand next to my bed from when I cashed it.
     
    At six p.m. the temperature is still hovering near eighty, a definite sign of an impending hot and brutal summer. The few people who pass through at this time of day come in with their faces red and shiny with sweat. They stock up on bottled water before returning to their early-evening strolls and centrally air-conditioned homes. I make a mental note to myself: if possible, buy more water. I watch an old, beat-up Chevy drive around the circle three times, looking for something or someone that is no longer there. The sun makes the leftover rain on the roof sparkle as it winds around the block. There is a slow, lumbering quality to the day. I keep the air conditioner off and the door open.
    Joseph and Kenneth come to the store together this time. They arrive almost an hour earlier than usual. Kenneth is still dressed in his suit and Joseph’s wearing jeans with a University of Michigan sweatshirt that’s far too heavy for the warm May night. Joseph kisses me once on the cheek. With the store still open, Kenneth has nothing to say, so he shakes my hand vigorously while trying out his new English accent.
    “How you doing, ol’ chap? Life treating you well these days?”
    The two of them stand on opposite sides of the counter, leaning against the glass panes while flipping through the day’s newspapers. By most accounts, it has been a decent day for the world. Inflation is low. Countries all across the globe are negotiating deals, hammering out truces, while their leaders shake hands on the cover of the Washington Post under headlines of restored hope and promises of cooperation. Even Africa has done well for itself today.
    “Look,” Kenneth calls out, holding open a copy of the newspaper so we can see the picture of Laurent Kabila that he’s tapping proudly. “Laurent is coming through.” He reads the brief article with an ironic enthusiasm. There are only a hundred and fifty words to the entire piece.
    “You could learn something from him, Jo-Jo. That Kabila’s a good man. A role model for all you Congolese.”
    “You said the same about Mobutu,” Joseph says.
    “That was just a joke. It was only because I liked his last name. Sese Seko. Sese Seko. I could say it over and over. But Kabila’s a man of his word. He’s the future of Africa’s leaders.”
    “He will be dead within a