Midnight and the Meaning of Love

by Sister Souljah

  All the African men stood. All were six feet tall or more. All the African men were as black as or blacker than me, all masculine and built sturdy and strong. In one chorus they all shouted, and then the shouts became a chant and they jumped and danced. “Momma, Momma, Momma!”

  Billy said, “Of course it’s Momma! When my momma say to me, ‘You are a good boy, you look fresh and clean in your jelabiyah. You have done a good job, son,’ I smile like this.” Billy’s smile spread brightly across his face.

  “No woman nowhere can top that,” Bill said and they all chanted “momma” in agreement.

  The night at Terenga in Ebisu ended with a competitive game of darts. Billy had the waiters push all the tables on our side to the wall. As new customers arrived, he had them seated on the opposite side. The dart competition heated up, and each of the eight African men became deeply serious when they took aim at the bull’s-eye mounted on a far wall.

  “You are winning because you have a good luck charm,” Billy said to me, while nodding his head toward Chiasa.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” I told him solemnly.

  Chiasa stepped up to the board, pulled loose five darts, and stepped all the way back behind the line drawn on the restaurant floor. Without talking or smiling, she fired each of the five darts into the bull’s-eye. Amazed, the men cheered for her.

  Throughout the night I saw and heard Billy speak six different languages: Wolof, French, English, Japanese, Italian, and German. He was a gracious host, a humorous man, and a Senegalese Baye Fall Muslim. He loved his momma and handled his business and was not anybody’s fool. Although I never would allow my wife to be my “passport,” I didn’t look down on him. Speaking six languages and sending his money home to his village was worthy of respect, and the way he flowed in his use of the Japanese language got me hyped. I made myself a promise that night: hiragana, katakana, three thousand different kanji, whatever. I would learn to speak Japanese fluently with that kind of ease and dexterity.

  I paid, and left with my “lucky charm.”

  * * *

  “Chiasa,” I said.

  “Hai,” she answered with a smile.

  “Do you believe in God?” I asked, to my own surprise.

  “Um, I believe in right and wrong,” she said softly.

  “Do you believe that you were created?” I asked her. She didn’t answer, and we continued walking slowly through the streets of Ebisu toward the station.

  “Look at the moon,” I told her. She looked. “Now look at your fingers,” I told her. She looked. “Now touch your skin.” She lifted her pretty hands to her face and stroked her own cheek. “I believe that Allah created all of this, and these beautiful expressions of Allah cannot be duplicated by any man.” We walked silently through the crowds and into the station. On the train we took the two-seater in the corner situated right by the exit.

  “I’m leaving for Kyoto in the morning,” I told her. Both of our eyes were facing forward and not toward one another. “You have been helpful to me, and I thank you, for real.”

  “Do you believe in fate?” she suddenly asked. “Like something happened simply because it was supposed to and nothing that you do could have prevented things from going that way?”

  “It sounds familiar to something that Muslims say. It goes like this: ‘I plan, you plan, we plan, they plan, but Allah is the best of planners,’ ” I shared with her. She smiled and sat back some to think on it.

  “It’s funny how life goes, isn’t it?” Chiasa asked, speaking to me but more like she was thinking aloud. “I met you because of my enemy Yuka. I hate that. But I saw you first. I was walking the aisle to get magazines from the flight attendant. You had your sunglasses on indoors. I thought that was funny. When you lifted your hand to adjust them, I saw the ring.”

  I looked down at the ring Sensei had given to me. I recalled my disappointment with the fact that I had left my gold band, the one symbolizing my marriage to Akemi, on the sink at the Ghazzalis’. While riding in Mr. Ghazzali’s taxi to JFK airport, I wondered if mistakenly leaving my wedding band behind meant anything. I convinced myself, however, that it was a simple mistake, not an omen or a sign.

  Walking now through the streets of Harajuku, we reached the point where we could separate. “I’ll walk you home,” I told her.

  “You have to come and get your camera and things. Unless you just want me to have them.” She smiled.

  After gathering my few things from her home and saying my farewell to her grandfather, I eased out of the house slippers she had once again provided, and back into my Nikes. She followed me outside and offered, “I’ll ride you back on my bicycle.”

  “So I walked you home. Now you’ll ride me back. Then I’ll walk you home again?” I asked with a laugh. “Nah, I’m cool,” I told her, then left.

  Two and a half minutes into my walk back to the hostel, I stopped in the middle of the Harajuku madness, stood beside some Japanese dude dressed like a pirate and two others like elves, and asked myself, What are you doing? You have three days to find your wife before Nakamura leaves on his Asian tour. Will he take her with him? You have one location to check in Kyoto, Akemi’s high school, and that’s it. Would she go back to school there? You have four days before your flight back to New York. Will you return empty-handed? All five of my minds began to merge and shook off my doubts that were occurring in my fourth mind about Chiasa. Yes, her father was high up in the American military, and if I fucked up, there would be great consequences for me. Naoko Nakamura hated Americans, so Chiasa’s father and Akemi’s father would be natural enemies. Besides, I wouldn’t let Chiasa get hurt. I’d just buy her translation and tour guide services same as I had been doing here in Tokyo. If not Chiasa, then who? I would have to find help down in Kyoto. So why not the girl I already got to know? So what was it? What was holding me back? I questioned myself. Then myself fought myself.

  In order to be completely honest with myself, I focused in on only that one question. What is the holdup with you concerning Chiasa? The answer came bursting from my brain. It was something that I had known from the moment I saw her. This girl Chiasa is a pretty, bad-ass, beautiful girl ninja. More than I could have ever cooked up in my imagination. I met her three days ago and the energy is moving too fast. If I could control the energy, at least on my part, we could work together. If not, we couldn’t. Under these circumstances I couldn’t allow anyone to distract me from my mission. And my wife is the only one I love. So why spark something else up, while I’m trying to get my love back and settled and secured? My mind was putting it together swiftly. Now that I had moved beyond the emotion and the thing that was holding me back, I could shoot straight to the strategy that I was trying to organize in my mind over dinner.

  One, I would have Chiasa read Akemi’s diary and translate only the names, addresses, and information I needed for the search. We could look up the places beforehand on the map. Maybe there were even some phone numbers in her diary. I could have Chiasa make calls for me while I was in Kyoto and I could have her sit by her phone and wait for me to call in and give her instructions on what I needed or wanted to ask.

  That was it. That would work. I was certain now. I did a 180 and headed back to Chiasa’s. Before reaching her house, I jumped in a phone both and called her. There was no answer. It was 10 p.m. Could she have fallen asleep that quick? Or did she go out into the night? Was she out riding her motorcycle and erasing me from her thoughts and feelings?

  When I opened the door to my room in Harajuku, Chiasa was there, her eyes filled with emotion. “I had an idea,” she said.

  I interrupted her. “I have a couple of things for you to do for me. You’re paid until Friday anyway, right?”

  “Right!” she agreed.

  “I’m trusting you,” I told her. I walked to my duffel and pulled out the diary. “Read this for me. Write down any names of friends or family addresses and telephone numbers you find in here and give them to me. Come back in the morning
and translate for me. I have to activate my rail pass for the bullet train. Afterward, I need you to stay by the phone at your room, like it’s headquarters. I’ll let you know who I’ll need you to call and what I need you to say and do. Okay?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Akemi’s diary, right?”

  “Hai!” I told her. She laughed some at my random and limited use of the Japanese language. She sat on my bed and hiked up her legs and laid the diary on top of her knees and began reading. I had meant for her to take it home with her, but she looked like she thought she was home already.

  “I’ll be back,” I told her and left.

  For an hour, I spoke to Umma, until my phone card burned out. Naja was excited. “Did you see Akemi?” she had asked me. “Of course,” I told her confidently. “Was she trying to speak English?” Naja asked coyly. “She was speaking English the same as Umma,” I answered, and me and Naja had a good laugh because we know that is not at all. “Is she coming back with you?” Naja asked. “Of course,” I told her, truly believing so. “How was she acting? Was she acting right? Or was she acting funny?” Naja asked, curious as usual. “Akemi is sweet. She is my wife. Of course she was acting right,” I told her.

  After the call, I walked over to the Harajuku dollar store and picked up a new notebook for Chiasa to place the info in. I was hoping that there was some real info in Akemi’s diary to help me locate Akemi swiftly. I was blocking my mind from showing me images of Akemi’s tears, the ones I knew she would have after Iwa (or the girl in the pink pumps, probably the same person) gave her a twisted, lying message about something that I never said or did. I knew the sadness that would engulf her at the thought that I might not show up in Kyoto. At the same time, I knew that my wife was smart. Purposely, she had placed a yellow bulb in the lamp and left it on overnight at her Roppongi house, probably every night. She knew that if I saw that light I would know that, yes, Akemi is near. After all, this was the color of the bulb in the basement at Cho’s where she and I, two virgins, made love. She had left me the right clues once before, and I trusted she would leave a trail once again.

  I resisted imagining the real-life scenes where her father was forcing her to move from place to place to stay away from me. I would be smart also and have faith that Akemi was my fate and I was hers.

  When I opened the door to my room, Chiasa’s big eyes were tear-filled. When she saw me, her tears spilled. I didn’t know what happened.

  “What happened?” I asked her.

  “You’re married?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. “Why are you crying?”

  “What an incredible story,” she said softly, wiping her tears.

  “Any names, addresses, phone numbers? Write them down in here,” I told her, tossing the notebook, which landed on the bed right at her feet. She clutched the diary and held it against her breasts as though it were her private truth.

  “That notebook isn’t good enough for this story. I’ll meet you back here in the morning,” Chiasa said.

  “What time?” I asked her.

  “I’ll be here before sunrise so we can eat and drink together,” she said softly.

  “Why are you fasting, Chiasa?” I asked her seriously.

  “Because it feels like the right thing to do. Because I think you are so cool walking around in Japan, doing something that no one else seems to be doing. Not eating or drinking in the Tokyo hot sun, that’s amazing to me. That’s how I am and I want to become, unlike anybody else, completely different.” Oddly, she left out in a hurry.

  There are over three billion Muslims in the world, I thought to myself. And each of them is required to fast for Ramadan, unless they are sickly or traveling. I am not the only one, thankfully.

  Chapter 8

  THE KIDNAPPER

  The Shinkansen train I was booked on departed at 8:00 a.m. With the help of Chiasa translating, I handed them my rail pass and was issued an activated ticket that was good for me to travel roundtrip from Tokyo to Kyoto for an entire week. Chiasa and I parted at the point where all passengers are required to insert a small rectangular ticket into a slot that then opened the turnstile for each paying customer to enter. When I looked back to where she was standing, she was waving nonstop, something I noticed Japanese girls tend to do. First the bowing, then the waving until they couldn’t see you and you could no longer see them.

  She had held on to Akemi’s diary and handed me a note with a few names, places, and addresses translated into English. She also handed me a new stack of index cards to study with phrases she thought would be more helpful for me to know. Some of them were funny like, “Have you seen the 100,000 yen shoe princess?” Others were words she thought I should learn and listen for, like, “Don’t move, you are under arrest.” Her study cards were much better than mine. She included on each of them the Japanese word written first in kanji and in romanji, and on the back she printed the English translation for me. My cards were white, hers were green. She put them in order of the topics and even included the Japanese translation for “I am fasting for Ramadan until sunset, no food or water please.” I cracked up when I shuffled down to the last few cards and seen that she had written and translated out all of their Japanese curse words. It felt good knowing that she would be here in Tokyo on point for me. And although her company for the past few days was good for me, I felt like my regular self, moving around alone, once again.

  The comfort, cleanliness, speed, organization, and beauty of the bullet train was something I had grown to expect in Japan. This seemed to be their way of life and atmosphere. I thought to myself that perhaps I was being spoiled here. When I returned to New York, it would be more no good than it had ever been—hot, dirty, disorganized, disrespectful, and cold at the same time.

  White gloves over feminine fingers interrupted my thoughts. Well-dressed, humble, and subdued, the train attendant offered me softly, “Coffee, green tea, chocolates, almonds, water.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. The doe-eyed attendant pushed away with her tray full of temptations.

  It was remarkable to watch the Tokyo urban turn to rural. With several shades of green grass of varying heights and incredible trees framing farms and rice fields, my eyes were in constant motion, measuring and memorizing sights, sliding up and down hills, and climbing mountains. I was exploring an Asian empire, but more than that, thinking about how versatile and all-powerful Allah is to have created such unique things—nature, people, culture, languages—and scattered them all over the world.

  Pulling out my paperback book on Naoko Nakamura, I would use my time to continue reading up on him. I was convinced that he remained in Roppongi moving back and forth, to and from Ginza, in preparation for his Asian tour. The girl with the pink pumps said that he took Akemi in “an early-morning surprise.” Still, Chiasa had filmed him in Shibuya at 2:00 p.m. My wife is in Kyoto, I thought to myself, without her father’s direct supervision or control. So how did he intend to keep her still and separated from me without her cooperation?

  As I opened up to the table of contents, my eyes moved across each offering of detailed information about Nakamura. There were chapters on his early childhood, military training, and education. Under the topic of education, there were separate chapters on his high school and his training at the University of Tokyo. In the university he must have been involved in everything, because there were separate chapters on his participation in the University of Tokyo Debate Team, as well as “the Movement to Discontinue English as a Core Requirement.” He had also created some organization called Defenders of Japan and wrestled on the U of Tokyo wrestling team. I moved beyond all these because I was not interested in politics and couldn’t see how learning about his politics could help the matter that I was involved in. As far as him being a wrestler, no problem. It was not worth considering to me. Fortunately, after those chapters and the listings of chapters concerning Nakamura’s Yakuza connection, businesses, travels, and influencial friends, there was an entire section on his
private life. I flipped to page 306 and began reading there. The chapter was called “Mysterious Marriage.” This mattered to me because Naoko’s wife was Akemi’s mother and Akemi was very connected to her and to her memory of her.

  I was intrigued by the opening lines of the chapter.

  Naoko Nakamura chose his wife without ever meeting her in person. Nor did he do any of the traditional Japanese prewedding procedures. Perhaps because his biological father was deceased and he had become estranged from his own mother, he didn’t see a need to do so. However, upon further investigation, the marriage of Naoko Nakamura becomes more and more murky. None of Nakamura’s closest relatives, friends, or allies participated in any part of the Nakamura marital ceremony. There were no wedding invitations, nor was any party given an opportunity to offer congratulations or gifts of good fortune. Because Naoko Nakamura by this time had become a prominent businessman and political force, as well as a high-profile agitator in Japan. This clandestine wedding was viewed with great suspicion. One source, who asked to remain anonymous, said about Naoko Nakamura’s new bride, “Shiori Nakamura appeared out of nowhere like a sudden breeze.”

  Folding back the top of the page, I closed the book for a minute. That one paragraph got my mind racing. I knew that Akemi’s cousin from New Jersey had once said to me that Akemi’s mother was Korean, not Japanese. I knew that the name of Akemi’s mother was printed in the program that I had gotten from Akemi’s art show in Manhattan at the Museum of Modern Art. It was the same program that said that Akemi was a student at Kyoto Girls’ High. I’m good at remembering both names and faces. I was sure that her mother’s name began with the letter J and was simple, like Joo. I snatched my Jansport, unzipped it, rifled through my papers, and pulled out the program. “Joo Eun Lee”! That was the name. And the program also said that Joo Eun Lee was a “celebrated North Korean author.” So who was Shiori Nakamura? Was she a first wife? Were there some other brothers and sisters that Akemi had that I didn’t know about and that she didn’t mention and that no one in her family had mentioned?