Midnight

  Seated in a Middle Eastern restaurant called Medina Star on the east side of Fifty-seventh Street in Manhattan, I was sure I was introducing Akemi to some of the North African foods that I enjoy, which she had probably never tried. I ordered falafel with tahini sauce, hummus, and babaganosh. I ordered those purple Kalamata olives that I enjoy with cayenne-spiced onions and shotta. I also ordered a tray of chicken kebabs and warm pita bread, all of it for us to share.

  When she returned from the ladies room all fresh and clean, her eyes danced at the spread on our table. She began trying each dish, her reactions showing up on her face each time.

  I picked her mini recorder up from her side of the table. She was just sucking one of her fingers when I clicked it on and said, “Speak Korean.” She must have had hot sauce on her tongue because her eyes immediately filled with water. Either that, or maybe she’d thought of her Korean mother. I knew this reaction was a possibility but I wanted her to know that I knew something about her family, that she was not a stranger or just a pretty face to me.

  She spoke Korean softly into the mic. The flow of that language was completely different than her Japanese sounded in my ear. The Korean language sounded like a whining, every other word dragged out, the syllables moaned instead of spoken. The way she spoke it was erotic and it was nice too.

  “Speak Chinese,” I said next. Her watery eyes dried up. I saw she was delighted by games. She spoke some Chinese to me, which sounded nothing like her Japanese or Korean. It was a swiftly spoken language with a nasal twang. Last, I asked her to speak Thai and she did, easily.

  Secretly, I was overwhelmed by her.

  In the night she wanted to shop. She was the first person ever to take me into Bergdorf Goodman, which had to be the most expensive store in the whole wide world. I watched her drown herself in perfumes, checking with me on what scents I liked. She looked at thousand-dollar dresses, shoes that cost several thousand dollars, and handbags so expensive they were locked in a vault. From Bergdorf’s, she ended up only purchasing a couple of things, a pair of Prada kicks and seven pairs of stockings, beautiful and fancy ones. By now I could see that colorful stockings and textured tights was really her thing.

  Afterward, she wanted to show me something else. We walked about twelve blocks before we arrived at a brick building on a side street. She pushed through the glass door and led me up six flights of narrow stairs to the third floor.

  Up there were walls and walls and shelves of books, volumes of graphic novels, comics, and magazines. The catch was, everything was written in Japanese. I figured she wanted me to know that she liked books too and what kind. The place was kind of slick, I thought. I saw that the Asians were also good at re-creating their Asian world right inside New York City. I thought it was interesting how foreigners from the same land still manage to find each other in a sea of diverse people nine million deep.

  She spoke nicely to the store staff, all Asians. But she remained focused on me. She never tried to place any distance between me and her while she was around her own kind or other youth. Yet in front of her aunt and uncle her vibe wasn’t the same.

  I bought one Japanese novel as a token. She bought three.

  We ended up on a side street on Thirtieth. These were private Japanese boutiques. The store owner or a security guard had to buzz each customer in after a careful inspection.

  Nobody had to tell me what one shop owner was thinking when she saw me standing there behind Akemi. She actually came to the door and spoke some Japanese to which Akemi answered only “Hai.” I figured the woman asked, “Is this Black guy with you or should I call the police?”

  After a while, I figured out that Akemi shopped there because they had the styles that fit Asian girls. Their body type was different from a lot of other women. These shops catered to them and also sold both the European and Asian high fashions in petite sizes.

  Akemi took forever and then dropped a couple of grand on some items she selected in the Thirtieth Street shops. Despite the cost, all of her purchases fit into two decorative shopping bags, which she unfolded from inside her magical knapsack.

  On Thirty-fourth Street a huge crowd had gathered on either side of the long blocks. I was surprised. There were hundreds or maybe even a thousand people standing there, side by side and back to back. When I looked up at the glowing numbers on the neon clock that sat in a billboard in the sky, I was surprised at just how late it was. Even Macy’s department store had already closed. Police officers lined each side of the street keeping the crowd behind the barricades and keeping the streets clear.

  Akemi walked behind me with one hand on my waist. When I found our way through to the front of the crowd, I thought I must have gone crazy ’cause I saw fifty huge, majestic elephants marching down the New York City streets, single file in a straight line. Akemi, standing behind me, could not see. I took her two shopping bags and secured them. I lifted her onto my shoulders, her legs dangling down on my chest.

  “It’s the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. They’re bringing the elephants into Madison Square Garden. It’s circus season,” one parent explained to her teenaged kids.

  “It’s the Midnight March of the Elephants. They do this every year,” another person said.

  Akemi wouldn’t move until the last elephant, clown, monkey, horse and pony trotted off the streets. She was so fascinated I didn’t move her or remind her that now it was the next day, 12:30 A.M.

  When our cab arrived at Jackson Heights, Queens, she wanted to walk off on her own toward her house. I paid the cabbie and went with her, not trying to hear no sayonara. I wouldn’t leave her to go alone at this late hour.

  I walked with her right up to her front door. Their porch light was high intensity, high wattage, more like a searchlight and was the only light on the very darkened street. Her auntie pulled their door open slightly as though she had been seated right there on the other side of the door, just waiting.

  I said, “Good night,” to them both and made my way home. For me it was cool walking the late night–early morning streets of Queens, New York.

  I could feel the love moving and spreading through my chest like an invasion. It was a new feeling, different from my love for my family. It was a good feeling too.

  On the train I attempted to assure myself of a couple of things. Akemi was on break from school, so it was all right for her to be out late with me tonight.

  But I knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t all right in my beliefs and traditions. None of it was supposed to be happening. But what was up with her uncle anyway? I had introduced myself properly to him. I handed over the modest gifts from my family to his. I told him where I worked and where I came from. I was up front with him. But he was silent. If he had anything to say, or any rules to set, or any demands to make, the ball was in his court. I could respect any man who made himself clear about his family.

  At our apartment I got some responses from Akemi’s family. It came on my voice mail while I was listening to a few business messages at a low volume in my bedroom. The first call from them came from the night before at nine, while we were out shopping. It was Akemi’s cousin looking for Akemi. Oddly, her message was spoken as if she wasn’t the one who called me and set up the date between me and Akemi in the first place. She was talking like she had no idea what was going on or even if she was calling the right number. She was speaking as if she was unsure if Akemi was even with me. I replayed it twice. I paused it.

  I decided maybe their uncle leaned on her about Akemi’s whereabouts, and she pretended not to know where Akemi was, but still she called around searching. I wasn’t sure about my theory though.

  Her second voice mail came in at 10:30. “This is Akemi’s cousin. My mother would like to invite you to our home tomorrow at one in the afternoon. She would like to meet you. Akemi knows where we live. If you agree, she will meet you tomorrow at . . .”

  I would definitely show up. I could tell that now they were becoming more aware and int
erested in who I am and what I am involved in. I knew that them calling me over to their house was a chance for the adults on Akemi’s side to take a closer look. All I knew was that I am a real man who is trying my best to be respectful of them.

  Later that morning, I woke up hard as steel and remained that way for a while.

  By ten A.M. I was freshly showered and dressed and standing outside the door of a Brooklyn wholesale flower shop named Tropics. I had some Umma Designs business to take care of, an expensive order of thousands of flowers for the Sudanese wedding.

  This was the only flower wholesaler in my area that carried flowers imported from African countries as well as flowers from all over the world including Hawaii, Thailand, Brazil, Argentina, and so on. Besides, they boasted a money-back guarantee on the freshness of their product. But I didn’t want my money back. I just needed them to get the job done right the first time. There would be no do-overs, take-backs, or second chances on the wedding.

  I placed my order precisely as Umma had described it to me. The thousands of fresh flowers would arrive on the morning of the wedding.

  I had an idea to double-check their business credibility. I put together an exotic flower arrangement and ordered it to be delivered to Akemi’s family shop next week. I knew she might like these unusually beautiful and unique types of flowers that I selected for her. Perhaps her aunt and uncle would too. I would also get a chance to see if the flowers were delivered on time, if they were fresh and the exact arrangement that I had ordered.

  By eleven A.M. I was in Manhattan at a candy wholesaler named Sweeties. I took my time looking at tons of candies and order sheets for exactly what Umma wanted.

  I had the manager prepare a sampler pack for me even though I had already completed my order with them. I figured it was a small perk and nice gift to walk away with.

  By one P.M. I was all the way on the west side of lower Manhattan to meet Akemi by the river as agreed, farther west than I had ever walked or traveled in NYC before.

  Akemi was there waiting. She held up two tickets in her hand.

  She was good luck for me, I thought. Once again, I found myself in a boat, a ferry speeding across the Hudson River. Yesterday a lake, today a river, tomorrow maybe she and I would be in the yacht of my dreams moving on the deep blue waters of the ocean.

  My ticket said Edgewater, New Jersey. In script across the bottom of the ticket was the slogan “New Jersey, The Garden State.”

  As we rode side by side, she had her hand on my leg, playing with fire.

  She wore a blue denim dress with the back out. It was covered only by strips of straps crisscrossing each other while exposing the beauty and curve of her back. She wore a pair of blue leather gladiator sandals that crisscrossed up her pretty, shapely bare legs, which I was seeing now for the first time. It was too much. She seemed as if she felt cold, the breeze on the river much stronger with more chill than on the warm spring streets of New York. I took off my jacket and covered her legs. Since I wore a T-shirt beneath it, I unbuttoned my denim Girbaud shirt, took it off, and put it on her instead. It was way too big for her pretty shoulders, but it did enough to satisfy me. She leaned against me staring off to the other side of the river, whispering, “Arigato,” but seeming trapped somewhere in her imagination.

  There was not a large crowd getting off the ferry in Edgewater, a small town really on the edge, etched out between the river and the mountains.

  I followed her. Soon we were boarding their version of the Brooklyn dollar van. We jumped in and stood right next to each other for the short ride to an unfamiliar market.

  The place was named Mitsuwa. It was a huge complex framed by boutiques on one side and a Japanese restaurant called Matsushima, that sat farther back on the Hudson River. It had an authentic old Asian architecture, a design I had seen once in a film.

  Inside the market, the aroma of fresh baked breads and pastries filled the air. Strangely, there were several separate businesses within the supermarket, open-stall bakeries, tea shops, spaghetti stands, and cafés. There was a huge seating area, high ceilings, and expensive benches and stools and chairs, not in straight rows but arranged like a jigsaw puzzle for small or big families and groups of customers to enjoy.

  The grocery shopping section was well stocked and immaculate. Akemi grabbed a cart and began shopping. She looked at me before she pushed off, saying only one word, “cook.” As we maneuvered through the vegetables and fruits, many of which I never knew even existed, she pointed them out and recited their Japanese names. When I saw items that I recognized, I told her the English translation for those too.

  With two sacks of groceries, we walked out the side door, a different door than the one we entered. We stood in front of one of the boutiques and the Mitsuwa minibus arrived. We boarded a bus full of Asians, each one shorter and smaller than myself.

  The driver sped up a winding road named River Road. I kept my eyes on the street signs because I always need to know where I’m at, how I traveled in, and how to travel the fuck back out.

  Soon we were riding over the overpass to the George Washington Bridge. We entered a town called Fort Lee, and climbed off.

  There were taxis there. We caught one. Akemi gave the street number and name, nothing more, nothing less. We traveled through expensive apartment complexes with terraces, and beautiful wooded areas and flowered paths. Soon we were weaving in and out of weirdly shaped and placed streets and alcoves, past mansions separated by acres, fences, tall trimmed and manicured bushes, and swimming pools.

  The driver asked for nine-fifty. I paid him and asked, “What town is this?” He looked at me through his rearview first, then turned his head all the way around. “Englewood Cliffs,” he said dryly.

  We were at a dead end marked with two street signs. One said honeysuckle courtyard. The other sign read, no exit. It was a cul-de-sac lined with a semicircle of cherry blossom trees. Akemi walked up a pathway to one mansion whose front lawn was a rock garden instead of grass. Each rock was carefully placed in a pattern. There were a few circular slabs of cement that served as a hopscotched path leading up to a bench oddly placed underneath their one beautiful purple-leafed plum tree.

  Zooming out of their long driveway backward was an olive-green Range Rover. Akemi stopped walking and watched it pull off and away. She looked at me as if she wanted to say something that she couldn’t express.

  The bell chimed and it seemed that the sound was being amplified throughout their house and property. Soon her cousin opened the heavy and obviously expensive designer door.

  Rapidly she began speaking in their language to Akemi. Then she turned to me.

  “Come on in, welcome to my home,” she said happily.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked her instinctively while removing my kicks, which I knew was customary.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, my mother is the one who really wanted to meet you but she just rushed off to the hospital,” the cousin said, placing my kicks onto a shoe rack.

  “I’m sorry. Is she very sick?” I asked. The cousin laughed.

  “No, silly. She’s a surgeon and her beeper went off. She hated to leave. She wanted to be here. But she had to go.”

  “And your father?” I asked.

  Where I come from, when you enter a home, you are supposed to be greeted by the man of the house. If not, you seek him out and offer him greetings when you locate him. You always speak to the father first and then the sons because in every home there are rulers and rules and respect that must be offered. Back home, when the limits get crossed, the fists start swinging, the weapons get drawn, and heads get chopped.

  “My father is at work. He won’t be home until tonight around seven,” she said.

  Akemi exhaled, took the two Mitsuwa bags from my hands, and strolled off somewhere. The cousin said, “Let me show you around and introduce you to my brothers and their friends.”

  The house was extremely clean, and not overcrowded with ugly furniture. There was mostly woodw
ork and steel, benches instead of chairs, wide corridors and high ceilings, good air circulating, open spaces and tall walls of windows, marble floors and granite counters, beds in the bedrooms lowered to the floor. There was a wide selection of artwork on the walls. There were several big rooms, nicely designed. I could tell her cousin wanted me to be impressed. I was, but I had owned and lived in much more back home, better and higher quality, sitting on much more land. I knew there was a huge difference between “a home” and “an estate.” Besides, I was here because Akemi was here and this was her family and that was it. It could have been a tiny cabin. If Akemi was gonna be there, I would’ve showed up there too.

  So far there was no trace of her brothers. When finally we arrived out back, I could see that this was where the real living took place. There was a greenhouse filled with plants, a small tree and flowers, and one old lady wearing a bizarre bamboo hat.

  “She’s my grandmother. The one who I told you doesn’t speak any English” was how Akemi’s cousin decided to describe her. But we didn’t go inside the greenhouse to meet her grandmother properly.

  Of course their basketball court caught my eye. That’s where her brothers were, off to the side, getting a game on when we walked up. She introduced us. “Jiro and Kanosan, this is Akemi’s friend Midnight. Akemi says to treat him like a king,” she told them, laughed a little, then left.

  Both brothers looked me over, gave me a pound, and introduced me to their two friends, two white boys. One was named Rob, the other Dave. Both of them gave me friendly greetings. I don’t know why but as soon as I stepped up, they all forgot about the game they were playing and handed me the ball.

  I took a few shots, all net. They kept passing the ball back to me. We talked about the New York Knicks and the New Jersey Nets. The guy Dave said his father got season passes to the Knicks and they went to the games at the Garden all the time.