Midnight (29 page)

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.

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, Massachusetts. 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.”

The Arab stepped outside his store. The door closed and locked behind him. Umma stepped back. I remained standing there in his face.

“You see the pharmacy there?” He pointed. “Go and buy a camera and bring it. I will snap some photos of our bangle collection. You will show him and return with his money and his choices,” the Arab said.

Umma stood silently, listening, watching. If she were not standing here with me, I would have stopped this conversation before it ever started, before he decided after too long a wait to move closer to the door. But I wanted to please Umma.

“All right, if we can come in, my mother can look over the bangles. She will know the tastes of our client,” I said, preferring to work it out that way.

“Is she buying or is he buying?” the Arab said curtly.

I touched Umma’s arm. We turned and left. I heard him spit on the ground somewhere behind me.

•   •   •

Running suicides at basketball practice wasn’t nothing for me. I needed to do something physical and extreme to burn off energy. So I did. After Vega’s whistle, I was still running suicides. The laps Vega called for, I doubled. The drills, I drilled. I wasn’t tryna impress anybody. I was trying not to kill anybody . . . else. But the disrespect was too constant.

Three hours after practice began that same night, the entire team was seated together on the gym floor, drenched in sweat. Vega wasn’t sweating. He was plotting.

“All of you are making me look good tonight. Keep it up. We’ll look good together,” he said, talking fast and clapping his hands twice.

“For now, you need to choose a team captain, a leader, a point man. I’m gonna walk away. In three minutes when I get back, you all tell me who it is.”

“Who wants to be the captain of Los Negros?” Panama Black asked. So we all knew he did. Nobody was stepping up. Then the kid named Braz said, “That brother right there should be our captain,” pointing at me.

“Nah. I’m just a shooter. Let Panama Black be the captain. He hustles hard. I’m not a leader. If I’m in the clear, feed me. I’ll sink it in the hoop,” I told them. “A’ight?” I asked.

They all nodded their approval or said, “Yeah.”

Panama Black smiled, revealing his framed gold teeth. “You know it,” he said, accepting the new position.

On our way out, Panama threw his arm around my shoulder and kept it there too long for me. “You a cool motherfucker,” he said with a straight face. “Where you from?” he asked.

“Brooklyn, same as you,” I answered.

He laughed once and said, “A’ight, I hear that.” He knew
we were both from different countries. I was just being polite enough not to tell him to mind his fucking business.

Panama thought I was doing him a favor, stepping out of his way so he could shine. I looked at it the other way around. The way I saw it, Vega was about to dump a heap of responsibilities on his head as team captain. Panama would have to be accountable for every player on the team, their whereabouts, and getting them to act right and show up on time. When a next player fell short, he would take the weight. I didn’t have the time. For me the league was strictly business. I was glad to give him that position and move out of the light where I preferred to be.

Our team stepped out of the gym and into the red and blue lights of the popo, pulled up and parked on the curb in front of the gym. They was eyeing us with a hatred that didn’t mean shit ’cause it was an everyday thing. “Keep walking,” a cop’s voice blasted out over the megaphone. “Keep walking, clear the area, get back to your buildings,” the voice ordered. Only one team member made the mistake of turning around and looking back toward the police cruiser. The cop on the driver’s side jammed the gas pedal. The police cruiser jumped and sped up to where we were walking. One and a half seconds’ worth of siren rang out then stopped immediately. “We’re looking for a black guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Is that you?” the cop asked sarcastically, throwing his voice over the megaphone from inside the cruiser. Our whole team was wearing sweats and kicks. We just kept walking, our backs to them.

Vega walked with us too, toward the train station. I knew he had his reasons for walking with the team, because earlier, I seen him roll up in his car, which he parked in the opposite direction. I noticed Vega wasn’t saying nothing either. The cops followed us slowly, still sitting and riding behind us all the way to the station. They disappeared when
they were sure we were all going down into the subway and out of their area.

“A black guy in jeans and a T-shirt,” I thought to myself. That fits the description of every male youth in all our hoods.

I had two guns, four knives, and eight hundred dollars on me that night. Close call.

In our Brooklyn apartment, late, clothes and cloths hung on hangers everywhere. There were white sheets laid across the length of our living room, a strategy Umma used to keep the cloths she was working on clean. Umma was seated on the floor with six yards of a brilliant red cloth laid across her lap and an open box of beads, sequins, and tiny jewels. The lampshades had been removed from our three lamps. The hundred-watt bulbs were radiating blinding light and extra heat. I knew she was really doing it.

When she gets in this intense creative state of mind, she stares at the cloth as if she sees something there that no one else sees. She pulls out her spool of gold thread. She lifts up her needle, threads it the first time without missing the impossible needle eye. One by one she sews on the beads, sequins, and jewels in a pattern that only she has in her mind. With great patience she sews on five hundred to five thousand adornments, never breaking her pattern, until the thobe is perfect.

I removed my sneakers and walked around the perimeter of the living room wearing socks, not saying too much, trying not to break Umma’s concentration.

Before I could reach the door to Naja’s room, Umma stopped everything and looked up at me. I was disappointed with myself for being in her way. I knew that whenever I was in the same room with her she began to focus on me.

“You’ll need some rest tonight. The next eight days will be a
haboob,
” Umma said, which means, in our Sudanese Creole, a “sandstorm.” “Tomorrow, I will need you to place the fruit order at the wholesaler. Go there and make sure that everything there is fresh, completely fresh. If it turns out to be a quality wholesaler, and
inshallah
it will, place our order and make sure he schedules the delivery to arrive on Sunday morning, the morning of the wedding, fresh. Double-check, since the wedding will be held on a Sunday. Some of these businesses are closed on Sundays and I don’t want the fruit to be delivered on Saturday.”

“No problem. If their fruit or the delivery date is no good, I know a couple of other places to try out,” I assured her.

“And, while you were at basketball practice, I spoke to Temirah Auntie,” Umma said, referring to Mr. Ghazzali’s wife. I could see that from working together, she was feeling much more friendly with the first Sudanese family that we’d met here in America. I’m sure she was also relieved to be working for people who spoke her language. Because of this, she was handling more responsibilities than usual, jobs normally reserved for me.

“Ms. Temirah will arrange for the groom and you to meet and visit a variety of jewelers. His father and his uncle will not be able to accompany him. They are both working and unavailable. You’ll need to stick with him until he makes his final purchases. I know that you know jewels. I promised Temirah this,” she said, very sure of me.

“When you accompany him shopping, just think of it as if you were purchasing these jewels for your own bride,” she said, so soft and calm and clever while looking at a gold bead smaller than a child’s teardrop.

I smiled. “No problem, Umma. I’ll do it.”

“You have their telephone number. Do it on Monday. This way, if the groom turns out to be stubborn or to have poor
taste, we will have time to save the situation before the signing of the
agid.
Oh, and I will need you to come along to the mosque for the ceremony,” she said.

“The wedding?” I asked.

“No, not exactly. A Sudanese wedding takes place over several days. The signing of the
agid
is the contract between the groom and his new wife and both of their families. It will be a much smaller ceremony than the actual wedding, but it is extremely important.

“You see, when you choose, or your family chooses your bride, it is the marrying of the two families together. It is not just one person doing whatever or however he pleases,” she said.

And then there was silence, the Umma kind of silence.

“So, what did you do today before you came to pick me up?” she asked, so sweetly, and full of innocence.