“Listen, Naja, this girl is not your friend and she’s not mine either. None of these people around here are our friends. None of these people around here are like us. They don’t believe what we believe. They don’t live how we live. If you love this family, then you have to understand what I am about to tell you. You have to understand the rules and you have to remember. And there is no space and no time for any mistakes, understand?”
“Yes,” she answered, with tears now falling from her big eyes onto her little face.
“I love you. Umma loves you, that’s it. Your friends are your same age, the little girls who go to your same school only. Anyone who asks you to keep a secret is not your friend. There are no secrets for you to keep away from Umma and me. Ms. Marcy is your sitter. She is supposed to take you to your bus every morning and pick you up every afternoon. If she is ever not there when your school bus drops you off remain with Sister Fatima, your bus monitor. She knows to call Umma in any emergency situation. Don’t go anywhere with anybody else, no matter what. Don’t talk to anybody else no matter what. Don’t take anything from anybody else no matter what. In Ms. Marcy’s house and even if you’re up here in our apartment don’t open the door. Keep it locked. Always let an adult answer the door or leave it alone. No secrets with anyone outside of our family, no one, no matter what. You got it?” I asked her seriously.
“I got it,” Naja promised.
“Now repeat it,” I told her.
“The whole thing? ” she asked.
“The whole thing,” I ordered her.
She repeated it and repeated it well. She was no dummy. In her school she had to learn long suras from the Holy Quran. After she learned them, and the teachers discussed them, she had to recite them in front of her classmates. I made her recite the rules back to me three times. Then I sat her down so she could write them out as well.
In her room I had her post her writing up on the wall above her bed.
Umma finished up around 1:00 A.M. After straightening up her work area she came into my room.
I had spread newspaper across an area of my floor. On top of the newspaper I had the ones, fives, tens, and twenty-dollar bills separated. In another area, I had separate piles of coins. In another pile were the few receipts I carried for the day, a pile of new orders and inquiries, a short stack of new business cards and my thin notebook of contacts, phone numbers and addresses.
“Who is she and what does she want?” Umma asked, holding up the fourteen-karat gold chain with the word “Heavenly” written out in script letters at the center.
She’s nobody,” I answered. “She’s nobody to me,” I assured Umma.
“Every female is somebody,” Umma said solemnly. “Every female you involve yourself with leaves her trace on you, good or bad. Did you encourage her?” Umma asked.
“Umma, my word to Allah, I said nothing, did nothing with this female.”
“Then she is a desperate woman and desperate women set traps. Make sure you don’t lower yourself to her.”
I was disappointed. I worked very hard for Umma to trust that there is no greater love or respect than the love and respect that I have for her, and now it seemed that this one silly girl had brought in the only moment of doubt about my character that Umma had ever felt.
At least I understood now what kind of problem Conflict had with me. Like the sucker he was, he couldn’t keep his girl in check. Did he really believe he could eliminate every cat she craved? There were many before him and he obviously wasn’t even the end of her line. Even if he tried, her cravings would still be there. Then what would he do?
As for the small matter of her chain, damned if I move, damned if I don’t move. If I didn’t give it back, she’d come on to me even stronger. If I brought it back to her, somebody would see me at her door and start sounding the alarm. Either way, word would get out that she was thirsty for me. Someone would lie and say I was fucking with her. Word of mouth in the hood is stronger than the beat of the drum in my grandfather’s village.
All I could see was more conflict with Conflict for no real reason at all.
29
THE CONTRACT
Thursday dissolved so quickly. The day just flew by filled with usual and unusual errands and familiar and unfamiliar faces.
For the first time, Umma and Naja were not sleeping at home. I had escorted both of them to The Palace Hotel. Umma and Naja would remain there with the family of the bride, who had arrived earlier in the day from the Sudan. There were five rooms booked under the bride’s father’s name, and three rooms under the groom’s father’s name, not including Fawzi’s incredible suite. There would be an Islamic gathering, males hosted separately from the females.
The goal was clear for Umma. She was working for the groom to make the bride’s family feel comfortable in an unfamiliar place. She was to do what she does best, make everything look and smell and feel beautiful.
I felt relieved after I left them safely in The Palace. I told myself that I could feel relieved like this every day, once I had both of them out of the area in Brooklyn where we lived. I had already decided that the week after the wedding, we would begin looking at various affordable properties, since we would be in clear reach of our financial goal.
My day was spent traveling and meeting up with and checking in on independent contractors who were retained to perform some service or other for the huge wedding ceremony on Sunday.
However, even training at the dojo and practicing with the basketball team, I felt lighter with Umma and Naja safely tucked away and surrounded by people who at least, in general, believed the same exact things, no surprises.
Late night alone, I played my music in the apartment. I could walk around with my shirt off. I could exercise in my underwear. In my bedroom, I could throw my knives without a second thought, with the bedroom door open. After my repetitions, I could collapse on the floor staring at the ceiling thinking about Akemi.
Her phone call began with her silence, then just her breathing, then words, “Mayonaka hansamu arigato gozamasu.” She was thanking me. That part I could tell.
Those were the only words she said that I understood. The words that followed were all in Japanese, but she seemed so sure about speaking her language to me. I just listened to her soft sound, which slowed down and then sped up, suddenly excited. I decided from her rhythm and melody that she received the balloons, maybe even the flowers I had sent to her uncle’s store, and that she would come along with me on Saturday after work to the ceremony.
Her call ended strangely with her silence. Then I could hear her breathing, a pause, and then the words “Mayonaka Aishiteru.” The next sound was the click.
I wanted to know the meaning of her last word, but I didn’t. I wanted to know from where and what time to pick her up, but I didn’t.
While I was thinking about whether or not to call her back this late at her cousin’s house, my phone rang again.
“Akemi insisted on calling you first. Now it’s me.” It was her cousin.
“How are you?” I asked her.
“Okay, I think,” she answered. “Anyway, there are balloons everywhere, all over my house,” she said.
“Do you like them?” I asked her.
“It doesn’t really matter. Akemi loves them. She is thrilled and no one can even talk to her. They’re very nice really,” she admitted, reluctantly it seemed.
“Will she be able to come on Saturday?” I asked.
“Who can stop her? She was supposed to do something here at our house with our family. It’s been planned for so long since we are all out of school and work. But she will come to you on Saturday, no doubt. Uncle has said that if Akemi wants to go along with your family, then I had to go along with you two. I don’t want to cancel my plans, so I don’t know what is going to happen. I’ll let you know,” she said.
“One question.” I caught the cousin before she hung up the phone.
“Aishiteru, what does this word mean?”
“Did Akemi say this to you?” the cousin asked. I paused instead of answering her question.
“I don’t know. Maybe you are pronouncing it wrong,” she said. “I have to go now.” She hung up.
On Saturday at 5:00 P.M. when I rounded the corner to The Palace Hotel, she was standing there. Even though her cousin had phoned me at the very last minute to ask me about the address, I was still stunned.
She was standing taller than usual, and the first thing I noticed were her incredibly expensive black ostrich skinned stiletto heels and matching black ostrich clutch bag. She wore a silk black dress, which was well tailored to her figure and cut short just below her hips. She wrapped her waistline with a beautiful silver grey scarf causing her mini dress to ride up even higher. Thankfully she wore matching black silk capris underneath, covering her legs. Her dark eyes came out more, with the coordination of her clothes. They were like an endless sea of beauty.
Her natural nails were manicured immaculately with a clear polish with a hint of a grey sheen that could only be noticed if you looked closely. Her jet black hair, the way it flowed and surrounded the jet black dress, and the way her jet black eyes peered from her face—I was floored by her. I felt everything shifting within me. Still, I managed to appear cool.
Playfully, I walked past her as if she wasn’t standing right there. She called out my name softly as if I could have missed seeing her standing there. She followed behind me quietly. Even the sound of her heels against the pavement caught my attention and aroused me. Yet, it was impossible for me to follow my natural instincts.
I should have ordered a magic carpet. Her shoes, alone, were too expensive for the ground, I thought to myself.
In the lobby of the hotel, I pulled the silver grey scarf she had wrapped tightly around her waistline of her dress and put it over her hair instead, tying it in the back. She was still and allowed me. We were standing so close that her scent gave me fever.
The way I tied it wasn’t a Muslim style of wearing the scarf, but it was fashionable the way Akemi would rock it. It complemented her, while covering her hair as all of the women in the ceremony would have their hair covered. Truthfully, I wanted to cover her hair. I had begun to feel that it was mine, for only me to see, and that she was mine also.
The elevator door opened, revealing Umma and Naja.
Umma was a radiant star. Her silver thobe, made of an elegant and fine sheer cloth, was a sparkling outer garment to her long silver grey dress beneath. During the two and a half days of our separation, she had applied a beautiful henna design to her fingers, hands, and feet. Her style and beauty had everyone passing through The Palace Hotel lobby in complete awe. Two curious and fascinated European ladies interrupted her, delaying her from reaching us.
I introduced Akemi to Umma and Naja in Arabic. Instinctively, Akemi bowed her head down to Umma. When she raised it up, she reached out to Umma’s hands and flipped them over, feeling her palms with her fingers, her eyes showing complete amazement at Umma’s henna art. Even after several seconds, Akemi was still staring and holding Umma’s wrists.
Umma smiled, adjusted her hand to hold Akemi’s, and began walking away with her, only saying to me in Arabic, “We will see you tonight at the ceremony. I love you, son.”
Naja held back and said, “She is sooo pretty.”
“She doesn’t speak English,” I informed Naja. “And she doesn’t know what’s happening here today.”
“Well, she should fit right in!” Naja laughed.
I gave Naja a kiss on the cheek and told her, “Take good care of Akemi,” then sent her on her way to catch up with the ladies.
In Fawzi’s suite, I warmly greeted the Sudanese men gathered there in the living room. I felt like I was not myself. Right then I was my father in his private area of our estate, greeting his guest and business associates, a gathering of men in the finest suits and most elegant traditional wear as well, surrounded by swirling cigar, cigarette, and bidi smoke. The quiet murmur of the men speaking only the important words, following through on previous agreements and making new plans and deals, filled the suite.
In the foyer, I pulled out a heavy wooden chair, with a dense cushion, that was covered by a thick upholstery embroidered with a scene of the bland British ancients. I sat down. I needed to be seated close to the telephone. Discreetly, I began calling business numbers on a long checklist that I had prepared to make sure that every detail was absolutely covered for tomorrow’s wedding.
There were the tent builders, who had already constructed the wedding site. I needed to confirm the tent takedown and final payment date. There were the painters, two Sudanese and two Iranians whose services Umma and I contracted. I needed to push those guys. They did great work but were scheduled to complete their job yesterday morning. Yesterday evening when I phoned them I found them, “still finishing up,” which delayed me from arranging their payment. The fruit, flower, and candy deliveries for tomorrow morning needed to be reconfirmed, even though I had confirmed them yesterday. The portable commode people needed a confirmation as well, and then there was the company where we rented the chairs . . .
I had an hour and a half before the limousines would arrive here at The Palace. So I used my time effectively.
When the groom’s uncle, Mr. Ghazzali, arrived he and I would get squared away with all of the checks that needed to be issued to pay the various independent contractors. We would go over the details once more so that everything would flow as planned, inshallah.
Limousines lined the cluttered streets of New York and brought the business at The Palace Hotel to a standstill. Seated inside of one of them, I watched Umma, Akemi, and Naja entering another limo with some women from the bride’s family. Akemi was the last to get in. She stood watching everything as though she were not a part of it. She looked left to right, stared at the women from head to toe and eventually gazed up at the sky.
I traveled with Fawzi, his father and uncle, and two male cousins. Fawzi’s father was intense and pensive, the way powerful men (like my father) tend to be. He and his son were dressed to the nines in tuxedos. I had chosen a clean black Armani suit. All of our white shirts were glistening. Uncle Ghazzali and his two sons all wore white jelabiyas. Believe me, they were looking sharp and crisp as well. There was not one speck to blemish the bright whiteness of their cloths. On the floor of the limo were six pairs of brand new shoes, ranging from Mr. Ghazzali’s JCPenney’s to Fawzi and his father’s mean and authentic black crocodiles. I felt powerful seated among all of them, although my status was the same today as it was yesterday.
“A small ceremony at the mosque for the signing of the agid,” Umma had said. “Nothing compared to the actual wedding ceremony.”
The spacious, medium-sized mosque was filled up with the groom and bride’s relatives. Despite the expensive wears, when the call to prayer, the Azan, was sung out, in complete unity, the ummah bowed their heads to the ground and made salat. The feeling was so unexpected and awesome, to be welcomed into a mosque and make prayer among an international, Islamic community right here in America. I felt overwhelmed.
There was such incredible power in the call to prayer. It humbled even the richest of the believers. The words entered the body, aroused the spirit, and soothed the soul. They caused the knees to willingly bend, and the head to touch the ground in a way that no believing man would bow for any other reason any other time.
Imam Musa was in jelabiya, his head wrapped in a turban. He was a tall Sudanese African. He sat facing the ummah and in front, but between the bride’s family and the groom’s family. He had a small table at his side, and a Holy Quran mounted on a carved wooden stand. After his salutations to Allah, he offered the khutba, which is the “spiritual message,” exclusively in the Arabic language.
“It is the responsibility of a Muslim man to be the guardian of his wife and family. In today’s times, the non-believers scream, “ ‘Why marriage? Why limit myself ? Why bother?’
“In Islam we
have always had a tradition of marriage. We marry however, not because it is a tradition, but because Allah requires this from us and Allah is the best knower of all things, and Allah always commands us to do what is best for us, whether we know it or not.
“The arrogant will scream, ‘I know what is best for me! I don’t care what is best for everybody else!’
“But, a person who is arrogant is also ignorant. Otherwise, arrogance would not be his chosen way of life.
“We marry because a complete family is the foundation of life and civilization. Where there is a man who willingly bows down to Allah, and voluntarily obeys Allah’s laws, there is a man capable of respecting limits, of being a good husband, the responsible party and good father. Not sometimes, but each and every day.
“A woman who bows down to Allah, and obeys Allah’s laws, is a good woman who is modest, wise, and mature of intellect. Women who are wise, are the opposite of boastful, conceited, and flagrant. And a boastful, conceited, and flagrant woman is never necessarily intelligent.
“Where there is a humble man who accepts the limits imposed on him by God, a man who bows his head in prayer, thought, and praise along with a modest woman who observes her limits and bows her head in prayer, thought, and praise, happy children can be born to live happy and balanced lives. Happy and balanced children respect their parents, because it was their parents who cultivated their knowledge of Allah. Happy children, in turn, bow their heads in prayer, thought, and praise as they witnessed their parents do.
“Among the arrogant, ignorant, proud, and boastful non-believing people there are born nations of unhappy children, living unbalanced lives, drowning in depression and anxieties, children who love things more than they love the womb which bore them.
“Arrogant, ignorant men make horrible husbands to their wives whether they are rich or poor. They make horrible fathers to their children, are full of fancy and deceitful words and promises. But they are only capable of the ‘no show.’ Even with a pocket or bank filled with money in their name, they can only pay out in pain and sadness. There is a short life for them on Earth, and an eternal and roaring fire in their future.
Midnight Page 27