Jiro asked me, “Tell us, how did you meet my cousin Akemi?”
“I work in Chinatown.”
“That’s really cool,” Kano said and Jiro agreed.
Just as things was flowing easy, the kid Rob, who I figured was about seventeen years young or so, said some slick shit to me.
“So, you’re dating Akemi? You’re lucky, man. I been trying to talk to her ever since I first met her a few months back. I ended up with nothing.” He was smiling and holding his arms stretched apart as though he couldn’t understand his failure to attract her.
“You want to run one?” I asked him.
“Who me?” he said, just like a coward.
“Yeah. You and me, one on one.” I threw the ball at him. “Check,” I said. The other three backed off the court.
I humiliated him. I never let him shoot the ball. I smacked down all of his shots as soon as he tried to put them up. I stripped him, made him run around chasing a ball he could not see or catch. I knocked him over, then stuck my hand out to help him up. At eighteen points to zero he got tired of the beating and begged, “Enough.”
I gave him a pound and said with a smile, “Good game, man.”
His friends tried to hold it back, but they ended up laughing at him and looking at me with amazement. It was not like I felt good about it. It was easy for me to dominate them on the court, even without my kicks on.
Just then I noticed Akemi watching me through a window. Then I couldn’t see her anymore.
I thought to myself, it’s bullshit for people who can’t play the game and don’t love the game to have season tickets. Meanwhile, in our hoods, the game is pumping through our veins and living in our hearts, yet most will never get to go to the Garden, much less sit in the seats right on the floor.
“Let’s get some waters,” Kano said. We all followed him to his kitchen. He grabbed the waters from a stainless steel refrigerator that was filled with bottled waters. He tossed them across the room to each of us. I finished off mine and asked for the bathroom. Jiro pointed the way, which I remembered anyway from their sister’s tour.
I washed my hands and face in a sink shaped like a large dish. It was made of marble. I stood still a moment, thinking.
When I returned to the kitchen, Akemi and her cousin were standing there. For some reason, the dude Rob was in the kitchen too, even though Jiro, Kano, and Dave had moved on. He said to me, “You was gone a long time,” and smiled slyly.
Rob was one of those dudes who could never survive in Brooklyn. The type who never learns how to play his position and shut the fuck up until he’s bleeding from his mouth. He was their guest. Yet he carried himself like he was the man of their house, having too many words to say about every small or large situation.
Akemi pulled me out of where my energy was moving. I followed her to the other side of the backyard, up some stone steps, and into a private area under a trellis.
There were vines and plants hanging down from overhead, and on three sides, plants made walls where there really were none. Only one side remained open and was clear to see in and out.
It was breezy. Akemi had the small barbecue going. She had sliced and placed chunks of salmon on sticks with onions and green peppers with seasonings. She was turning the sticks now but I could tell they were cooked and ready.
The outdoor table was arranged with love. There were miniature dishes of sauces and spices, carefully placed. There were green porcelain rectangular plates of varying sizes, a table offering salads and vegetables, and steaming brown rice in a rice cooker. There were two black metal kettles, one filled with soup, the other with tea. After I looked at everything I looked at her. She was waiting for my reaction. I smiled and then sat. She smiled, relaxed, and served.
The spoons and even her maroon glazed wooden chopsticks were beautiful. It was a table with nothing ordinary to offer. I could tell she wasn’t sure what I would eat, so she had prepared a lot of simple but thoughtful choices. I liked it all.
Her fingers wrapped around her chopsticks. Her nails today were clean with only a coat of transparent gloss. She stared at me while she chewed. Her stupid transistor radio was playing piano tunes. Her taste in music was obviously diverse, same as my father’s.
The meal she served didn’t weigh me down. It was light and satisfying. Afterward, I pulled out my candies and spread about nine of them across her table and pointed for her to choose one. I wanted to know what kind of flavors she liked.
She picked them up one by one and looked each of them over, but didn’t select.
I opened the Hershey’s kiss and held it to her mouth. She bit the tip. Then she went through each of the eight pieces of candy and licked each one, sucking her own tongue afterward to bring down the flavor. I guessed she was looking for the right taste, but at the same time she was driving my blood up.
She licked the caramel twice, but settled on the honey. She took it in her mouth and kept it. She took my hand. She said one word, “Go.”
I think she meant “Come.” I picked up the caramel candy that she had licked. Caramel had always been my first choice. I followed her. We stepped around the trellis. She disappeared into a path behind it and into the woods behind her cousin’s house.
We walked for about six and a half minutes before I saw an easel and a chair off to my left. I realized she must come out here sometimes to paint. I could see why. There was nothing out there but the beauty and sounds of nature, no humans, except for us.
Surprisingly, she turned to the right, walking away from the easel. She stopped in front of an old oak tree with deep roots, a huge wide trunk, and branches that stretched to the sky forever. The new spring leaves were every shade of green.
She leaned up against the tree. She locked her eyes onto mine. She started speaking Japanese to me. She placed her palms underneath my T-shirt. When her skin touched my skin my whole body heated up. I stepped in to her. I put my hands on her shoulders, then moved them down her bare arms. She caught goose bumps and began breathing intensely. I locked my fingers into hers.
She brought both our hands up to her breasts. She unraveled her fingers from mine, then dropped her hands to her sides. My hands were still there on her breasts, the size of mangoes. I began to caress and gently squeeze her titties. Her nipples raised up through the denim. She breathed even louder. I leaned in and kissed her, still touching her titties. It was lips to lips at first. Little by little her mouth opened. She licked my lip. My tongue found her tongue. She began sucking my tongue like she wanted to have all of the caramel for herself, like she wanted to consume me inside of her mouth. It felt so good. I picked her up to hold her closer to my body, to feel her. Eye to eye, I held her in my arms, her butt seated in my hands, her back up against the tree, her bare legs wrapped around my waist. She rubbed my head. Even my scalp was on fire. She touched my face, my chin, my neck.
I began sucking her neck. She started moaning softly. Soon she was back to suck on me too. Her body gave in to the feeling. The taut grip of her legs loosened. Soon enough we were both on the grassy ground, her legs slightly open in her short blue denim dress. Her chest heaved up and down like she just completed a strenuous marathon.
She sat up, pulled her body to the tree and leaned up against it. I sat up beside her. We tried our best to slow it down. But she took my hand back into her hand. She was massaging my fingers. I ran my other hand up the inside of her thigh. I had never felt anything so soft and so good. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were so excited, wide and beautiful. Her left leg was shaking some. I couldn’t believe the power of my touch, but her breathing and moaning made it true.
Under her dress, I could feel her panties. They were the only thing that separated me from her bush, which I could feel raised up through the very thin material. I didn’t try to pull them off. I just touched the outside, rode the contour of her body with my fingers, gently exploring. Her moistness soaked through almost immediately. She whispered only one English word, “Please.”
Her cousin’s voice interrupted something so sweet and powerful and yanked me out of the momentum of something so new and incredible. Reluctantly I stood up and held out my hand so that she could grab on to me and hurry and get up too. Akemi tried to pull me closer on to her. She didn’t want me to stop. I definitely didn’t want to stop either but her cousin’s voice was drawing closer.
Her cousin shouted out some words in Japanese. Akemi answered back in Japanese. She turned around and said, “Go.” I knew she meant “Come.”
I jogged behind her the seven minutes back to her house.
In the cool corridor of the house, her cousin was looking both of us over. The light was dim but even I noticed the purple passion mark I left on Akemi’s neck. I wanted everybody else and everything else to disappear for a while. Then I would pursue my passions and put my marks all over Akemi’s body. Instead, I took a deep breath and looked away from my attraction.
Her and Akemi kept talking back and forth. The telephone rang. Her cousin looked at her and without words her eyes instructed Akemi to answer the phone. Akemi picked up the telephone. Her voice switched into respect mode. I could tell she was speaking to an elder.
Her cousin was standing by me. “It’s our uncle calling,” she said. “This is his second call,” she added.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, completely out of guilt. A leaf from the woods fell off Akemi’s dress and came zigzagging down onto the marble floor.
“No, it’s just that our uncle is responsible for Akemi. He is both of our fathers’ youngest brother.”
Looking very disappointed, Akemi hung up the phone and began speaking to her cousin. Her cousin interpreted for me.
“Our uncle says that Akemi cannot have a guest in our house if neither my mother or father are at home,” the cousin announced. “I tried to explain to my uncle that Mom was supposed to be here and that she should return soon enough. But our uncle said that this is no good because when he called the first time, Jiro could not even find you and Akemi.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll get ready to leave,” I said.
“Ask Akemi for my jacket,” I told her cousin. She translated.
“Akemi says come and get it,” her cousin informed me.
As Akemi walked down the corridor then up three indoor stairs, turning into a bedroom, I followed her easily. But her cousin also followed me.
In the bedroom she picked my jacket up from the bed and handed it to me. The look in her eyes was too powerful. But I could also feel her cousin’s eyes burning a hole in my back, to hurry up and leave. I took the jacket and turned to go.
Akemi spoke to her cousin. Her cousin said to me, “Akemi said she’s coming with you.” Looking at her cousin instead of her, I answered, “Tell Akemi I said to stay here. I don’t want to cause her any more trouble with your uncle.”
“You tell her. She’s a rebel. She won’t listen,” her cousin said, then translated. Akemi checked my eyes to see if I refused her coming. I shook my head no to show her she could not come with me. She pouted and folded her arms over her chest. Her cousin said, “That’s better anyway. Akemi’s staying over here in Jersey for the next week instead of being at home alone in Queens. Uncle said so.”
“Isn’t she working at the store?”
“My older brother is home from college for the week. He’s working at Uncle’s store. Akemi will be right here with me.”
“Until?” I asked.
“Until her vacation ends, one week. She’ll return to Queens on next Sunday.” Akemi was leaning against the wall, looking mad and even more pretty.
Before I put my sneakers back on, I asked about Jiro and Kano.
“They’re in the basement,” her cousin said. She led me to the basement door.
“All right, Jiro, Kano, I’m about to bounce. Good meeting you two,” I said.
“Later, man,” they both said. Then Rob and Dave yelled up, “Later, dude.”
“They would’ve come upstairs to say ’bye, but they’re playing video games. You know how it is,” her cousin said.
I walked to their front door, pulled my sneakers off the rack, and put ’em on.
“Ja mata, Akemi,” I said. It meant “I’ll see you next time.”
It was a long walk to the nearest bus stop. I kept my pace swift, didn’t want to inspire any policemen, although I had not seen any so far.
The sun was warm and bright. There was nothing but peace and solitude. The trees swayed and the birds were busy. I could see why they called this The Garden State.
After a trek there were several buses headed right over the George Washington Bridge. It was the quickest way for me to get back into the city. I decided to save the ferryboat rides for me and her. I jumped on the bus instead.
Seated in the back window seat, I pressed my head against the glass. As the bus pulled off, I could see Akemi pedaling fast on a boy bike she must’ve borrowed from her boy cousins. She was wearing a sweater, a T-shirt and capris, and kicks now. Her hair was in a wild long ponytail. She was covered with a light sheen of perspiration and looking all around for me.
Allah is good, I thought. Akemi could not see me and it was too late for me to get off the moving bus. I knew if I were to encounter her again today, there would be no stopping the momentum of our feelings. The scent of her was still on my fingers. I had no desire to remove it. It made me feel as if my hand were still moving up the inside of her soft-as-butter thigh. The scent enticed me almost as much as she did. I couldn’t think straight, at least not as straight as I usually could.
This day had been a series of firsts. First time to New Jersey, first time being inside of Akemi’s family’s home, first time sliding my tongue into a mouth, first time running my hands over a female’s breasts and thighs and touching her panties. First time I felt like something felt so good that I couldn’t stop myself.
I knew I had to sort it all out. But for now, I did something I never do while traveling or standing still in the streets of Brooklyn. I closed my eyes.
23
THE INSULTS
Fresh, I was fresh when I picked Umma up from work. Still I imagined she could see Akemi’s passionate prints all over me like a purple ultraviolet light exposes lint on clothing that the naked eye cannot see. But she didn’t say one word differently than she usually would when I met her in the early evening.
“Let’s get a cab instead,” she said. “I have the address of an Egyptian jeweler. His jewels come very highly recommended.”
On the ride over, Umma explained. “I want you to convince the jeweler to agree to a private showing of his bangle collection at the executive apartment of the father of the groom. The father and his son, the groom, will be certain to select something exquisite for the bride.”
It turned out that the groom’s father, whom Umma never spoke to directly, is an important Sudanese dignitary. He would arrive in New York tonight from Switzerland. His business this upcoming week would require his presence at the United Nations. He could accept a meeting with the jeweler at his Manhattan apartment across from the U.N., but his schedule would not permit him to make the trip out to the various jewelers’ stores.
“Sudanese brides,” Umma said, “expect their bangles to be incredible. The jewels on a bride’s arm on her wedding day are so much more important to her than any ring being placed on her finger. The bangles will be hers to cherish forever. And believe me, they are only a small part of the dowry that her groom must provide to her and her family.”
“Sounds expensive,” I said.
“These are not poor people we are working for,” Umma informed me. “The groom has graduated from a prestigious university in Cambridge, Massa
chusetts. He is working now for some U.S. corporation. His auntie told me that their nephew has gained all of the money that he ever wanted, but he has lost his tradition.” Umma made a sound with her teeth, expressing how shameful she felt the loss of tradition is.
“Our job is to make sure that the groom and his family, who have been living in Europe and America for all of these years, are properly prepared for his wedding to a Northern Sudanese Muslim woman whose Sudanese family will expect a traditional Sudanese wedding and will be completely insulted by anything else.”
We stood outside the Egyptian jeweler’s door. A big sign in the window read open. The lighting inside the store was bright, yet the door was locked. An Arab woman looked at us from a distance behind the jewelry counter. An Arab man emerged into view and looked us over too. He walked toward the locked glass door and stood still for some seconds.
“You’re in Brooklyn, motherfucker! Open the door,” I thought to myself. Who did he expect to see as his customers? My Islamic mother was standing right there covered from head to toe.
He signaled to the woman, who remained behind the counter. She reached her fingers to the wall behind her and pressed the buzzer, unlocking the door. He pulled the door open before I could push it. He stood in his doorway blocking us from entering.
“Salaama alaikum,” I said. “Are you open?”
“Nom,” he answered, which means “yes” in Arabic. “Do you want to spend some money today?” he asked us.
I didn’t like his question. It was a subtle way of saying, “Do you two have any money, or not?” Or, “Why bother?”
“We want to arrange for a private showing of your bangle collection to a dignitary from our country.” I handed him our business card.
Without even looking at it, he said with clever sarcasm, “He can come here to the store. We will show him our collection privately.” An older Arab man emerged. He was standing a few feet behind him now, watching. I assumed he was the man’s father.
“He’s an important client for our business. We need to make it convenient for him. It will be profitable business for you too,” I assured him. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Midnight Page 22