Excerpt from Palaver by Bryan Washington, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Excerpt

Palaver

The mother was lost. Each building sat low and square and neutral, dulled in maroons and grays, working against her. This didn't feel like a dangerous situation—Shin-Ōkubo's sidewalks were crowded, even at midday. But everything looked the same, and, walking past the same blinking 7-Eleven, once again, she realized that her landmarks were fucked.

Three blocks later, she admitted defeat. Still the mother smiled under her mask at passersby. A few smiled back. But mostly they walked a little faster. And of course she couldn't ask anyone for directions. A reminder of how thin the line between beauty and chaos could be.

* * *

She texted the son for directions.

He didn't respond.

Not that she'd expected him to.

But a chill crept in, seeping through her coat. The mother turned to a barrage of businesses beside her; their signs sat stacked atop each other, crowded beside a bridge, just above the locals crowding around Ōkubo Station. A train rattled away from its platform, and the mother watched until its final car disappeared, swearing under her breath at the cold.

That's when she noticed a little blue building across the road.

It had a striped white awning. Bistro glowed in yellow letters.

The mother didn't speak French. But she couldn't understand Japanese either. And this, at least, was the most familiar thing she'd seen in Tokyo thus far. She stepped toward the entrance, bundled up and rushing into cascading waves of traffic, dodging kids racing through the intersection.

* * *

Maybe an hour later, the son stumbled inside too. He moved loosely, a bit clumsily, and the mother caught a flash of her brother. The son had never been to Jamaica—had only ever seen her life in photos, all of them taken by Stefan—but somehow, thousands of miles away, he'd reproduced that jangling gait.

The son looked annoyed, though. He rattled off something to the man behind the counter, setting his bag beside the mother.

Jesus fucking Christ, he said. Really?

Stop that, said the mother. You should sit.

I only asked you to do one thing.

Your apartment has no heater.

It's by the window.

Does that matter if I can't read how to use it?

I left instructions on the fridge, said the son. The sticky note. Christ. One fucking thing.

A stranger would call you a Christian the way you used his name, said the mother.

The son grimaced. He groaned.

Then, glancing at the mother's coffee, he added: How much was that? Do I need to pay?

That man gave it to me, said the mother, nodding toward the counter.

The chef busied himself arranging pastries. When the son approached him, speaking Japanese, the mother watched as he was waved away.

He didn't charge me, she called out, but the son ignored her, slapping yen on the counter.

* * *

His apartment was a two-minute walk away.

This felt inconceivable to the mother, a trick of the mind.

The building was three stories high: a Taiwanese restaurant leased its first floor. Another family lived on the second. A tiny, humming elevator stood beside the entrance. As the son fumbled through keys, unlocking the entrance, a guy daydreaming at the restaurant's entrance blinked at them.

The son wasn't much taller than the mother, but he'd gotten chubby in the last decade. Huddled beside him in the dingy lift, she felt conscious of his size.

You took a wrong turn, said the son, tapping for their floor.

I took many turns, said the mother. Which one was wrong?

The son made a face. Another grimace the mother hadn't seen before. Then he led her down a padded hallway flanked by a balcony, finally cracking open the door to his home, kicking off his shoes by the entrance. The mother peeked over the railing behind her and felt water on her face, but the winter air was so dry that this couldn't have been possible.

* * *

The son called it his home, but really it was just a big room.

Excerpted from Palaver by Bryan Washington. Copyright © 2025 by Bryan Washington. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.