Midnight and the Meaning of Love (5 page)

When I arrived in the Bronx, I phoned his house from the train station. His phone rang five times, and just as I was about to hang up, I heard the voice of his daughter Sudana.

“Asalaam alaikum.”

“Alaikum salaam,”
I responded. “May I speak with your father, please?”

“You sound tired,” Sudana said, surprisingly recognizing my voice. But I should not have been surprised. She was a girl who had kept her eyes on me even when I was not noticing her. While I was working on her family’s wedding, I stashed one of my guns at the wedding
venue. She saw me when I was sure no one was looking. She laid back, waited, and removed the gun from a tall ceramic vase, where I had hidden it. She gift wrapped it in a colorful box with a bow as though it were a wedding gift. She handed it to me so politely and casually after the wedding ended. Such a beautiful Sudanese teenaged girl, who I had met after Akemi had already tiptoed into my heart and made herself at home.

“My father isn’t in right now,” she said regretfully.

“I’m here in the Bronx. I was trying to meet up with him,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Where?”

“Down the block, train station.”

“Hold on, let me call him because he really should be on his way home,” she said eagerly. I heard her calling her father on what I guessed was another phone line.

“My father said you should come on over to our house. He’ll meet you here.”

“Are your brothers home?” I followed up.

“No,” she responded. I paused. If none of the men of her house were home, it was not proper for me to enter their house. This is the Islamic Sudanese way.

“I’m only five minutes away. It sounds like your father will need some more time. So I’ll wait and come by a little later,” I told her.

“You are so good,” she said softly. “But my father has given his permission and you can sit here in his office. Although no one else is home, my mother and sisters and brothers and father will all be here very soon. My father would not be happy if I left you standing around and waiting in the Bronx. So please come by. Is Akemi with you?” she asked softly.

I appreciated the way she always welcomed Akemi even though I could feel her attraction to me. Sudana was always more graceful than envious, unlike the American girls who fight to crush the competition with their tongues and fists and feet.

“Akemi is not with me right now,” I answered.

“Oh.”

“Thank you, Sudana, I’m coming through.” I hung up.

It was a warm night on the hot blocks of the BX. I maneuvered around tight streets where cars were double-parked for as far as my
eyes could see. Some men sat on stoops and others sat on porches. Some men repaired cars while others rushed toward their homes. The ice cream truck, Mister Softee, played his familiar jingle tune, loud enough to rattle the hood and call out the hood rats.

When I arrived at the only house on the block with a high fence, I stopped out front. I pushed the gate, but it was locked, like I knew it would be.

“It’s you?” Sudana’s voice asked.

“It’s me.” I heard the lock click twice and the fence opened only enough to let me in. I stepped inside and looked once before lowering my gaze away from Sudana’s eyes.

“Come in.” She smiled. I locked the fence behind me and followed her in. I didn’t have to look directly at her; easily I could just be guided by her scent. Sudanese girls who know and live our traditions wear the most exotic and alluring perfumes, not the same kind that you buy from the department store. They wear handmade ones from centuries ago that merge with each woman’s personal chemistry and give her an unforgettable and unique identity. A woman’s smell, mixed with the perfumes that we call
kormah
in our Sudanese language, has always been unforgettable to me. I easily understood why we as Muslim men separate ourselves from the presence of women who are not ours. It is the subtle things that a woman does or wears that makes any man aroused if he is allowed to come too close. And every man in the world of any religion or no religion at all knows that he is or can be or will become attracted to many, many women if he is allowed to smell and come in close.

Inside, I removed my Nikes. She bent to remove her sandals. I stopped myself from glancing at her feet.

The inside of the house smelled like cinnamon. Sudana was cooking something, perhaps the meal for her entire family. We walked through the living room, where her school textbook was wide open on the floor, along with a few notebooks, pencils, and a pen. In a small side room with a messy desk, a telephone, and a few file cabinets, papers, and folders, a well-used soccer ball and a soiled old pair of sneakers, she invited me to sit down on a clean cloth couch. I sank in like I was a member of their family sitting in the exact same spot where any one of her brothers had sat repeatedly.

“Wait a minute, please,” she said, leaving the room swiftly and leaving her sweet scent behind her.

Thoughts of the past three days of my life raced through my mind. Early Saturday morning was the last time that I had seen my wife’s beautiful face and seductive eyes and felt her deep feeling emotions. By Saturday night she was gone. I had spent all day Sunday searching for her and Sunday night sitting with Umma being moved across continents by her true storytelling, which caused me to revisit powerful memories of our Sudanese estate, my phenomenal father, and our relatives, friends, and people. My heart became too heavy for my chest.

“I made this for you,” Sudana said, reappearing and carrying a tray and setting it on the desktop. The aroma of the food and her scent revived me. From the corner of my eye I watched her pull out a metal tray with a stand, open it up, and set on it a dish of stew with a cup of tea and
aseeda
.

“You seem like the kind who won’t stop to feed yourself unless someone reminds you.” She smiled and turned to leave but then stopped and added, “And when you feel tired, you really should go to sleep.”

I looked in the ceramic teacup at the unfamiliar way she had placed three tiny yellow flowers in my tea. They rested lightly on top of the hot liquid.

If I’d had the energy, I probably would have said, “No, that’s okay, I’m not hungry. I’ll wait till later to eat.” But Sudana was right. I was hungry and had forgotten to eat so far for the whole day.

She stepped out, then walked right back in carrying a warm cloth, the steam still rising up from it. She came up to me and took my right hand, wiping each finger clean and then turned my palm over and began wiping it with the warm cloth. It felt soothing and the cloth smelled like lemon. I took the cloth from her hand and then used it to clean my other hand for obvious reasons.

“Shukran,”
I said to her, meaning “thank you” in Arabic.

“Enjoy” was all she said, and she turned and left as she was supposed to.

I whispered over the food, “Allah,” then took some spoonfuls of the stew. It tasted good and was seasoned well. I couldn’t help comparing
it to my Umma’s food, which is always superior. The Sudanese
aseeda
bread was hot the way I liked it. I dipped it in the stew and ate it moist. I gulped the tea, and it entered my body and began calming everything down.

“Now you look a little better.” Sudana had returned as I finished. “I mean you’re always so handsome, but you seemed too tired today.” The fabric of her black
thobe
concealed her flesh and hid her figure. Her
hijab
covered her hair, which I had never seen. She was not wearing
niqab
, so her pretty face, flawless skin—smooth as satin, bearing one black beauty mark, which gently rested over the right side of her lip—stood out more. I avoided those hazel eyes of hers, which tended to change colors, like an African wild cat’s. Unexpectedly, she walked up close, stood over me where I was seated, and then placed two fingers on the top of my head. She pressed.

It was a peaceful feeling, this sleep, like how a body rests when it feels at home and in a safe place. But I was not at home. Myself woke myself up. Now the lights in the office were dimmed. The food tray, cloth, and dishes had been removed. I leaned forward and stretched out my legs. I ran my hand over my Ceasar haircut, remembering how Sudana had touched my head. It was the last thing I felt before slipping away. I leaped up to my feet with disbelief at my own sloppiness. How could I allow myself to fall asleep in another man’s home? I knew I was responsible for the mistake. But I also knew that Sudana had worked some of her Sudanese female charms and tricks on me.

How could I be mad at her when I knew she did it for my own good? I couldn’t be. So I just stayed tight at myself.

Across the hall in their bathroom, I threw ice-cold water onto my face and rinsed out my mouth and washed my hands. When I stepped out into the hall, I could hear the sounds of a full house out in their living room.

When I entered the living room, all the female family members began laughing, beginning with the mother. Meanwhile, Mr. Ghazzali and both of his sons suddenly stood up from their seats. A smile forced its way across my face. I was embarrassed.

“My bad,
salaam alaikum
, Mr. Ghazzali and family.”

“It’s really okay,” Mrs. Ghazzali said joyfully. “I tried to call Sana, I mean your
umi
Umma and let her know just how hard she must be
working you, for you to have fallen asleep away from home. But
even she wasn’t home
.” She smiled.

Sudana brought me a glass of water.

“Yes, Umma is at work tonight. In fact I have to meet her at …” I checked my watch.

“It’s ten thirty, brother,” Mr. Ghazzali called out.

I drank the water.

“What’s happening, man?” Mr. Ghazzali’s son Mustapha, asked me.

“Yeah, what’s up?” The younger brother Talil greeted me.

“Mr. Ghazzali, I wanted to have a brief business meeting with you. That’s why I came by tonight. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you in your home,” I said, my way of apologizing.

“Don’t insult me. You know that you are welcomed here anytime. I was so impressed with the way you handled your business, I was hoping we could work together again somehow.”

“Thank you, Ahki,” I said. It was a Sudanese way of acknowledging Mr. Ghazzali as my brother. If my father were standing right there, he would have scolded me to address Mr. Ghazzali as “Amm,” or uncle, which is what a young man calls any man who is older than himself by more than a few years.

“Well, good night, gentlemen,” Temirah Aunty (Mrs. Ghazzali) said, and three of her daughters followed her out of the living room area. Sudana didn’t. She came over to collect the empty glass from me and looked into my eyes like she wanted to say something, but then she didn’t. She turned to leave, then looked back and said, ‘I mentioned to my
ub
that I saw your wife, Akemi, in the Sunday edition of the
New York Times
, the Arts & Entertainment section. I’m sure that you’ve seen it already. I just wanted to say that the kimono she was wearing was incredible. Did Umma make it?” she asked, her eyes filled with curiosity.

“No, Akemi brought the kimono from Japan, and then she designed the outside herself. You know she’s an artist.”

“Obviously a great one. They only had
her
picture in there for the entire event at the Museum of Modern Art. I guess she overwhelmed them,” Sudana said.

“Yes, she overwhelms me too,” I said naturally, without thinking about hurting Sudana’s feelings. But her face didn’t reveal any hurt. I was glad.

“It must be something having a famous wife. I mean, you know Muslim men, and we know that Sudanese men don’t prefer to have their wives out in the open, right, Ub?” she asked her father. And before he could even respond, she said to me softly, “I would’ve worn the veil for you.” It was a bold statement for a Sudanese girl, especially in the presence of her father. More than that, it was a polite offer.

“Sudana, let the men talk,” Mr. Ghazzali said, dismissing his daughter. She turned and left obediently without a word of protest, as it should be.

* * *

Outside, Mr. Ghazzali sped his taxi in reverse down his driveway, stopping abruptly right before his fence. He waved me into the front seat. I got in. He got out to open the fence. His sons emerged from the dark corner of the yard to lock the fence back up.

“So what’s going on?” Mr. Ghazzali asked.

“I have to make a trip to Japan,” I told him, getting right into it.

“Whoa! Japan! Sounds nice, but very expensive. You know they say it’s the third most expensive country to live in in the world? I had a guy in my cab once telling me a slice of fish out there is eight dollars. They’ll slice one fish up ten times. They’re selling one mediumsized red snapper for eighty US dollars. If I were living out there, I’d have to turn my whole family vegetarian overnight just trying to make it.” He made a sound of disapproval with his teeth that most Sudanese make and understand.

“My Umma and my young sister Naja will stay here in New York. That’s what I wanted to discuss. I want to set up car service for them for every morning and every evening while I’m away. I came to you because I need someone I can trust, not just a taxi driver to pick up and drop off.”

“You never told me where you and your family are living,” he reminded me.

“They’ll be staying at a Manhattan hotel while I am away,” I said, eluding him.

Mr. Ghazzali maneuvered around the double-parked cars but had to hit the brakes when he reached a triple-parked car. The Impala was in the middle of the street blocking any passage left, right, or straight. There was no driver seated in the vehicle.

“I lost a good driver from the Ivory Coast this way,” he said, sitting behind the parked car without honking or cursing. “My driver leaned on his horn on one of these Bronx streets where people park like they’re crazy. Some sixteen-year-old kid without a driver’s license or insurance ran downstairs and shot him dead for blowing the horn too loud. The kid jumps in the car and speeds away, leaving my driver’s bloody body behind. A valuable life lost for no reason. This is what I have been trying to say to you, young brother. You don’t need to explain to me what you want out of life or how you want your mother and sister treated. We are Muslim. We are Sudanese. We both understand and want the exact same things. It’s these animals out here,” he said, pointing to the people lingering on the block. “It’s them who don’t understand or care. They got no God, no boundaries, no limits, no respect for life.”