I resisted bigging Akemi’s father up in my mind despite what Sensei was telling me. They sounded true, Sensei’s words, but in order to outmaneuver Naoko Nakamura, I had to view him as just another man, nobody’s hero or nothing like that.
So I stood up. “Thank you for today, Sensei. You helped me with my yin-yang.” I smiled. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow night. Now I gotta go.” I turned and headed toward my locker. But he paused me with his words, a final lesson of the day, I figured.
“Scholars have written books about Naoko. He is a very intelligent and accomplished man. When I saw his stamp and signature on your marriage documents, I thought, ‘What are the chances of a young man from Brooklyn marrying the only daughter of this Japanese tycoon and legend?’ It seemed impossible. In fact, there was more of a chance of me witnessing a solar eclipse.” He smiled.
His words were a strange mixture of him giving me props while at the same time taking them away. After a quick thought, I believed that I figured out what he was really asking me. What were the chances of a talented, rich, and beautiful Japanese teenaged girl like Akemi, who doesn’t speak English, marrying a black African like me, living in the Brooklyn projects in a Brooklyn hood, who doesn’t speak Japanese? But his question didn’t matter to me like it might have mattered to some other black American. I don’t have one drop of inferiority in my blood or mind. I did marry her and she married me eagerly. It wasn’t no mystery. It had happened right before Sensei’s eyes in this dojo with his help and many witnesses. I shrugged my shoulders, shaking off the tightness that tried to creep back in.
* * *
I bounced back to my Brooklyn block with only my hands as my weapons. I had no doubt that if anybody tried to test me today, they would receive the full impact of my skill and fury. As soon as I hit my block, I could taste death in the air. There was talk of a kid in the next building who had just gotten slaughtered. First his man was killed. Instead of merking his man’s murderer, he snitched to the jake. Two days later, he got to join his man in heaven or hell. I knew there would be a trail of bodies turning up any day, any minute now. Snitching always resulted in a blizzard of blood.
I had moved my guns and kunai because of Naja. When she went into my room without my permission and went through my things to find Akemi’s ponytail, it meant two things to me. One, it meant that it wasn’t her first time going through my things. She was looking for the ponytail that she already knew was there. Two, it meant that she could have easily hurt herself if she came upon one of my burners or tools. Instead of getting more strict with her, I just accepted that she was at an age of being curious. It was easier to move the danger out of her way than to rely on the fact that she wouldn’t do it again if I asked her not to. Anyway, I could never forgive myself if I allowed anything bad to happen to my young sister.
Chapter 5
JEWELS FROM MY FATHER
Back in my room I pulled down the blanket that I kept folded and in the top corner of my closet. I unfolded it on my bed and then felt around the hemline. I ripped open the hem carefully and retrieved my three diamonds that Umma had sewn securely into the ragtag blanket. It had been my idea to store the diamonds this way. I thought a safety deposit box at the bank was too accessible to employees and higher-ups, and the diamonds were too valuable to me to risk it. Buying a vault for our apartment was too obvious, because the streets watch you bring it in, then plot all day every day for a way to get it out. Putting diamonds into my mattress or anywhere any criminal would look automatically was dumb.
So I kept the beautiful blankets that Umma crocheted for me on my bed and kept this cheap hospital-issued blanket that Umma had received when Naja was born in the closet. I knew this blanket would never receive a second glance or be stolen by anyone. So it made a perfect decoy. I had planned to store the diamonds there until forever. I had hoped to one day hand these three diamonds to my own son, inshallah, the same way that my father had gifted them to me seven years ago. That’s how it works with a family heirloom. It is not the same as money a person has inherited or a piggy bank that you go in and out of, or even a savings account that you keep for a while with the intention of spending in the near future. An heirloom is something that gets passed from generation to generation. It is something cherished, the same as these diamonds were, not only because of their value, but because they were lessons from my father. In my lifetime I could work and eventually go and get more diamonds, but they would not be the same African diamonds that my father gave me in the Sudan, along with his lessons and heart and intentions and instructions. For those reasons alone, they could never be replaced.
But my father did say that the three three-karat diamonds were “three wishes.”
“Use them when everything and everyone else around you fails or when you feel trapped.”
I knew that Naoko Nakamura had me trapped at the moment. But I also knew that I wouldn’t allow him to hold me there for long. I would use at least one of the “three wishes” to go get my wife.
It could be said that my using the diamond was the same as giving the diamond to my son. I was not too young to know that if I had a son in this world, he would be wherever my wife was, resting in the comfort of her womb.
I rode in with Umma. She had to catch the four-to-midnight shift at the Brooklyn textile factory since she’d missed her usual work time slot. We did not talk much. Umma is the kind of woman who doesn’t repeat herself or nag. She knew I understood what must be done, and she would wait to hear my plan and add her thoughts later on. Besides, those midnights when I pick her up from her job are when some of our best ideas and plans are hatched.
After I was sure she was straight at her job, I headed to Manhattan to the Diamond District, to find a reasonable jeweler among thieves to buy at least one of my diamonds. Six was the magic number. I had seen six jewelers by six o clock, the time when the jewel merchants generally start feverishly packing to leave the heavily guarded area. I was not satisfied with even one of the six negotiations or offers. I knew what my father’s gems were worth. I decided I would come back early the next morning and push until I found the right deal.
That same evening, moving east away from Forty-Seventh and Avenue of the Americas, where many of the jewels from around the world are stored and bought and sold wholesale and retail, I made a left onto Park Avenue. I strolled up the full length of the blocks. I looked around carefully, checking out the discreetly placed hotels that lined that expensive area. They weren’t well-known like the Marriott, Hilton, Hyatt, and Ramada. I liked that. They were more exclusive. Even though their nightly price tag was more than I could afford without cashing in at least one of my diamonds, I had to find the right location to place Umma and Naja while I was away in Japan. I already knew that I would not leave them alone in the Brooklyn projects. We had only two weeks remaining before we could move into our new house in Queens, which we had bought using the money that we earned together from Umma Designs, our family business. Umma, an incredible seamstress and an expert in fabrics and textiles and designs, had created and sold enough clothing, hats, upholstery, curtains, and so on to bring in eighty thousand dollars over a five-year period. I had managed, marketed, and served as the sales, communication, and delivery person for our company.
Now, even in this crisis, the bottom line was that until I was certain that Umma was safe, I couldn’t leave the city. As much as I love my wife in my heart and in my blood and even in my bones, Umma will forever be my first love, my mother, and my purpose.
After a while, I located a place called “The Inn,” a small hotel in a four-story brick building on Park. The manager was polite enough to show me a suite without seeming to suspect that I was a criminal, like most small business managers and owners instinctively suspect and treat black males. A brief tour, and I became sure that this place had the right feeling, the right amount of space, and cleanliness, as well as a small kitchen for Umma’s use. Immediately outside of the hotel was an upscale deli and a low-key pharmac
y.
The hefty price was $350 per night. When I heard the quote, it made me lean back. Then I regained my composure by guaranteeing myself that I would only be gone for three to five days and that this place would help me feel at ease enough to do whatever I had to do to retrieve my wife.
Chapter 6
SALIM AMED AMIN GHAZZALI
Nightfall came. The New York City lights lit the way for many late-working professionals to escape. Satisfied at how my exit plan was shaping up, I shot over to the Bronx to have a meet-up with Mr. Ghazzali. He had been Umma Designs’ best customer. He was Muslim and Sudanese, head of the only Sudanese family besides ourselves that we had come to know in America. The owner of a taxi business, he had enough confidence in Umma’s skills to hire her to be the seamstress for his nephew’s elaborate Sudanese wedding. After viewing and observing Umma’s detailed understanding of Sudanese culture, Mr. Ghazzali hired her to be the wedding planner for the entire event. The ten thousand dollars that we earned from that one wedding is what put us over the top so that we could finally buy a small house in an effort to move out of the Brooklyn projects. He had hired us once, been kind to my mother and family, and paid his debts on time. Now I was gonna hire him to do some simple but important work for me.
When I arrived in the Bronx, I phoned his house from the train station. His phone rang five times, and just as I was about to hang up, I heard the voice of his daughter Sudana.
“Asalaam alaikum.”
“Alaikum salaam,” I responded. “May I speak with your father, please?”
“You sound tired,” Sudana said, surprisingly recognizing my voice. But I should not have been surprised. She was a girl who had kept her eyes on me even when I was not noticing her. While I was working on her family’s wedding, I stashed one of my guns at the wedding venue. She saw me when I was sure no one was looking. She laid back, waited, and removed the gun from a tall ceramic vase, where I had hidden it. She gift wrapped it in a colorful box with a bow as though it were a wedding gift. She handed it to me so politely and casually after the wedding ended. Such a beautiful Sudanese teenaged girl, who I had met after Akemi had already tiptoed into my heart and made herself at home.
“My father isn’t in right now,” she said regretfully.
“I’m here in the Bronx. I was trying to meet up with him,” I said, thinking aloud.
“Where?”
“Down the block, train station.”
“Hold on, let me call him because he really should be on his way home,” she said eagerly. I heard her calling her father on what I guessed was another phone line.
“My father said you should come on over to our house. He’ll meet you here.”
“Are your brothers home?” I followed up.
“No,” she responded. I paused. If none of the men of her house were home, it was not proper for me to enter their house. This is the Islamic Sudanese way.
“I’m only five minutes away. It sounds like your father will need some more time. So I’ll wait and come by a little later,” I told her.
“You are so good,” she said softly. “But my father has given his permission and you can sit here in his office. Although no one else is home, my mother and sisters and brothers and father will all be here very soon. My father would not be happy if I left you standing around and waiting in the Bronx. So please come by. Is Akemi with you?” she asked softly.
I appreciated the way she always welcomed Akemi even though I could feel her attraction to me. Sudana was always more graceful than envious, unlike the American girls who fight to crush the competition with their tongues and fists and feet.
“Akemi is not with me right now,” I answered.
“Oh.”
“Thank you, Sudana, I’m coming through.” I hung up.
It was a warm night on the hot blocks of the BX. I maneuvered around tight streets where cars were double-parked for as far as my eyes could see. Some men sat on stoops and others sat on porches. Some men repaired cars while others rushed toward their homes. The ice cream truck, Mister Softee, played his familiar jingle tune, loud enough to rattle the hood and call out the hood rats.
When I arrived at the only house on the block with a high fence, I stopped out front. I pushed the gate, but it was locked, like I knew it would be.
“It’s you?” Sudana’s voice asked.
“It’s me.” I heard the lock click twice and the fence opened only enough to let me in. I stepped inside and looked once before lowering my gaze away from Sudana’s eyes.
“Come in.” She smiled. I locked the fence behind me and followed her in. I didn’t have to look directly at her; easily I could just be guided by her scent. Sudanese girls who know and live our traditions wear the most exotic and alluring perfumes, not the same kind that you buy from the department store. They wear handmade ones from centuries ago that merge with each woman’s personal chemistry and give her an unforgettable and unique identity. A woman’s smell, mixed with the perfumes that we call kormah in our Sudanese language, has always been unforgettable to me. I easily understood why we as Muslim men separate ourselves from the presence of women who are not ours. It is the subtle things that a woman does or wears that makes any man aroused if he is allowed to come too close. And every man in the world of any religion or no religion at all knows that he is or can be or will become attracted to many, many women if he is allowed to smell and come in close.
Inside, I removed my Nikes. She bent to remove her sandals. I stopped myself from glancing at her feet.
The inside of the house smelled like cinnamon. Sudana was cooking something, perhaps the meal for her entire family. We walked through the living room, where her school textbook was wide open on the floor, along with a few notebooks, pencils, and a pen. In a small side room with a messy desk, a telephone, and a few file cabinets, papers, and folders, a well-used soccer ball and a soiled old pair of sneakers, she invited me to sit down on a clean cloth couch. I sank in like I was a member of their family sitting in the exact same spot where any one of her brothers had sat repeatedly.
“Wait a minute, please,” she said, leaving the room swiftly and leaving her sweet scent behind her.
Thoughts of the past three days of my life raced through my mind. Early Saturday morning was the last time that I had seen my wife’s beautiful face and seductive eyes and felt her deep feeling emotions. By Saturday night she was gone. I had spent all day Sunday searching for her and Sunday night sitting with Umma being moved across continents by her true storytelling, which caused me to revisit powerful memories of our Sudanese estate, my phenomenal father, and our relatives, friends, and people. My heart became too heavy for my chest.
“I made this for you,” Sudana said, reappearing and carrying a tray and setting it on the desktop. The aroma of the food and her scent revived me. From the corner of my eye I watched her pull out a metal tray with a stand, open it up, and set on it a dish of stew with a cup of tea and aseeda.
“You seem like the kind who won’t stop to feed yourself unless someone reminds you.” She smiled and turned to leave but then stopped and added, “And when you feel tired, you really should go to sleep.”
I looked in the ceramic teacup at the unfamiliar way she had placed three tiny yellow flowers in my tea. They rested lightly on top of the hot liquid.
If I’d had the energy, I probably would have said, “No, that’s okay, I’m not hungry. I’ll wait till later to eat.” But Sudana was right. I was hungry and had forgotten to eat so far for the whole day.
She stepped out, then walked right back in carrying a warm cloth, the steam still rising up from it. She came up to me and took my right hand, wiping each finger clean and then turned my palm over and began wiping it with the warm cloth. It felt soothing and the cloth smelled like lemon. I took the cloth from her hand and then used it to clean my other hand for obvious reasons.
“Shukran,” I said to her, meaning “thank you” in Arabic.
“Enjoy” was all she said, and she turned
and left as she was supposed to.
I whispered over the food, “Allah,” then took some spoonfuls of the stew. It tasted good and was seasoned well. I couldn’t help comparing it to my Umma’s food, which is always superior. The Sudanese aseeda bread was hot the way I liked it. I dipped it in the stew and ate it moist. I gulped the tea, and it entered my body and began calming everything down.
“Now you look a little better.” Sudana had returned as I finished. “I mean you’re always so handsome, but you seemed too tired today.” The fabric of her black thobe concealed her flesh and hid her figure. Her hijab covered her hair, which I had never seen. She was not wearing niqab, so her pretty face, flawless skin—smooth as satin, bearing one black beauty mark, which gently rested over the right side of her lip—stood out more. I avoided those hazel eyes of hers, which tended to change colors, like an African wild cat’s. Unexpectedly, she walked up close, stood over me where I was seated, and then placed two fingers on the top of my head. She pressed.
It was a peaceful feeling, this sleep, like how a body rests when it feels at home and in a safe place. But I was not at home. Myself woke myself up. Now the lights in the office were dimmed. The food tray, cloth, and dishes had been removed. I leaned forward and stretched out my legs. I ran my hand over my Ceasar haircut, remembering how Sudana had touched my head. It was the last thing I felt before slipping away. I leaped up to my feet with disbelief at my own sloppiness. How could I allow myself to fall asleep in another man’s home? I knew I was responsible for the mistake. But I also knew that Sudana had worked some of her Sudanese female charms and tricks on me.
How could I be mad at her when I knew she did it for my own good? I couldn’t be. So I just stayed tight at myself.
Midnight and the Meaning of Love Page 3
