Midnight and the Meaning of Love (64 page)

We removed our shoes. I carried in her luggage. Akemi crawled over the mattress and curled up in the corner, her black hair spreading across the black sheets, her petite green leather jacket creeping up and revealing her belly button. Her borrowed Adidas sweats a bit too big, I could see the divide that led to her private places. I removed my backpack and stood it in a corner of the room. From my knapsack I pulled out the urn that contained Akemi’s mother’s ashes. I placed it on the desk as she watched me intently.

In the bathroom, I washed my hands and face, removing the soil from the flight and travel. When I stepped back into the room, Akemi was looking through her clothes that were professionally packed and wrapped—some tied with ribbons and others with thick string like each item was brand-new.

“I’ll be right back,” I told her before the heavy door clicked locked.

When I returned from a nearby convenience store, I placed eight bottles of spring water, one lemon, one cup of fresh-sqeezed orange juice, and two
onigiri
rice triangles on the desk. I left a new bar of soap, two toothbrushes, and toothpaste. From my backpack I pulled out Akemi’s body oil and a small shampoo. I sat everything beside the rice cooker and the tea set.

I picked up her passport and said, “Akemi, I’m going back out. Dinner at seven, Akemi and Mayonaka.” She opened the bathroom door slightly, one pretty eye watching me through the slight opening.
“Hai,”
she said softly. I eased out, looking quickly past her little lavender lace panties and bra laid out on the bed.

* * *

There were three hours remaining on this day of my Ramadan fast. I remembered in the Sudan my father and the men on our estate staying in the mosque throughout the entire Ramadan days, separated from their wives and children. I could feel now why men must separate themselves from their women at times to guard their faith and serve their Maker. Women are so quietly powerful that their presence
can separate a man from his beliefs before he even realizes he has done
harom
, the forbidden.

The clock was winding down on our strange hotel room and on my chances of securing an adult broker to buy our Pan Star Line tickets. My mind had been shifting ideas back and forth. I was certain of one thing: there had to be someone out here in this international hub for boats, barges, cargo, and ships who was willing to earn ten or twenty or thirty thousand yen just for showing his identification and purchasing two one-way tickets to Busan.

Outside the spot where the Saudi Arabian flag flew high, I sensed that my idea was a long shot. Up close, I could now see clearly that it was a carpet store called Jeddah Carpets. This was not just any collection of carpets. They were from Saudi Arabia, which ranks among the top three carpet makers in the world. I’m sure business was bringing them bundles. My offer of what amounted to about two or three hundred dollars for the ticket-buying errand would be considered minimal or nothing at all. Determined not to defeat my plan with doubt, I went inside the place anyway.

“Asalaam alaikum, Ramadan Kareem.”
I greeted the elderly Arab man in Arabic and reminded him of our mutual sacred holiday at the same time.

“
Alaikum salaam, Allah hafiz.
How can we accommodate you?” he asked. “Our samples have been displayed for your comfort,” he added before taking a breath.

“I’m not here to order your fine carpets. I saw your flag and thought you might have information about the closest
masjid
in this area.”

“
Alhamdulillah!
You are trying to locate a mosque in Osaka?” The man said and then smiled doubtfully. “It is easier to find a fish in the desert.” He laughed two short grunts. “But the mosque is in the heart, is it not?” he asked me. Suddenly, a younger Saudi man, about forty years old or so, came bursting through the back curtain.

“What is it?” he asked. “We are not hiring.”

“I’m not looking for work,” I stated. “I have a business of my own.”

“Well, then you are here for buying carpet?” He smiled and opened his hands, a gesture to welcome a potential customer.

“He is looking for a mosque,” the elder man said.

“What for?” the younger one asked.

“For today’s Maghrib prayer,” I responded, tolerating him.

“We are not fasting. My father has diabetes and I am traveling,” the younger one said.

“I’m also traveling.” I showed him his excuse, as we were both foreigners living comfortably, it seemed, and definitely
not
traveling through a hot desert on a camel’s back like men were in the old days of Muhammad, peace be upon him.

“So are you better than us?” he asked with his face reddening and tightening some.

“Salaam,”
I said and turned to leave. It was a brief exchange, but I was clear from the vibe that I wasn’t gonna get anything moving from either of these two.

I was not disappointed, just determined. I already knew that just because a man is an Arab does not mean that he is a Muslim, and just because he says he’s Muslim does not mean that he’s true.

“
Sura
two,
ayat
one eighty-four,” the elder Arab man said as he stepped outside his carpet business and onto the sidewalk where I stood.

He was quoting from chapter two of the Holy Quran, the 184th line. I knew it well. It commanded all Muslims to observe the Ramadan fast except if they were sick or traveling. It also said that Muslims who could not fast because of travel or illness should make up the fasting days before the beginning of the next Ramadan fast. Or if a believer could not fast due to illness, he should feed one Muslim a charitable meal each day of Ramadan instead. He then handed me a flyer written in Arabic. I read it. It advertised a free meal to Muslims fasting during Ramadan at sunset each day, and posted the location. “Sponsored by Jeddah Carpets,” it read.

“We have set this table at a nice halal restaurant as a form of
zakat
since my son and I are unable to fast during Ramadan. This is what is required from us as believers.”

“
Sura
two,
ayat
two sixty-four,” I responded. From the change in his facial expression, I could tell that he understood. “I’m not searching for charity. I was looking for like-minded men from our faith, but thank you.” I left with a distaste for men who try and pay their way out of Ramadan.

In a phone booth I used my phone card and called Haki, the Kenyan college student who lived in the Harajuku hostel where I once
stayed. His hospitality was the opposite feeling of the father and son of Jeddah Carpets. His face had not popped into my thoughts when I reviewed the short list of adults I knew here in Japan. However, it did when I was in the carpet store. Haki had said to me a few times, “If you need anything at all, just ask me.”

“Habari gani,”
Haki picked up my call.

“Salaam,”
I said. “It’s Mayonaka who stayed there at the hostel a few weeks ago.”

There was a pause. “Oh yes, brother. How is it? You are still here in Japan, yes?”

“I’m still here—,” I said, and he interrupted.

“I mentioned to you once before that it’s a difficult place to leave. What can I do for you?”

“Haki, listen carefully, I got a situation,” I said.

“As the Englishman says, ‘I am all ears.’ Strange saying, isn’t it?” he joked.

“I’m in Osaka right now. I don’t know who you may know out here, but I need to buy a ticket to board the ferryboat from Osaka to Busan, Korea,” I explained.

“The loan department is the only department I cannot help you with, my brother. Remember college students have all had our accounts emptied out by our universities.”

“Haki, I can help you with that. I have money. I can pay out thirty thousand yen over the cost of the tickets to the person who buys the tickets for me. They won’t sell them to me directly because I’m underage.”

“Is there something that the Japanese will not sell?” he asked, sounding seriously surprised.

“It’s not the Japanese. It’s a Korean-owned cruise line.”

“Hmm … I know at least three students in Osaka. I’ll have to try and reach them. It’s exam time for me. Man, I wish I was there, even I could use the thirty thousand yen. When do you plan to travel?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. The payment is for the person who can put a rush on it, show up with his passport or any official form of identification. He has to be twenty years or older.”

“Twenty or over,” he repeated. “Isn’t it strange, the clash of culture?”

“What?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Back home in Kenya, a boy becomes a man at age fourteen. At fourteen, I am no longer allowed to remain in a house under the same roof with my own mother. My father would forbid it. My people would look down on it. At fourteen my older brother, who already had his own house and me, built a house for me on the property that my parents own. My father gave me a plot of land there. I could have married at that instant and taken my new bride into the house that I built. As you can see, I didn’t. I opted to focus on my studies. But it was my choice as a man.”

“Word up, a big difference,” I acknowledged. At that moment I appreciated Haki’s like-mindedness.

“When I first arrived in Japan, everything was crazy for me. It took some getting used to. Japanese men were still dressing in short pants.”

“Short pants?” I repeated.

“In my country, only young boys wear short pants outside or as a school uniform. Once you are a man, you wear proper pants and shirts. Isn’t it? Yet the Japanese have what they refer to as teenagers! What is that? Neither child nor man, I suppose. Yet they are still dressed as little boys. The Japanese men at twenty, thirty, forty are still reading comic books and playing with their toys and ignoring their women. One Japanese fella I know, a grad student, was always talking about his girlfriend. As it turns out, she was some popular animated character who he fell in love with somehow. But he stupidly believed they were in a real-life relationship.”

“Haki, thanks for taking my call, but I’m running low on time,” I said with an even tone. “Do you think you can arrange this for me?” I pressed.

“I’m gonna make three calls. Call me back in one hour just in case I gotta track ’em down.”

“Aight, thanks,” I told him. But he was still talking as I was in motion to hang up. I pulled the phone back to my ear.

“Speaking of women, is it one ticket or two tickets that you need? First you said ticket. Then you said tickets. Which is it?” Haki asked.

“It’s two tickets,” I confirmed.

“I see … I had been meaning to ask you. I hope that it is okay to ask.” He spoke hesitantly for some reason.

“What?” I pushed him to get right to it.

“There was a beautiful African girl I saw you with. She was African and Japanese. Forgive me if she is your woman, but if she is not, how about arranging an introduction for me? She seems like the best of both worlds. It’s been lonely here for me. I mean, the rigorous studies and the differences in culture and beliefs and things. Brother, I’m not looking for a bargirl. You know that I know exactly where to find them! I’m looking for a good girl, a wife. Is she yours?”

“She is my woman.” I told him, and hung up.

I felt confident about Haki’s ability to complete the ticket transaction. If he was smart, he would locate a broker and offer him 15,000 or 20,000 yen and keep the rest as a finder’s fee. He had led me to find halal foods and Billy’s and the Senegalese. I should’ve thought of him before I ever considered the Saudi Arabians. Many of them are known for their riches and sometimes for their arrogance. Better yet, I should’ve searched out the neediest, most genuine Muslim man. That way I would be performing
zakat
to help him, while helping myself as well. I wouldn’t use the
zakat
as an excuse either. I would do it in addition to maintaining the fast, which is required of all able Muslims.

Then that thought triggered a new idea. I pulled the flyer from my pocket and opened it a second time. I jumped in a cab and headed over to the free meal sponsored by Jeddah Carpets. I scolded myself for the whole ride. Allah had placed the answer directly into the palm of my hands. But I had allowed the messenger to distract me from the gift of the message. Of course there would be at least one willing Muslim adult at the Maghrib prayer, and the free meal for breaking our fast, who could also use the extra pocket money.

* * *

In the back room of a Lebanese restaurant, situated side by side with a Saudi hookah bar, twelve men, including myself, plus five women who stood behind us, made the Maghrib prayer. The small room was much warmer than the air outside. The thick and plush carpet was welcoming to both our bended knees and our lowered foreheads.

When our prayers were completed, some moved through the curtain and into the empty restaurant, where a long table was set and marked with a placard that read in Arabic “Courtesy of Jeddah Carpets.” Still in the back with six other Muslim men who remained
there also, I peered into faces, but discreetly. There were African Muslims in the mix, I could tell, but none of them black-skinned like me. I was looking not for a common race but for a common faith and mind-set. I knew a Muslim, a true believer, would support and respect a young marriage like mine. It would not pour into their ears as poison. It would be familiar and, for many, expected. It was for these reasons that I sought out a Muslim in particular.

I chose a brother named Ali. He was young but older than me, I could tell. He was wearing an Osaka University T-shirt and jeans. More important, he had arrived accompanying a visibly pregnant wife, which I believed might work in my favor.

“May I talk with you for a moment?” I asked him. He nodded and stepped out of the circle of men he was quietly conversing with.

“I am a student traveling with my young wife. We are trying to purchase tickets here at the pier for the ferry to South Korea. They tell me that I need someone twenty years or older to purchase the tickets for me; someone who has a valid passport or official identification. I need to travel tomorrow. If you are willing, I can pay thirty thousand yen for you to be the broker to buy the tickets on my behalf.”