Midnight (20 page)

In the glow of a cinnamon candle, I sat beside Umma on the floor. My muscles were relaxed now and I was feeling fresh and clean and calm from my hot shower.

“Tell me,” Umma said.

“It’s nothing really. I tried out for a basketball team and was chosen. I am supposed to find out next week if there is any way to earn by participating.”

“Why would anybody pay a young person to play basketball?” Umma asked. “It sounds strange,” she added.

“No one would pay just anybody to play basketball, unless they was great,” I said, smiling.

“Oh, I see!” She laughed.

“The game needs me,” I kidded her.

“Of course it does!” she joked. “Anyway, remember our Ethiopian client up in the Bronx? The lady whose family moved here from Israel?” she asked.

“Of course. Remember how long it took me to scrub that emerald-green dye off your fingers after you custom designed her cloths?” I reminded her and we laughed.

“Well, she liked my work and received so many compliments that she recommended me to a Sudanese coworker of hers whose family has been living over here in America for some years. Their nephew is about to be married in some huge wedding and they require a wedding planner who knows and understands Sudanese tastes, customs, and traditions. There is a tremendous operating budget and a ten-thousand-dollar commission for me if I supervise and coordinate everything and
also handle
all
of the aspects of design for the wedding including, of course, the garments.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” I repeated calmly but in disbelief, thinking of how since we arrived to America, except for a handful of elite clients, we had to earn every penny very slowly. And poor client or elite client, in every instance we had to labor very hard. So far, Umma had done one dress here and another there, but this lump sum would bring in more revenue in one swoop than she would generate in six months’ time working at the factory. Also, I thought about how completing this wedding successfully would put us right up close to our financial goal of buying our own home and property and getting ghost from Brooklyn.

“What do you think?” she asked me.

“I think that’s great. Somebody finally recognized that your talent is incredible and almost impossible to find. No one else would work harder and do more for the amount they are offering. And even if they found somebody else to hire, their product would never be as authentic and attractive. If you give me their information, on Monday I’ll call and set it up so I can collect at least fifty percent up front as a deposit on your commission.”

“Five thousand up front? Do you think so?”

“Definitely. If they’re serious, they’ll pay some up-front money like any other client. I’ll handle it,” I assured her. Then she got quiet.

“There is only one thing.” She hesitated. We both sat in silence for some seconds.

“I know.” I paused. “You’re worried and not sure if you want to work with a Sudanese family. I know they will be your first Sudanese clients since we have been living here in America. They will ask too many questions and believe that since you are working for them that you owe them the answers, right?”

“You are so smart,” she admitted.

“But you said they have been living in America for some years, and we will be professionals. We will treat them nice. You will talk to the women about the art and designs and measurements of their dresses. I will speak and work with the men.

“When any other topic or something too personal comes up, you will do like the Americans and just tell them you have to go! Or we could charge them by the hour and that will cut out all of the talking!”

We had another good laugh.

Umma gave me the name and telephone number for the uncle of the groom, who was representing his brother’s family. I would call him and confirm the business. Umma would do what she does best; make everything unbelievably beautiful.

After our late-night prayer together to make up for the one I missed today, I raised my forehead from the floor and went to my bedroom. Seconds later Umma reappeared.

“What about the girl?” she said sweetly. Then there was a long pause.

“Akemi?” I asked, already knowing.

“That one,” she said, confirming.

“I am supposed to meet her aunt and uncle at their family business tomorrow.”

“Inshallah,”
she said, meaning “If God is willing.” Then she seemed lost in a thought as she leaned against my door.

“You cannot go empty-handed to her relatives. You know this, right?” she asked softly.

“Yes, Umma, you’re right,” I answered. She moved from my door and returned a little later with her hands full, just as I began drifting into sleep.

“Give these gifts to her aunt and uncle, on behalf of our family. It’s not much. Yet they may enjoy them. I’ll wrap them for you. Don’t forget to take them with you in the morning.”

“I will remember,” I assured her. She switched the lights off and stood in the darkness. It seemed like her words floated on the air.

“Now that you are becoming a man, things will be more complicated than they have ever been,” she said.

I did not really understand specifically what she meant.

“You will have strong urges and feelings pulling you in every way. But you should not become a servant to your desires,” she said, her words cutting through the darkness before their true meaning could begin to sink into my tired mind.

She continued, “A woman is more than a powerful feeling or unforgettable taste, and a man should not try to eat from every dish. A good woman is a jewel from Allah for which a man must pay a heavy price. Be very careful.”

She closed my door. Soon I heard her sewing machine start up again.

Her words were like a dish of cold water on my sleepy face.

Altogether, I was bringing three gifts. Umma’s gift to Akemi’s uncle was a sterling-silver cigarette case filled with her signature
bidis.
These were hand-rolled foreign cigarettes filled with a special tobacco, which Umma spiced up with her private herb recipe and wrapped in a scented paper. The taste and smell of the smoke usually fascinated all men who had the privilege to acquire them.

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.