Taste of Salt

Taste of Salt

by Frances Temple


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780780741737
Publisher: Harpercollins Childrens Books
Publication date: 10/28/1994
Pages: 179
Product dimensions: 4.20(w) x 6.60(h) x 0.70(d)
Age Range: 12 - 17 Years

About the Author

Frances Temple grew up in Virginia, France, and Vietnam. About her third book she wrote, "The Ramsay Scallop is about our need for adventure and motion, for throwing in with strangers, trusting and listening. The story began to take form in northern Spain along pilgrim trails; was fed by histories, stories, letters, by the testimony of a fourteenthcentury shepherd, by the thoughts of today's pilgrims. Concerns echo across years-clean water, good talk, risks welcomed, the search for a peaceful heart. Traveling in Elenor's shoes, I found out how strongly the tradition of pilgrimage continues." Ms. Temple received many honors during her distinguished career. Her other critically acclaimed books for young people include: France Taste of Salt A Story of Modern Haiti, winner of the 1993 Jane Addams Children's Book Award; Grab hands and Run, cited by School Library journal as one of the Best Books of 1993; and Tonight, by Sea another novel set in Haiti.

Read an Excerpt

It is not quiet, here in this make-do hospital, but it is peaceful. A white curtain separates me from the other people who lie here, groaning sometimes, coughing. A window at my feet faces out to the street. I can hear the taptap callers, the fresco vendors, the egg seller's shout, the truck horns. But nobody is calling me.

In the soft, warm air floats the flat smell of blood, the sharp smell of pee, the floor bleach. These smells make my eyes water and bring a taste of metal to my throat. They are better than no smells, I think.

I wonder if I will die here.

I watch the white curtain move softly in the breeze.

Beside the curtain, someone has written on the wall.


We love Djo. Stand up, Djo.

I remember that I am Djo.

Who wrote that? Maybe some small boy from Lafanmi. Lafanmi Selavi, the shelter set up by Father Aristide, the man we call Titid, who also started this clinic. The shelter where I used to live.

Thank you, whoever wrote on the wall. Cbapo ba: I take my hat off to you.

But don't ask me to get up, little brother. My feet at the bottom of the bed don't take orders from me.

Titid says I can no longer be his bodyguard, since my own body is so broken. Until it is fit again, I can no longer be useful in that way. But Titid says that it is not only the body, with its feet and hands and strong back that can be useful. He says the mind and spirit are useful, too. That mine are still strong, despite the blows. Titid says that for this work of storytelling, I am fit. I don't know if he sees true. What I am is tired. Bright day passes outside the window of this place like asmall gold dream. So fast it will be nighttime.

Titid has invited someone to my bedside to listen to my story. He says each time I sleep, I will remember, and when I wake, I must tell everything to the man that brings the tape recorder.

I think Titid is afraid I will die altogether, like Lally, like Marcel. And if I tell my story to the tape recorder man, whoever he be, then I will not die entirely. Titid loves me. Also Titid is a politician. He knows how to use stories to make things happen, to make the way of the world change. And I am Titid's helper, one of his boys. I did not help him enough, the night the Macoutes came and firebombed the shelter. But lying on this cot like some flipped-over cricket, I am still one of Titid's team.

"Ah! Today we are lucky!"

"God smiles . . ."

"Komon ou ye?"

"Pa pyu mal, mamzelle, pa pyu mal."

I hear approving voices up and down the ward. By the commotion, I know that a good-looking woman is coming this way.

And I hear a woman murmur polite old-fashioned greetings in a soft voice:

"Honor. . . . Respect. . . . Honor."

Oh, no. She is coming here, to my end of the hall! Titid has tricked me! It is a beautiful black girl that brings the tape recorder, and here I lie, flat on my backside in this bed, so ugly, so weak. My hair, what was not burned off, is shaved. My head is lumpy from the Macoutes' bludgeons. My eyes are swollen halfshut like an old drunkard. I seem one hundred and not seventeen.

And Titid thinks that it is to this woman I will tell my troubles?

What can I do?

No way to hide.

I pretend sleep.

My head hurts. My throat is too dry. I wish suddenly that I can be one or the other: truly alive or else truly dead.

When I open my eyes again, the light from the window is bright. Against it I see the girl, still here. She is biting her fingernails. She is nervous. She is maybe going to cry. Oh, Lord.

"Mamzelle. " What else can I call her?

The girl jumps a mile. Dead man speak.

"Oh! Excuse. You are Djo?"

I see she has been reading the wall.

"What be left of him," I say.

No smile. "You can talk, Djo?" she asks.

I nod. I can talk, but is a lot of trouble.

"Would you like some water?"

"Souple, please."

She lifts my head to give me water. Very serious and careful. She not touch me at all, only hold the pillow. I think this girl make a good nurse. Then I notice she is shaking.

"Father Aristide gave me this tape recorder machine," she says.

"So tell me. For my story." Is easier to talk now I have water.

"Do you want to, Djo? Do you want to talk for the tape?" She tries to look at me and quickly turns away. Tears come to her eyes, because she is looking at my own eyes, swollen and bloody.

"You going to splash the water," I tell her.

She sets down the cup, sure enough splashing water. She puts her hands together between her knees. Her knees shaking, even.

This girl is too nervous.

"I will tell you everything if you will tell me your name," I say, to cheer her. She looks at me from the corner of her eye, and she smiles, a little uncertain.

"Jeremie," she says. I think it a beautiful name, like a town I heard of once, with pink and blue houses, by the sea. A funny name for a girl.

"Punch you recorder, then, Jeremie," I say.

If I close my eyes, maybe the girl relax. If I just forget her and make my mind float . . .

It begins way back," I say. "Back when my mama borned me. In that place in Cite Soleil with the blue walls and the picture of Christ with his red heart, and the green beads that hang in the doorway to keep away flies. This room, our room, is more tall than wide.

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