My father was not really a smoker, but he did smoke socially. He had a smoking room on our estate reserved for men. Many of his business, civil, and Islamic brothers gathered in this room to indulge.
The second gift was inside a maroon velvet box with a gold clasp. It was another homemade specialty, a crystal bottle filled with Umma’s perfume elixir. The bottle was slim and short, containing only an ounce of the potion, which was so strong a woman need only use half a drop. It was hypnotic, this stuff. I remember even in my childhood finding myself following the trail of this scent when it was worn by one or two of my Umma’s friends.
Both gifts were normally reserved for our customers who placed an order of three hundred dollars or more. Once a client received their special order of handmade cloths and garments, along with one of these elegant gifts, they became a customer of ours forever.
The third gift I picked out and purchased for Akemi. It was less powerful than Umma’s well-thought-out magic. I brought Akemi a Walkman and a Japanese language tape that she could listen to and, lesson by lesson, slowly learn how to speak English from a Japanese professor. I thought that right now this was what Akemi needed most. Of course, there was some selfishness in it too.
At Akemi’s family business, they had a storefront, where items were for sale right outside the store door underneath a small, extended canopy. One of their workers always stood out there. I had first seen Akemi standing there. They served most customers outside. The customers asked for this or that, then paid and bounced with their purchases.
Once you got past the worker outside and the merchandise and entered through the glass store door, the whole vibe switched up to a family thing.
When I passed by their worker who was leaving and entered their store at seven that evening, I saw Akemi’s uncle’s body jerk, the way every shop owner trembles when a young, strong, Black man enters the door around closing time. Instantly, I noticed a pile of shoes off to the left of the entrance where I stood, so I removed my shoes also.
The aunt and uncle were in there standing, not sitting. They were both dressed plainly and conservatively. He wore gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a blue vest. She wore a pantsuit, a whole lot of polyester. They were both wearing thick prescription reading type glasses.
The little girl with the spicy attitude who Akemi had translating for her the other day jumped off a low stool where she was sitting and scooted into a back room. Seconds later Akemi emerged.
She addressed her aunt and uncle in Japanese, of course, very respectfully and without a smile on her face. I didn’t have a clue what she was saying to them, except for one word she used, tomadochi, which I knew means “friend.”
When Akemi stopped speaking, her aunt dragged out a piece of a smile, then quickly covered it up with the palm of her hand. Her uncle stood stone-faced. The only thing moving was his eyeballs.
I greeted both of them in Japanese. Their reaction to my effort to speak their language was like what happens when a kid tries but fails to tie a knot at the end of a balloon. I could almost hear a small whistle of breath escaping slowly from both of them. They released some but not all of their tension, which was thick like pound cake.
In Japanese, they returned my greeting without any emotion. Even Akemi stood somewhat blank faced, watching. I lifted up the bag with the gifts. I handed a gift to the uncle, then to her aunt, and next to Akemi. The little girl pouted. I guess she felt left out. However, I did not know she was part of their family and still didn’t know where and how she fit in.
“My parents speak some English. Why don’t you say something to them?” the little girl said in her spicy American tone, as if she was snitching on her mom and dad.
“I’m a friend of Akemi’s. I work four stores down at the fish market. I wanted to have this chance to meet you, so that you would know who I am. These gifts are from my family, to your family.”
“Thank you for the gifts,” the aunt said dryly in English.
“How do you know Akemi?” the uncle asked in English with a heavy accent.
“We met here in Chinatown,” I answered.
“Are you a college student?” he asked.
“No. I am high school age,” I answered, avoiding any pitfalls.
“What do you want?” the uncle asked boldly in an even tone.
“She and I are friends. So I thought it would be best if I knew you and you knew me. In my country, we do not avoid our friends’ parents,” I added.
“What country is your country?” he asked with a tone of disbelief, as though he had assumed that I was one of the countless men with no homeland, culture, or language. When I answered him, I watched his face muscles, intensity, and suspicion lessen another few degrees.
The relaxing of his face was a good sign that Akemi also picked up on. She smiled naturally. Then swiftly, she made her smile disappear. She began speaking to them softly once more in Japanese.
The tight encounter ended with one head shake from the uncle. After looking him in his eyes, I switched to Akemi. She didn’t have to tell me that she couldn’t come out with me tonight like I wanted and she requested. It was written on her face. Matter of fact, it was written on all of their faces.
I broke the strange staring contest and said, “Oyasuminasai,” which means “Good night.”
Umma laughed when I reenacted their cold stares and the stiff situation at the store for her at home.
“You see, this is what I have been pointing out to you,” she said, her eyes bright and beautiful and smile so genuine. “If you go outside, you can find a thousand stones on the ground. They are lying around everywhere. You can just pick any one of them up anytime and put it right into your pocket, or throw it back onto the ground. Or do whatever you like with it. It has no value, so no one cares. But when a stone is a precious jewel, it is surrounded and protected. You’ll have to work very hard to earn it and even harder to keep it for yourself.”
After she and Naja had their fun with my situation, Umma assured me, “Don’t worry. The perfume I have given to the aunt is very influential. If she applies it once, slowly, it will grow on her. Soon she will love it. When she doesn’t wear it, her own husband will request that she put some on.” Umma smiled knowingly. I listened, fascinated.
“The sterling-silver cigarette case I gave to the uncle contained twelve Sudanese bidis. Akemi’s uncle will smoke the first one out of curiosity.” Umma stood joking and posing as though she was smoking the bidi and was enraptured in its taste and scent.
“Soon enough his case will become empty.” She frowned as though she were the uncle, out of bidis.
“He will have to come to you for more. There is no place else for him to go to get the exact same taste, fragrance, and feeling. He will have to return to you.” She stood with her arms now extended and smiling.
Listening to Umma, the sound of her voice and depth of her thoughts and her dramatic theatrics, I was amazed by how every day she revealed more and more sides of herself. Her knowledge was gentle and her light humor seemed endless. Yet when I stared into her face, she still seemed very young and naive.
Without ever meeting Akemi or Akemi’s family, she had chosen gifts that she knew would have an impact, and how they would impact. She had given gifts that she knew would linger and rebound.
My father was a scientist with a pile of university degrees. My Umma was a scientist of human nature, without having earned anyone’s documents of approval.
In my room I hit the books for a couple of hours, unusual for me on a Saturday night.
Later that night when the sewing machine stopped and I could hear nothing but silence and the breathing of my sister and mother, I stepped out, locked our apartment door, and headed to the basketball court and hooped.
16
SUDANA
The smell of chopped peppers, garlic, onions, and tomatoes plus several secret ingredients of Umma’s filled our apartment on early Sunday afternoon. After a great meal, Naja and I walked to the store
to pick up various Sunday newspapers. When we returned, Umma excitedly announced, “Leave your shoes on. I have a chance to take some measurements from the family members of the wedding party.”
“On a Sunday?” Naja asked Umma.
“I know. It’s a rush job. Because of everyone’s schedule, so many of us working two jobs, it turns out that Sunday is our best option. I just got the call from Yaella. The earlier I get these measurements done, the more comfortable they will feel. One of the women even works on Sundays. Now her sister says I have less than two hours to get over to the Bronx to take her measurements before the woman is off to work again.”
Naja and I listened and waited. Umma spoke as she rushed around.
Ever since Naja was born, Sunday in our apartment was reserved as family day. The rule is, no matter what we do, we do it together on Sundays. Usually, we relax at home, reading, listening to music, or conversing with one another. In the spring and summers, we go to the park or to a special event that’s of interest to us. On crunch time, Umma sews and Naja and I remain in the apartment along with her, doing one of our own hobbies. I never minded family day. Sometimes it was the only day where we could catch some real rest. Sundays slowed me down.
Once we arrived on our new Sudanese customer’s Bronx block, without even looking at the numbers on the small houses I assumed their house was the white one with the aluminum siding and green trimming. It was the only house on the block with a gate around it. I knew if a Sudanese-born man came to this country along with his family, once he got a good look at the crazy Americans and the way that they live, his first priority would be to protect his family. Placing a gate around his property was a small way to separate or distinguish his loved ones from the influence and lifestyles of their American neighbors.
As we walked down the length of their block, my prediction turned out to be true.
“A-Salaama Alaikum,” the voice came from the other side of the fence before we even reached to push the gate open. A Sudanese youth around seventeen years young with a soccer ball in his hand greeted all of us as he opened the gate and welcomed us in. A second, older son also ran up. They were all smiles, the sincere way people back home greeted one another. I had lost that all-day, automatic natural smile years ago, and now greeted most males with suspicion instead.
Their father welcomed us through their front door. Like many Sudanese men he was tall. Brown skinned, he had the nappy curls of a North African male. He embraced me, which was customary. At first I felt uncomfortable. When I’m holding I don’t fuck around with no hugging.
Then I felt a warmth from my past, where men in a family and even in a neighborhood were all each other’s security and not opponents. Where a man greeted a next man warmly and genuinely without even an ounce of perversion.
Most important, their father was respectful to Umma, and praised her reputation and good works. He kept a respectful distance and a proper gaze and immediately brought forth his wife, who whisked Umma away to some rooms in the back of their home.
In an open area up front, he invited me to sit with him and his sons. Almost immediately a young daughter arrived to collect my jacket. She was covered from head to toe. I didn’t even look directly at her. I did watch the direction in which she carried my jacket. I watched her hang it up in a closet, then close the door. Now that I knew where she was headed with it, I felt relieved. I wouldn’t want her to find anything in my pockets that she could hurt herself or anybody else with by accident.
While Mr. Salim Ahmed Amin Ghazzali was there, we spoke only in Arabic, really a familiar Sudanese Arabic Creole.
“Business has been good for you and your family,” he asked.
“It’s building slowly,” I responded truthfully.
“No, son, it was not a question. I know your business is good because I have heard and seen so many good things about Umma Designs.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Allah has blessed me to own two taxis. So I meet a lot of people in this city. One day I collected a very smartly dressed woman from Kenya. I recognized through my rearview mirror right away that she was wearing cloths with a Sudanese design and influence. I wanted to know, but did not want to ask her. Then I thought about the fact that my wife would surely want to know where she bought such nice materials. The Kenyan woman spoke so highly of Umma Designs, yet she did not have your business card available and could not remember the telephone number by heart.
“I thought to myself, ‘Hey, that’s how it goes. You pick up a passenger once and never see them again! If you don’t get whatever information you might need from them right then and there, you lose out.’ Believe it or not, this happened to me a few times with your company. After the third time, I looked up Umma Designs in the telephone directory, planning to order a gift for my wife. Eventually I dialed up 411. But, nothing!” He smiled, holding his hands up. He was one of those men who spoke with his hands.
“It’s a small family business with excellent products and services. We haven’t expanded as of yet. We have more than enough customers so far. Your account is very important to us. We are certain that you will be more than pleased with everything that Umma Designs has to offer,” I said slowly and thoughtfully.
“E-Wallah!” he said, gesturing with his hands at his sons. “Well said! Are you boys listening? If I could only get the two of you to represent me like this young man represents his family business,” he said, impressed.
“In the taxi business, father?” his older son asked. “But you have sent us off to school!” the older son respectfully defended.
“Yes, but there is after school,” the father replied sternly.
“We must study, father. Even you have said this,” the older son reminded him.
“We do work for you on Saturdays, father,” the young son added.
“No matter! Your father will work four jobs, drive two cabs all at once, as long as all six of my children become doctors, lawyers, and engineers. Where do you go to school, son?” He turned his conversation toward me.
It was his first in a series of questions he hurled my way. I remained respectful and elusive. Each time I guided the conversation back to the business at hand, collecting the necessary information for his nephew’s wedding. And, of course, working my way toward the required five-thousand-dollar deposit.
While their father spoke, his sons were almost completely quiet and obedient in his presence. In our tradition, a son cherishes his father. The most important thing a son can do after submitting to Allah is to listen to and obey his father and work very hard to become worthy of the father’s love and acknowledgment.
I understood these two sons.
One of them had on red pants. The other was wearing orange pants. They better hurry up and figure out how to get with the New York styles, I thought to myself. They could not play behind the gate of their house forever. They would never be able to mix or survive in these hoods wearing bright colored pants, tight T-shirts, and bootleg sneakers. If the wrong niggas caught them in the wrong neighborhood, the first beatdown would be based on style alone, separate from whatever else the attackers wanted to steal or do them. They were easy targets.
Less than half an hour in, another sister appeared, fully wrapped in a mustard-colored thobe. She was a pretty teenaged girl named Sudana, who had beautifully shaped eyes, colored like an African wildcat’s, hazel with a deep dark-brown perimeter. All I could see were her eyes and her smooth and flawless skin, the type that our women had from eating olives and dates and other natural foods. Her hair was completely covered. The whites of her eyes were brilliant white, just like her perfect teeth. Her slim fingers were wrapped around a wooden serving tray, which she placed in front of me, offering in English, “Would you like coffee, tea, or a cold drink?” all of which she carried in on the tray along with Sudanese sweets. I was not hungry. But I could not refuse her.
She reminded me of the incomparable beauty of Umma’s female friends back home. They used to visit her
on our estate, and because I was just a child, they would unwrap themselves, some removing their veils and relaxing in my presence. They underestimated me because of my youth. Yet I studied them and noticed every single detail and difference in each one of them—their eyes and even the length of their eyelashes, the curve of their cheeks and lips, the length of their necks, and the shape of their shoulders. I could even push it further and reveal to you that sometimes I closed my eyes and challenged myself to identify each one of them by their scent alone.
I developed a careful eye for feminine elegance. The way a jeweler could pluck just one clear diamond out of a fistful of flaws, I could look at tens and hundreds of women, I thought, and choose one whose cut, shape, and quality were superb on the outside, and clean and clear on the inside. For me, with observing and being attracted to females, everything mattered and measured: the look, the voice and sound, the rhythm of the walk, the manners of expression, the balance between modesty and beauty, the depth of the conversation, the words she spoke and the way she spoke them, the feeling of her presence, the depth of her concern and admiration for me, the way she interacted with my friends and family, and simple things like what she actually did with her life from day to day.
From being born Muslim, African, and Sudanese, I learned to enjoy seeing less of a woman and imagining more. So that in America when a woman shows me too much, or is too fast and too obvious, or too empty, it kills the power of her mystery, freezes my imagination, and poisons my natural attraction.
Some of the American girls seemed to think I was cold. But like a jeweler, I was a hundred percent certain when I was seeing something fake, flawed, or cheap. And I was not attracted to it, even though it might have one or two good parts.
I liked seeing Sudana. She made me feel at home. She was subtle, sweet, and careful, not a high-powered vacuum cleaner like the American girls who came at me all day long, titties first and ass out, nice looking but way too much way too quick, only to find out she’s really nothing at all.
Midnight Page 16