Midnight (36 page)

I thought, however, that the splendor would be when the groom finally gets to lift the veil of his wife in privacy and gets to know his peace.

Umma’s eyes moved over me carefully as I stood before her and Akemi. Then her eyes moved over Akemi as well, then back and forth like a Ping-Pong match.

“Akemi can remain with me while you go handle the business,” she said. “We have to return to The Palace for the bride’s
hennana
,” she said.

“
Hennana?”
I asked, wondering.

“It’s the party for the bride, women only. We will bathe her. I will prepare her and paint on her henna. You will see
the results tomorrow night at the wedding ceremony,” Umma said, speaking only in Arabic.

“And Akemi? I have to bring her back home to her family tonight,” I said.

“When you are finished working, return to The Palace. Phone up to the penthouse. Akemi and Naja will come down. You can take Naja along with you as you return Akemi to her home,” she said softly. No matter how gently she spoke, I knew this is how it needed to happen, no negotiations.

The smooth ride of the Lincoln town car lulled Naja to sleep. Of course she sat in between Akemi and I, falling off into Akemi’s lap the same as she would if it were Umma.

As the driver sped around the deep curves of Edgewater and up into the cliffs of Englewood, Akemi placed the palm of her hand onto the back of my neck. Through flashes of light provided by ignited signs and random street lamps, we looked into one another deeply.

Her hair was down now, falling mostly on her left shoulder. The scarf was in the palm of her left hand. Her million-dollar shoes were off. Her pretty feet rested on the car carpet. Her toes were nicely shaped, nails clear with the hint of a polished grey tint like her fingernails. Her feet looked soft and beautiful like the inside of her thighs.

Sensations were flowing through my body as she caressed my ears and touched the side of my face. The West African driver appeared oblivious to everything except the road. If she kept it up, I would not be able to stand up when the car stopped. Right now the only thing separating me from the long sermon of Imam Musa was my respect for my young sister and the wrong impression I would’ve caused if she woke up and saw me all over Akemi, giving in to my intense feelings.

I knew I could not hold on to this warm sixteen-year-old female by keeping her waiting and desiring and in a holding pattern.

Finally, parked in front of the plum tree on Honeysuckle Lane, the driver shifted gears into reverse and landed us in front of the long path to her cousin’s house, which was lit up by small metal lamps that led to the front door. The driver hopped out to open my door.

“I got it. Good looking out,” I told him, so he would get back in his seat. I got out instead and moved around the back of the car to her side. I opened the door and helped her place her pretty feet back into her shoes.

I awoke Naja to free up Akemi’s lap. She climbed out dazed and dizzy. She awakened slowly as the spring night chill alerted her senses. I extended my hand for Akemi. She came willingly.

“Pop the trunk,” I told the driver, grabbing Akemi’s shopping bag of items she had collected at the bride’s party and probably from Umma as well.

We three walked up her path quietly, Akemi’s hand held onto the back of my belt. Her body was brushing against my back with our every step.

“Nice house,” Naja said. “Are we going inside?” she asked.

“No, the driver is waiting for us. I’ll take you right back to The Palace with Umma,” I told her.

In front of the door, I reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out an engraved wedding invitation. I handed it to Akemi and said, “If you would like to come to the wedding tomorrow, I would love to see you.” I smiled at her in the dark, knowing that she could not understand. She smiled at me too.

“She doesn’t speak English. I thought you already knew,” Naja informed me.

Half a second later, her cousin pulled open the front door.

“Whose car is that?” she interrogated without a proper greeting.

“Ours,” I answered.

“It’s almost midnight,” she said. Instantly, Akemi began speaking to her softly in their language.

I interrupted them. “I have to leave now, good night,” I said.

“Good night,” her cousin said hurriedly like, “sure go.”

“The wedding is tomorrow evening. If Akemi would like to come, we can meet at The Palace in the lobby at 3:00
P.M.
We were there today. Akemi knows where it is,” I said to the cousin as I grabbed my sister’s hand to leave.

“Wedding!” her cousin raised her voice. I smiled, realizing she didn’t know.

“Not me and Akemi’s wedding tomorrow. Maybe some other day,” I teased. “Just look on the invitation. Akemi has it in her hand,” I said. “If she can’t come, it’s okay.”

The next morning at 8:00
A.M.
I was on the grounds of the wedding ceremony. In true form to Sudanese weddings, the gathering would not begin until 5:00
P.M.
, in hopes of really getting it moving by 6:00
P.M.
Sudanese are known to work hard, but when it came to celebrations and parties, the festivities started late and would go on well into the early morning.

I put in six hours, accepted the deliveries and squared the independent contractors away properly. Umma was given six or seven workers to carry out her instructions for the day. She told me and then I told them exactly what to do.

When everything was the way she wanted it, I called the car service and we were taken back to The Palace Hotel.

We needed to shower again and dress there. Our clothes were in Umma’s room, and Umma had to ride back up to the wedding with the arriving bride, after making certain she was a perfect vision.

Fawzi’s barber hit me with a fresh line up at the hotel, the last in a long line of priority heads.

The shower water refreshed me. I was feeling exhausted from the past week’s heavy workload and brief sleeps. I was glad this was our last day of service to the wedding, especially since I had only one more tailored suit. You see, no Sudanese would wear jeans, no matter how expensive they were, or kicks to a special occasion.

Fresh dressed, I pressed the button for the elevator. When
the doors opened, I got on. Standing in the corner, also riding down, was a pretty face and familiar set of eyes. It was Sudana, who served me the Sudanese sweets in the Bronx, the daughter of Mr. Ghazzali.

She moved her eyes from mine and I did the same, as was customary. She spoke.

“
Salaam
,” she said. “I saw you yesterday evening at the mosque.”

“Yes, I was working for your father,” I admitted.

“You were looking very nice for a worker.” She smiled. “And today . . .” she continued.

“Today you are looking very nice as the cousin of the groom,” I said, swiftly interrupting her compliments towards me and showering them onto her instead.

“That’s funny,” she said with a laugh. “Do you really mean it?”

The doors opened. Akemi was standing there poised to enter the elevator. She smiled brightly.

“Akemi,” I said, stepping out into the lobby.

“Nice shoes,” Sudana complimented Akemi, looking down on her authentic dark blue alligator open-toe high heels, the straps crisscrossing across her pretty feet and up her ankle. Those shoes were more than “nice.”

“She doesn’t speak English,” I told Sudana.

“Your girlfriend?” Sudana asked me with a coy half smile. She knew it was a trick question, since she and I are both Muslim and are both not allowed to date outside of a marriage.

“Friend,” I replied.

“She looks like more than a friend to me,” Sudana said comfortably, knowing that Akemi could not understand her. But looking at Akemi, I was certain that even though she could not understand the words, she could understand the moment.

“No worries,” Sudana said sweetly with a woman’s sarcasm. “We are living in America now and I have heard that in America, you can do anything, no rules.” She smiled, penetrating me with her Sudanese wildcat eyes, the rest of herself covered in a Sudanese forest green thobe, which accentuated that untamed feeling she let off.

Breaking the moment, I chose to introduce them. “Sudana, this is Akemi. Akemi, this is Sudana.”

They each said something, but both of their sets of erotic eyes were really doing all of the talking.

Just then, Akemi’s little angry translator from her uncle’s store skipped into action. “What’s going on here?” she asked, with her two fists balled up and on her hips. I was surprised to see her. She was dressed up like a sweet little princess, with a bunch of ribbons in her hair. I didn’t let her childlike looks fool me though. I knew she was a firecracker.

I put my arm around Akemi’s waist. Sudana looked at me hard and said, “See you at the wedding.”

“All right then,” was all I said.

I took Akemi and her cousin up to Umma before the rumor spread that I was embracing a female in the lobby.

“
Mayonaka
,” Akemi placed her hands gently on the little girl’s shoulders, “Saachi,” she said, introducing us.

“
Konichiwa
, Saachi,” I said.

“You know I speak English,” the little girl said with attitude.

“You’re right,” I said.

“And you should thank me,” the little girl pushed.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because without me, Akemi wouldn’t even be here today. My father said—” Akemi’s hand was over Saachi’s mouth. It was the only thing that stopped Saachi from talking since she appeared in the hotel lobby.

She knelt down to the little girl’s height level. The curve
of Akemi’s legs pressed against her soft silk wave skirt, which covered most of her legs but was cut on a seductive angle. I admired the deep blue authentic alligator sash that crossed over her soft ruffled blue blouse, and held her alligator-skinned knapsack in place on her back. It matched her shoes exactly. She must have gone shopping in that vault at Bergdorf’s, I thought to myself.

I couldn’t overlook that she had covered her hair today. She wore a deep blue Hermès silk scarf tied tight to hold in her thick hair. Somehow, with some scissors, I figured, she had shaped the extra material into the shape of a flower blossom, a head wrap unlike anything I had ever seen. Her sense of style was unique, attractive, and flawless.

She spoke Japanese to the little girl. Whatever she told her, the little girl made a mean face at first but then straightened up.

I really didn’t want to cause Akemi any problems with her family. Yet I had been working so hard over these past few days and that was what I had to concentrate on, to complete the job and reap the reward for Umma and my family.

Naja was excited to meet Saachi. Saachi greeted and treated Naja better than I had seen her treat anyone else. I escorted them to Umma. I left them, all my ladies, there together.

I got right back into work mode.

There is this sound that Sudanese women make with the waving of their tongue that causes everyone everywhere to stop, listen, and take notice. I had not heard it in seven years. I was hearing it now. Not from one woman, but six hundred females from the youngest to the eldest, tongues waving a shrilling high sound. The wedding was about to begin.

The piercing call of the women brought on the frantic
drumming from the men. The scent of Umma’s perfumes and elixirs intoxicated the air. Lemongrass was used to repel the insects. Sandalwood and jasmine were to lure the people and hold them there.

There was an explosion of colors, every shade, pattern, and blend imaginable except red and gold, which was traditionally reserved for the bride. The Sudanese women were the only ones more beautiful than the ten thousand gardenias, orchids, and roses, which were hanging, sprinkled, and dangling everywhere.

The Sudanese men, tall, strong, and adorned in fabulous fabrics, some with turbans, some with kufis, some bareheaded, moved in the procession with an excited coolness. It was an army, I thought to myself. Yet I wondered where they all had come from, and why were so many of them living here in America now. I smiled, realizing that only a wedding could draw them out in these great numbers. Otherwise, these proud Sudanese men would all be hardworking, hidden, anonymous and invisible to everyone except their families because of the way we tend to separate ourselves from anything unfamiliar. Still, we were all here living in America gathered at a wedding, enjoying yet wishing we were back home, I’m sure.

No one except Umma could have created a beautiful Sudanese village right there in Westchester. The sea of genuinely happy and excited people opened up under the curved tent that was the size of half of an American football field. It was not a standard white tent. The inside walls were adorned with red, yellow, and gold murals, painted with passion by the two Iranian and two Sudanese painters. The explosion of colorful art made an already warm evening feel warmer and extremely welcoming.

As the drumming eased down to a soft simmer, the people sat down in waves, some in chairs, some on stools,
many on the huge royal red carpet, which stretched across the lawn.

Sixteen young Sudanese teen girls decked in tangerine thobes sang a song of prayer all together, their voices filled with emotion. Their hands were wrapped around thick circular gold candles. Hot wax gathered in a small pool at the top of each candle yet below the flickering flame.

Sixteen young Sudanese males all dressed in brown and gold recited the
Fatiha
all at once.

The bride appeared, shimmering. She stood out like Sirius, the brightest star in the universe. The intricate gold embroidery brocade that lined her royal red thobe was unmatched. The red sheer cloth, which draped over her hair and body, had the gold beadwork carefully placed to highlight her beauty. On her face were a line of gold beads that stretched across her forehead featuring her exquisite green eyes which were outlined with black kohl. Her cinnamon skin color was a perfect canvas for Umma’s artwork.

She tilted her head downward and placed one hand over her face. Her fingers, hands, and palms now revealed the elegance of Umma’s carefully drawn henna. Her wrist was glistening with the ten diamond bangles, which not one of three thousand eyes failed to notice. Prisms of colors sparkled from them and were dancing throughout the crowd. Her other hand, down at her side, jingled with ten twenty-four-karat gold bangles, which were banging also.