Midnight and the Meaning of Love (72 page)

I pulled out my small notebook and my mind drifted around the globe into the Ghazzalis’ basement, then out to the streets of Brooklyn, then into my sensei’s Brooklyn dojo, and out to home court for
the Hustlers League. I thought of Ameer and Chris and even Marty Bookbinder. I thought Marty would be in awe of both the Japanese and Korean bookstores I had visited, and more in awe of their inventory. Over a game of chess when I got back,
inshallah
, and when I wasn’t stressed, I would tell him how you could buy and read books all night in Japan, and how in Korea the entire family and neighborhood, babies and all, pile up in bookstores and stay there for hours doing everything, including having a full meal in the bookstore restaurants. I would share with him how nobody had to beg the Asians to visit the bookstore, to buy books, to think and learn; it was part of their lifestyle.

Then my mind moved to Sun Eun’s apartment, my wife, and how she was feeling and what she was eating and drinking, and what was she thinking about right then when I was thinking about her? I thought about what she was observing when she saw Sun Eun. Did she see gestures similar to what she had seen in her mother, or hear Sun Eun use similar words and phrases? Umma doesn’t have a sister. It would be bugged-out, I think, to see two Ummas seated side by side. Then I smiled and said to myself,
Impossible!

Then I thought of my Southern Sudanese grandfather, his life, thoughts, words, and criticisms. Would he think that a university was a good place? He had never been to one, never studied under any professors or professionals, yet he was the wisest man I knew. And it was his sperm that gave rise to my own father. I thought about whether my Southern Sudanese grandfather would say that a university is the exact place that changes a man’s thinking under the guise of making him strong and knowledgeable while actually making him a weak, dependent servant to a deceitful and lesser master.
Yes, that’s exactly what he would say
. I smiled. I appreciated the way both my father and grandfather allowed me to “visit” them these days, to go inside their thoughts and feelings and emerge with their expressions.

My mind switched to the streets of Tokyo and down the narrow streets of crazy-ass Harajuku and through those blocks that led to Yoyogi Park, a forest filled with secrets. A stone path led me to the doorstep of Chiasa, the shoes lined up outside.

Could I climb into her heart and mind and search her feelings and thoughts the way I did with my father and grandfather? What about
my
heart and thoughts? The truth was, Chiasa was the only
person in this world who made me feel truly guilty. Before her, guilt was mostly unknown to me.
Why?
I asked myself. I felt guilty first for seeing Chiasa on the plane. I felt guilty for being with her, guilty for allowing her to use up all her time on me, guilty for feeling close to her too fast, guilty for loving her, guilty for not loving her, and guilty for arousing her and knowing it, and leaving her alone with a boiling heart and fire in her bones. I felt guilty for wanting her for myself and guilty for feeling like fighting to keep her from any other man, and guilty for coveting her virginity and for feeling a love that led to an urge for me to push up inside of her. Fuck it, when it came to Chiasa, I was just
guilty
, period.
Now I’m clear. I was clear before. Then I got lost. Now I’m clear again.

If I wanted to keep Chiasa close, I had to first speak with my wife clearly and honestly. I had to introduce them face to face. I knew I could never allow any woman to rock my first love, Akemi, who I still love sincerely, deeply, and strongly and who I would love and secure forever, as long as Allah allowed me life. My wife would have to agree. If not, I would let it burn, and let Chiasa go.

If we two, then three were in harmony, I’d have to contact and confront Chiasa’s father. If he agreed, I’d simply marry Chiasa. She would become my second wife. I smiled. Yes, I would marry her easily, love her, work hard for her, fight for her, kill for her, cherish her, and give her babies,
inshallah.

Oh, but I had messed up already, I knew. I had done something stupid, a mistake that my father would not have made, because his father also didn’t. I should’ve known to keep my intimacies with each of my women separate. I should not have asked Akemi to call Chiasa for me, even though Akemi enjoyed calling Chiasa on her own and for herself. I should not have tried to have an intimate conversation with Chiasa while finger-fucking my wife and becoming overwhelmed by a powerful desire. This incredible urge could also be brought on by Chiasa. What if I was in the midst of and the thick of that urge toward Chiasa? Would I make the same mistake and hurt and disappoint Akemi? A real man had a duty to make his women feel good all over. But it should be done in a private space, one wife receiving all of my attention and desires at a time. A man who disturbs the peace in his home is a fool. Only a fool would disturb his women’s peace, because their peace is his own.

If I had the urge without the love, it would be nothing to me. It would be easy to avoid, resist, and forget. While ignoring the sexual urges I definitely have toward Chiasa, the love and feelings that I had for her were mounting instead of lessening. By not seeing Chiasa or calling her up repeatedly, I was avoiding the fact that when and if I saw her again I would definitely make her mine.

I got up from my student seat to ease out to the phone booth. I would use my phone card to call Chiasa and apologize and set things right. I wanted to listen first and hear from her what she wanted. Maybe I was bugging. Maybe she would say, “Yeah, I felt a little something for you, but I gotta go fly my planes, ride my horses, and fight. I’m a solider for hire, remember? I’m not leaving Japan, what for?”

“Yes, very good, class. I want to introduce you to someone. We have a guest today,” Professor Dong Hwa announced. All fifty-seven students turned to look back my way.

“Tell them your name, please, my young friend from America. Don’t worry, they all speak at least basic English and will enjoy the opportunity to practice the language with a fluent speaker.”

On the spot, off guard, and under close observation, I ran my hand over my Caesar.

“Step down to the front, please,” the professor asked me in the form of an announcement.

I stepped down to the front.

“Your name?”

“Midnight,” I answered. The students began to murmur.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked.

“I came to Korea from Japan,” I answered.

“Are you Japanese?” he asked sarcastically. The entire class burst into laughter and a more relaxed feeling began swirling in the air.

“Nah,” I said, and cut the professor a mean look.

“Well then?” he said, enjoying his position.

“Before Japan I came from Brooklyn, New York,” I said.

“Do you mind answering some questions?” the professor asked.

“It’s too late to ask me that,” I said, and the students laughed again. “So go ahead,” I told him.

“I mean for my students to feel free to ask some questions,” he said in English and then spoke some Korean. “Okay,” he said, and pointed to a female student. She stood up.

“Do you know Whitney Houston?” she asked me. The class laughed. One male student scolded her in Korean.

“Not personally,” I responded.

“What about Eddie Murphy?” another student asked me. Then the same male student who scolded the other girl said, “No, you idiots. Midnight is not an entertainer. He is an athlete. What sport do you play?” he asked me.

“Basketball,” I answered.

“Are you any good?” another male asked me.

“I can take on any of you, no problem,” I said. It was true but I was really joking with them, since they were joking with me. Oohs and ahs and two guys jumped up. “Challenge!” one of ’em called out.

The professor interrupted sternly. “This is
university
-level history! I meant for my students to ask you smarter questions. I am sorry to you, my friend,” he said sincerely.

“It’s no problem,” I told him, eager to ease out of the spotlight. But the professor began scolding his students in Korean first, and then he switched to speaking in English.

“What about the
Challenger
, which blew up at the beginning of this year? This had a deep effect on America and American science. Isn’t anyone interested in hearing comments about that? What about the Chernobyl nuclear power plant explosion that leaked active radiation into the environment? How do South Korean students feel about the nuclear threat and the nuclear arms race coming from even as close as North Korea? And what does our guest Midnight, think?

His class became completely silent. “We could’ve seized the opportunity to have meaningful conversation,” the professor said in English first, and then swiftly switched to Korean, I assume to translate the same thing.

“Every Korean male will have to perform his military service. South Korean men will serve a mandatory three years. North Korean men will serve a mandatory ten years. These are the issues that will affect all of you, that we discuss each time that we meet here for classes. What about the very recent bombing of the North African country Libya?”

But the professor had no takers. Upset, he dismissed his class. A line formed before him of bowing, apologizing students. One by one
they stepped up in a display of respect for their teacher. Meanwhile, a small crowd of students formed around me.

“Do you have Nintendo?”

“Which is better, Super Mario or Zelda?”

“Not Nintendo, Sega Genesis. It’s American-made. Nintendo is from Japan,” one student said.

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” one bare-legged, pretty Korean girl in a short skirt with killa eyes asked me aloud. Then everyone stopped talking to listen for my answer, even the professor.

“I have a wife. I’m married,” I said. They all began to clap.

“Is she American?” another girl asked.

“No, she’s Korean,” I answered, surprising myself. There was a chorus of oohs and low murmurs.

“She’s Professor Dong Hwa’s niece,” I added, purposely to show him not to put me on the spot unless he wanted to be exposed and placed on the spot himself. I’m not one of his students so the professor should stop testing me.

The students all looked toward their professor for confirmation.
“Songsehneem!”
they all shouted. He was looking back at them, and for the first time he was without words, basic ones or fancy ones.

“And I love her a lot. She’s beautiful,” I told them, then turned to the professor and said, “Uncle Dong Hwa, I’m stepping out to find a phone booth. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll walk you,” the pretty girl offered me, and began to move my way. Then two males escorted her, escorting me. Now, I knew where the phone booth was located. However, the students never left my side, and three turned into six and six turned into nine. Not one of them asked me any of those current events, history or science questions that Professor Dong Hwa had urged them to ask. Instead they asked about Run DMC.

In the back of a building ten male students eagerly showed me their break-dancing moves. They battled one another, pumping “Apache” and “Dance to the Drummer’s Beat,” and got more lively on a track that I’ve never heard before called “Hot Potato.” They were nice with their skills. I checked one kid so nice it seemed like he had
defeated gravity as he held his pose midair. I thought of the boys on my Brooklyn block and in all the boroughs of New York. I thought about DeQuan and his brothers too. Could they ever know how their style and art was moving across the globe so strong that these kids were at least as good as any hood cats?

The leader of the break-dancing crew named himself Black Sea. After they rocked, he shot straight over to me and introduced himself. He said, “Midnight, great name!” After he ran a style check on me, he followed me around. Rather, he showed me around as he followed me. I asked him what he was studying. He answered, “Physics, third year,” and made me lean back some. “It goes together, physics and break dancing. You see what I mean?” he said.

In the huge, spotless gym we got a game up. The dancers broke out and the ballers stepped up. They were eager and unafraid. I liked that.

After game time, they offered me food and water in their immaculate cafeteria. When I refused, they gasped. I sat down with them. It seemed like they thought it was the thing for me to do. They ate and talked a lot, to me and among themselves. When their questions led to me telling them “I’m Muslim,” a silence fell on the table. When I explained about Ramadan, they gasped and moaned and one girl said, “You must be really hungry!” Then one girl stupidly added that she heard that all Africans were starving like that.

“He’s not African,” one male student called out. “He’s American!”

Then someone else shouted those two down. “He’s African-American.”

Certain things caught my eyes and ears. How the students cliqued up according to their year—freshman, sophomore, junior, senior. Also, how the Korean males interacted and got along. When I was chilling with a handful of seniors, about fifteen freshmen flew by, stopped in their tracks, and bowed down to their seniors. There was no joking or laughing on those matters for them. There were levels that everyone respected. Joke among their same-age peers, but bow down to their elders, even if they were only one year older.

They asked my age. I didn’t tell them, made them guess instead, and refused to confirm either way.

We ended up in the weight room with Black Sea and nine other guys who weren’t around when we first started out. We had a push-up
competition and it was hilarious watching their arms, legs, and chests collapse, no competition whatsoever.

When Black Sea showed me the way to Professor Dong Hwa’s office, there was a small crowd of female students standing outside. That same girl, the pretty one with the miniskirt and tight tee and heels and the killa eyes, was among them. She approached me and Black Sea. I moved past her and went in to check with the professor.