Forty Acres

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  A little more than a hundred yards away, the work crew that the guard had warned them about could be seen toiling away. Six male workers, their shirts off, were raking and shoveling and mowing beneath the harsh glare of portable work lights. Two guards, both cradling scoped rifles, were leaning on a golf cart watching their progress. In an odd way the entire scene reminded Martin of a prison work crew that you’d see in an old movie. The only things missing were the prison stripes and ball-and-chain leg shackles.

  “What exactly are they doing out there?” Martin asked Damon.

  “Patching up the green. Removing debris. Cleaning mud from the holes. That sort of thing.”

  “And why are the guards babysitting them?”

  “Why do you think? To make sure their lazy asses don’t run away.” Damon burst into laughter. Martin tried to join him, but all he could offer was a polite chuckle, and even that he felt slightly wrong about.

  They were standing on a slight rise, which afforded them an unobstructed view of the golf course’s natural boundaries. At the opposite end, a wide brook separated the tamed lawns from the wilderness beyond. A gravel road wound its way across the width of the golf course to a simple wooden footbridge that spanned the brook. On the other side, the road disappeared into the dark woods. Through the tree line that ran parallel to the brook, Martin could just make out the shapes of several squat structures grouped unusually close together. He pointed them out. “Are those houses over there?”

  “No. More like barracks,” Damon said. “That’s where the staff lives.”

  “Must cost a fortune to maintain all of this,” Martin said as he glanced back toward the main house. “The staff here has got to be huge.”

  Damon snorted. “Huge is an understatement. Guards, groundskeepers, servants—it takes a small army to run this place. Not to mention the gold mine.”

  “Gold mine?” Martin looked at Damon skeptically. “You’re kidding.”

  Damon smiled. “There’s an old working gold mine on the property. It’s about a half mile away.” Damon pointed beyond the bridge. “Once you cross the bridge, the road leads right to it.”

  Martin knew that gold mining had once been a major economic driver in the United States but thought that the resource had been tapped out well over a hundred years ago. When Martin thought of gold mining today, he pictured shirtless, sweaty African men slaving in some insanely cramped cave in South Africa, an image retained from some Discovery Channel documentary. He never imagined that there could still be a working gold mine in the American backwoods. “Is that how Dr. Kasim makes his money?” Martin asked. “From gold mining?”

  “Actually,” Damon said, “it’s not quite that simple.” Changing the subject, he glanced at his watch. “Almost dinnertime. We better get back. I’ll take you out to the mine tomorrow.”

  As they turned to leave, Martin glanced again at the work crew laboring to repair the golf course. An intriguing realization froze him in his tracks. The sight of the men toiling, their lean, bare torsos glistening with perspiration, continued to remind him of the African workers in the documentary that he saw, except for one striking difference. In the documentary all the laborers were black Africans, black men who were being supervised by white men. But out there on the golf course it was the opposite. The guards supervising the task were black, and all the workers were white.

  Noticing that Martin wasn’t following him, Damon glanced back and saw Martin staring out at the workers. “Martin, what are you doing? Let’s go.”

  Martin ignored him. He was too busy recalling faces. The faces of the laborers he saw toiling in the garden when he first arrived, the face of the woman cleaning the fountain, the faces of all the valets lined up outside the house. The face of Alice, the timid housekeeper.

  Damon grabbed Martin’s arm. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

  Martin turned to Damon, gaping in realization, his voice low with astonishment. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

  “See what?”

  “They’re all white. Aren’t they?”

  Damon answered Martin’s question with an amused smile. “Congratulations, counselor. I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”

  “Solomon wasn’t kidding about Dr. Kasim’s sense of humor. An entire white staff for a black country club? That’s one hell of a joke.”

  “Oh, it’s much deeper than just a joke,” Damon said. “Dr. Kasim sees the arrangement at Forty Acres as therapeutic.”

  “Therapeutic? How?”

  Damon glanced at his watch again. “Tell you what. Why don’t you ask Dr. Kasim when you meet him?”

  As the two men retraced their steps and headed back to the main house, Martin took in the sprawling, luxurious property with new eyes. “Your Dr. Kasim has truly created himself a perfect fantasy world, hasn’t he?” he said.

  “Fantasy?” Damon repeated. “Look around you, Martin. This is no fantasy. It’s all absolutely real.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Martin heard Dr. Kasim coming before he ever laid eyes on the man. He assumed that the slow and deliberate thump-ka-thump of approaching footsteps belonged to his host because on hearing that awkward cadence, everyone in the dining room rose to their feet. Damon signaled Martin to follow suit, but the prompt was unnecessary. Martin, who had been given the seat of honor at one end of the splendidly laid-out dining table, was already rising from his chair. As the thump-ka-thump drew closer and closer, Martin saw the five servers who were lined up against the wall stand taller and straighten their uniforms. Two of the servers were men, the other three women. They were all Caucasian. Two of the servers Martin recognized from earlier encounters, even though they now wore different uniforms. One was the redheaded kid who had showed Martin up to his room and the other was Alice, the pretty maid who he had asked about a telephone. Oscar, in a smart black suit, stood steadfast at the head of the table beside the empty high-backed chair that awaited their host. Even he briefly broke form to double-check his appearance.

  The thump-ka-thump was just outside the dining room door now. Martin glanced around the table at Damon, Solomon, Carver, Tobias, and Kwame. They were all staring at Martin in anticipation. Smiling at him in their fancy dinner jackets and neckties. Martin was dressed sharply as well. The fine tailored jacket he wore along with his shirt, tie, and slacks were a surprise gift from Damon, who, knowing that Martin would only have jeans and sweaters in his backpack, had smuggled them along just for this occasion. It had all been just for this occasion, hadn’t it? Martin pondered. Damon’s making such an effort to befriend him, the probing questions from the men at their poker games, the rafting trip invitation—all just stepping-stones leading Martin deeper into their exclusive world. And this dinner tonight—this was the final step. Meeting their—their what exactly? Their mentor, their adviser, their spiritual leader? Who was this recluse who orchestrated such eccentric, elaborate jokes yet wielded untold influence over powerful men? The only thing Martin knew for certain was that Damon, Solomon, Tobias, Kwame, and Carver deeply respected this mysterious doctor. For Martin to become a true member of their inner circle, he would have to win Dr. Kasim’s blessing.

  Dr. Kasim stepped into the dining room with the aid of an African walking stick. Just like Martin imagined, the man was old, early nineties was Martin’s guess, but with a firm grip on his intricately carved staff, the doctor walked tall and sure, his head held at a regal height. His receding hair and wiry beard were astonishingly white, and even more so against his dark mahogany skin. Dr. Kasim’s face showed few wrinkles, but his eyes betrayed his true age. Behind delicate wire-frame spectacles, heavy-lidded and ghost gray, they smoldered with a lifetime of wisdom. Unlike his guests, the doctor was dressed quite casually for dinner. He wore forest-green silk pajamas beneath a long black silk robe, and a pair of quilted leather slippers. Martin couldn’t help thinking of another elderly titan with his very o
wn walled-in kingdom who greeted his wealthy guests in elegant sleepwear. But as much as Hugh Hefner was a world-renowned celebrity, the old man who had just strode into the dining room like an African king was an absolute mystery.

  The men greeted their host with respectful nods but did not utter a word. Dr. Kasim returned the gesture, but with the slightest effort imaginable. When Martin mimicked the others and also offered a welcoming nod, Dr. Kasim did not return the greeting. Instead the old man just studied him. He took a step closer. Dr. Kasim very slowly looked Martin up and down, from head to foot, the way a drill sergeant scrutinizes one of his soldiers. Martin wasn’t sure why, but he just stood there. Quiet. Nervous. Paralyzed by the strange old man’s probing gaze. The doctor’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Martin’s face. He peered deep into Martin’s eyes. The awkward staring contest seemed to go on forever. Martin was desperate to look away but something stopped him. Martin sensed that if he dropped his eyes now, he would drop everything. And he was grateful when Dr. Kasim finally cracked a smile. “Welcome, brother Zantu,” he said in a low, soothing voice.

  Martin appeared puzzled. “Sorry, but I’m Martin. Martin Grey.”

  Dr. Kasim shook his head. “No. You just think you are because you are asleep.”

  Martin glanced over at Damon for help. What is this old man saying to me?

  Dr. Kasim laughed. A deep, hearty laugh that he somehow managed without ever opening his mouth. It was as if whatever tickled him was just too delicious to let out. The doctor laid a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother. Tonight you wake up. But right now I’m starving.” As Dr. Kasim approached the head of the table, Oscar pulled out his chair. Only after he was comfortably settled into his seat did the others sit down as well.

  While they dined on shrimp bisque, an elegant rack of lamb, and wild mushroom risotto, Dr. Kasim never uttered another word to Martin. Instead he caught up with the lives of the other men. He seemed genuinely interested in their latest business ventures, and even more so in how much money and resources they were each funneling back into the black community. Martin had to make an effort to conceal how astonished he was by the numbers being discussed. Kwame gave away millions to several black colleges. Carver spent $2 million to build a recreation center in the Bronx neighborhood where he grew up. ­Solomon gave away nearly $5 million worth of laptop computers to black schoolchildren. Tobias and a group of contributors were funding the construction of a media arts school in Harlem budgeted at $30 million. And as Martin listened to these reports, a frightening thought struck him. What would he say if Dr. Kasim turned to him and asked about his charitable donations? There would be nothing he could say. Martin hadn’t donated a dime to charity, black or white, in his entire life. Not that he didn’t want to give; it was just that he was never in a position to give. Martin knew that this was a lousy excuse, though. People gave what they could afford. Even one hundred dollars to the United Negro College Fund counted for something. Martin decided then and there that in the future he would try to give back a little as well. Not the millions that Damon and the others were ticking off, at least not yet, but something affordable just to get him and Anna up on the scoreboard.

  Thankfully, Dr. Kasim never did steer the charity question Martin’s way, and Martin relaxed when the conversation moved on to more mundane topics like family. Dr. Kasim grilled each man about his kids. Martin noticed that his interest in their offspring did not seem all that casual. He wanted very specific updates on their behavior, education, and most importantly, their career choices. And when Dr. Kasim heard something that troubled him, he would make a firm suggestion to correct the issue. For instance, when Damon mentioned that his young son, Kevin, was considering forgoing law school after college to join the air force, Dr. Kasim shook his head and said, “No black man belongs in the military, you know that. Change his mind.” Damon nodded quietly as if accepting an order, and the conversation moved on. Martin also noticed that Dr. Kasim never asked any of the men about their wives, and the men never mentioned them . . . except once. When Tobias, very relaxed after several glasses of wine, mentioned his wife’s opinion about their son’s college choice, Dr. Kasim interrupted by clearing his throat. The sound was loud and pointed. Tobias realized his mistake and promptly apologized.

  By the time dessert was served—the best apple pie that Martin had ever tasted—Dr. Kasim still had not directed so much as a glance in Martin’s direction. Oddly, Martin didn’t mind being ignored by the host, and, also oddly, Dr. Kasim’s behavior did not come across as rude. The dynamic at the table felt like club protocol. The members had the usual clubhouse business to attend to, and since Martin was still an outsider, he could take no part in that. He just had to sit quietly and wait to be recognized. After cleaning his plate, Martin asked Alice for a second helping of that delicious pie. Alice flashed a pretty smile at him and hurried into the kitchen to do his bidding. He noticed that the two other female servers, both blond, were very pretty as well. Whoever was in charge of the hiring had an obvious appetite for shapely young blondes. Martin assumed that hiring and firing was probably Oscar’s responsibility, but as he observed Dr. Kasim’s lieutenant barking orders to the staff, Martin never noticed Oscar’s eyes lingering on any of the girls. Oscar was just as brusque with the women as he was with the men. If hiring so many pretty young blondes was truly Oscar’s doing, then it was either an innocent coincidence, or Oscar’s stone-faced facade was even more impenetrable than Martin first thought.

  Alice reappeared with the apple pie, but just steps before reaching Martin she stumbled and dropped the plate. The plate hit with a crash and all the servers froze. Alice flew into an instant panic. She apologized profusely, not just to Martin, but more so to Oscar, whose unreadable eyes were fixed on the frantic girl. Tears in her eyes, Alice apologized once more to Martin, then dropped to her knees and began to scoop up the pie and plate fragments.

  “It’s okay,” Martin assured her. “Don’t cry. It’s just pie.” Then he knelt down beside her and began to help clean up the mess.

  Dr. Kasim raised his staff high, then slammed the tip down hard upon the floor. Everyone froze at the sound, including the trembling serving girl. Startled, Martin looked up and saw Dr. Kasim staring at him. “Why are you on the floor?”

  The answer to that question seemed obvious, but Dr. Kasim asked it with such sincerity that for a moment Martin froze in confusion. Finally he found his voice. “I’m just trying to help her.”

  Dr. Kasim’s brow furrowed. He appeared baffled by Martin’s answer. “You’re my guest. Why would you feel an urge to help . . . the help?”

  “She was upset. I thought I could make the situation better.”

  Dr. Kasim shook his head and frowned in a disappointed manner. “You don’t know the true reason behind why you’re down on the floor, do you?”

  Once again Martin found himself caught in the doctor’s tangle of words. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That’s exactly what I just said.” Dr. Kasim smiled. “Return to your seat, brother. Please.”

  Oscar signaled, and one of the male servers dropped down to help the shaken girl. Martin brushed off his slacks and retook his seat. The men all frowned in bewilderment at Martin, as if dropping down to help the server girl was the act of a madman.

  “Bring him another slice of pie,” Dr. Kasim said to Alice as she finished picking up the mess. “And bring me one too.” As the girl hurried off, Dr. Kasim returned his full attention to Martin. “You must really love pie,” Dr. Kasim said to him with mock awe. “I mean, to be willing to eat it right off the floor.”

  Martin forced a laugh along with the other men. “It is unusually good pie,” Martin said, still on his guard.

  “It’s the apples that make the pie. That’s the secret.”

  “The apples?”

  Dr. Kasim nodded. “Zantu apples. Very rare. There’s only one place on earth whe
re they grow. A tiny, secluded region in west central Africa. The same region where a small tribe called the Zantu once flourished.” Dr. Kasim searched Martin’s face for signs of recognition. “Have you ever heard of the Zantu tribe?”

  “I think you said that word when you first walked in, but no, I haven’t.”

  “There’s a tragic reason you haven’t. On October 3, 1756, a large band of slave traders attacked the Zantu village, kidnapped the youngest and strongest, and killed everyone else. Except for the ninety-four men and women who were shipped to the United States in chains and sold into slavery, the entire Zantu bloodline was wiped from the face of the earth.”

  “That’s horrible,” was all that Martin could think to say.

  Dr. Kasim’s grim history lesson had the instantaneous effect of darkening the mood in the dining room. Martin wondered why Dr. Kasim would steer the conversation in such a direction. There was also the all-white staff to consider. How awkward must it be for them to just stand there, listening to a story of how their ancestors committed genocide against people who looked a lot like their current employers.

  A tense quiet lingered in the room until finally Alice returned with the two slices of pie. She set one plate in front of Dr. Kasim and the other in front of Martin, then stepped back to her place against the wall. Dr. Kasim lifted his fork but paused, waiting for his guest to start. Martin, fork in hand, just stared at the crumbling, oozing slice of apple pie.

  “Go on, kid. Eat up,” Tobias said. “I’d have another piece myself but I’m stuffed.” He patted his midsection as if his bulbous gut were a beloved pet.

  “Maybe he’d rather eat it off the floor,” Carver said with his usual smirk.

  Martin looked at Dr. Kasim. “After the story you told, I feel a little uncomfortable eating this.”

  “Ridiculous,” Dr. Kasim said. “Nobody on this planet is entitled to enjoy the Zantu native fruit more than you and I.”