Midnight (30 page)

“I saw Akemi. I went to her uncle and aunt’s home in New Jersey, a very nice place. But the aunt and uncle were not there,” I said. Then I explained about the aunt being a surgeon, and the uncle being away on work. I knew that Umma would disapprove of my visit to Akemi’s family’s home without the elders being present. I knew she would look down on the elders for allowing it. Then Umma responded with one of her truth-filled bombs.

“Not everyone in the world believes the same beliefs,” she said. “But I know that what we believe is true. Allah has given us a way of doing everything. It is a way that is right for any people who want what is best for everyone over what they may think is best for only themselves.”

“I’ll get you some water,” I said, walking to the kitchen to keep my brain from exploding.

I came back with two glasses of water, both filled with ice. I thought of my father, who never took ice in any drink. He disliked ice and air conditioners or anything like
that. In one-hundred-degree weather, he seemed to feel cool and easy.

“She can come,” Umma said, bringing me back to the here and now.

“Who?” I asked, blindsided.

“Akemi. We will let her see what we believe and how we live at the signing of the
agid
. We will watch and wait and see how she feels about it,” Umma said.

What could I do besides agree with Umma? Of course I wanted to see Akemi as much as possible.

“So, the two of you were alone in her uncle’s house?” Umma asked.

“No. Akemi’s grandmother, cousin, and her two brothers, and two of their friends were there too,” I said truthfully, but feeling like I had just lied.

“Very well,” Umma said, returning her attention to her work.

In Naja’s room, the lime-green lights of her alarm clock read 1:15
A.M.
She was asleep under one sheet and one very light blanket with her quilt turned down at the foot of her bed. Her bookbag was packed and placed in the corner as usual. The glow-in-the-dark stars and crescents on her bedroom ceiling were all lit up. Everything was good with her. So I closed her door.

“Naja has been saying that she needs to spend more time with you. I reminded her that we are all working hard when we are away from home,” Umma said.

“On Sunday I will keep her right by my side. I’ll make her feel special, even when I’m working,” I promised.

In my bedroom after my shower, I turned the volume down and pushed the button to play my voice mails. I wrote down the new business inquiries and contacts into a small notebook I used.

Ameer’s familiar and excited voice was the last message. It
came through at a greater volume than everyone else’s voice.

“Wednesday night, you, me, Chris, and the girls. Say no, and I swear I’ll bring all three of them to the dojo. Hit me back. You know the digits.”
Click.

I looked at the clock, realizing how few hours I actually had remaining before I would have to wake up and hit the pavement.

I lay still, surrounded by darkness. Akemi’s pretty eyes came to mind. I thought about her touch. For me she was more than a sexual desire, although that desire was strong and real and growing stronger with each day. I liked her whole style, admired her talent, respected her thoughts, and was completely drawn in to the way she went about showing me love too. I felt a genuine love growing that was never within me for any person outside of my family. It was a completely new and different kind of love and a real good feeling.

I felt possessive over her. I wondered what she was doing right then. I wondered how long Rob and Dave stayed in the house along with her. I wondered if she was talking with that fool Rob or not. I wondered if she was talking to any man, period, who wasn’t her blood relation. It all mattered to me now, and really, I wanted her right here by my side.

I heard my doorknob turning.

Umma was standing there now, stepping halfway into my darkness, and halfway remaining in her light.

“I wanted you to know that there is a reason why in our faith we hold back from making love until we are married,” she said softly.

I was thinking to myself,
How can it be possible for her to know even my unspoken intimate and private thoughts?

“Once a man has knowledge of a woman’s body, almost nothing or no one can stop him from seeking that pleasure over and over again. You should not pretend that you are the
first man in the world to be feeling what you are feeling right now. You have to acknowledge that there were millions of men who lived before your life was even a thought. The outcome of your feelings and experiences is already clear. Your lovemaking will bring forth new life. New life is a beautiful blessing, but should be brought forth into a complete family, a mother and father, a husband and wife, and both of their families also. New life should come
after
the union of marriage is secured. Allah requires this from us, and Allah is the best knower of all things. Allah has arranged it, that if the believers follow true to the Quran, they will experience better lives.

“Don’t be stupid like the American boys, who pretend to be shocked when their women become pregnant, and then run far away. Never accept women like the American girls who have sex with anyone, then make all of their babies disappear.”

A silence fell.

“What about condoms?” I asked. My eyes and embarrassment were both shielded by the darkness of my room. I wished I were talking to my father right now instead of Umma. I remembered Ameer’s father’s advice about sex and condoms.

“Do you think you will stop your feelings each and every time to put one on?” she asked me comfortably.

“It will be easy for you to do if you don’t know, don’t love, and don’t trust the girl who you are with. But where there is real love and deep feelings, it will feel too good. You’ll go in naturally over and over again and natural life will be born.

“What then?” she asked, still leading the conversation. “Are you prepared to marry and bring forth new life with this girl? Is she the one for you, for us? Or will you touch her, then abandon her, like the men in this country who abandon their families so easily?”

I knew that what Umma was saying and asking me to consider was right. And I knew that whatever I chose to do meant the world to her. But, at that moment, I felt like five different things—a boy, a man, a Muslim, an African, and a son trying to grow up in America without being fucked up like everybody else.

Fawzi pulled out his brown Dunhill wallet and flipped it open. There were eight slots inside. I checked out that each of the eight slots carried credit cards, beginning with his American Express Black card.

The Indian jeweler whose genuine dark gold and elegantly designed, thick, wide bangles we selected was patient and pleasant but firm. He was the sixth jeweler we had visited that day. We left the arrogant Arabs in Brooklyn. We fled from the jive Jews in Manhattan and landed in Queens with the dark man from India, who understood how to take his customers into the back room and line his bangles up on a soft black velvet cloth, unafraid that we were gonna jump up and scream, “This is a holdup, motherfucker. Get on the floor.”

Of course he had an armed guard in his place who was definitely another Indian, I guessed, probably one of his cousins. But I respected that.

“Discount is always possible with cash. Cash is always good,” he said, smiling swiftly and rocking his head from side to side the way Indians tend to do. Then, he pulled back to seriousness.

Each gold bangle cost somewhere in the vicinity of six hundred dollars. Fawzi had selected ten bangles, each with a different design. I had already pushed the jeweler to apply a ten percent discount because of the quantity of the purchase.
The total price tag for the twenty-four-karat gold bangles was now at fifty-four hundred dollars.

The ten diamond bracelets that Fawzi then selected cost somewhere in the vicinity of six thousand dollars for each one. I sat blank-faced but in shock of how easily Fawzi made decisions. I wondered if the jeweler really expected us to spread almost sixty-five thousand dollars in cash onto his glass counter.

“Easy,” Fawzi told the jeweler. “You have already applied the ten-percent discount for my overall purchase. So I don’t mind paying the tax for the jewels. I will also need a receipt. I will have everything appraised and insured in any case.” He slid his black card onto the counter. Before the Indian jeweler could cast any doubt, he slid his driver’s license next to the card.

I saw that both Fawzi’s and his father’s name were on his credit card.

The jeweler ran his credit.

It was only then that I felt fucked up. Not about Fawzi, but about myself. I mean, I was seated there with a pocket filled with my own hard-earned cash. But Fawzi had legitimacy and backup.

He was in the position I should be in easily, a son fully set up and financed by his father. A son who still studied hard and worked nonstop and pushed hard to make his own name in this world. He must love this woman a lot, I thought. Even if his father is backing up his spending, it was still a lot of paper to drop in one sitting.

As the jeweler cleaned and boxed the jewels and prepared the paperwork, Fawzi turned to me and said, “I think you are right. My new wife is going to love these jewels more than she loves me.” He smiled.

He was wearing a tan leisure suit and hard shoes. He was much more confident and laid back than I had expected. He
could flow in Arabic, English, or Sudanese Creole, although he spoke English the majority of the time.

The jeweler returned with the cases, opened them one last time to reassure us. He closed them, locked the clasp on each of the boxes, and placed each case into one black velvet sack. He put the sack inside a gold-embossed shopping bag. He asked, “Do you need an escort to your car?” He glanced at his armed guard.

“No, we’re good,” I stood up and answered for Fawzi. I took the shopping bag, turning to Fawzi and saying, “Let me carry this for you.”

“Don’t try to get away,” Fawzi joked. “You are probably much faster than me, but I am a long-distance runner. Way after you run your fastest race and run out of breath, I’ll keep coming and find you wherever you’re at.” He laughed. I didn’t.

“And when you catch up with me, what will you do?” I asked him solemnly. I saw he felt a wave of intimidation. He was six feet. I was six one.

“Lighten up. I’m just joking. My uncle told me that you are the perfect businessman, solid, reliable. I trust you,” Fawzi said, still smiling. I remembered then how comfortable money, family, and status makes a male youth feel. I relaxed some.

I had about fifty questions I wanted to ask him. He was twenty-four years old, I calculated from the birth date on his driver’s license. He was only ten years older than me. He must have felt some of my same feelings about a female, or gone through some of my similar situations.

He was already fully established. He was from my country and my religion. Maybe he could tell me something different than the shit that everyone else here was talking that didn’t sound right in my ear.

I wanted to know if he was fucking these American girls while he was living up in Massachusetts. Or if he was
waiting until marriage the way Muslim men and women are supposed to do. I wanted to know if he kept one secret girlfriend up there with him. And, if he did, what would he do with her after his wedding? Would he cut her off? Did he love her? What did his father require from him?

I knew I needed to think before I spoke. I knew I had to put my words together right to ask about women, marriage, and personal things that every young man wants to know and should learn from his own father. I knew this would probably be the last time that I saw Fawzi, alone and man to man. After this, he would be swept up into a wedding whirlwind and beginning his new life.

Outside, we walked. He suggested McDonald’s. I think he thought it was for my benefit. I laughed and directed him into a nearby Thai restaurant. It was 4:30
P.M.
now. I had just enough time to have an early dinner with him, then deliver him and the jewels to his father.

Before we were seated, I placed a call to his uncle, Mr. Salim Ahmed Amin Ghazzali, the one who hired us for the wedding and paid out the deposit. I gave him the address of the restaurant so that he would send a car to pick both of us up.

“If Fawzi locates and purchases the jewels today, give us a call at once. We don’t want him walking the streets or riding the train with the jewels. We’ll send a car to wherever you are,” Mr. Ghazzali had instructed me in advance.

I had insisted that it wasn’t necessary. Mr. Ghazzali insisted that it was.

When I went to join Fawzi at our table, he was surrounded by the smoke from his cigarette and finishing off his Singha, a brand of Thai beer. I figured this was what Umma and his Auntie Temirah had been discussing concerning Fawzi’s “losing his tradition,” because Muslims don’t drink alcohol.

I didn’t say nothing about it.

“How long have you been living in America?” I asked him, taking my seat.

“Let’s see. I completed my B.S. and master’s degree in five years at MIT. My Ph.D. took only two years at Harvard, that’s seven years.”

“Before that, were you living in the Sudan?” I asked.

“No. I did boarding school in Switzerland,” he said, matter-of-factly.

The waiter interrupted. We placed our orders. “And bring me another beer,” Fawzi told him.

“So how was it being away from Sudan? Did you like it better?” I asked.

“I do as my father says. When he sent me to a European boarding school I was twelve years old. I graduated at the top of my class and got recruited on a full, five-year master’s program scholarship to attend MIT at age seventeen. By the time I was twenty-one, I’d graduated MIT and got recruited by a military firm in Massachusetts while completing my Ph.D. at Harvard. Now I’ve been hired by a firm here in New York and am set to get started working there next month. Not bad, right?” he asked, smiling and tapping his next cigarette on the tabletop, then lighting it up.