“Akemi Nakamura,” he said suddenly yet casually. “You know I wondered if she was from the well-known Nakamura family of The Pan Asian Corporation in Japan. When I read her father’s name and signature on the document she handed to me, I was certain that I was right.
“What a huge accomplishment,” he said, looking for my response. This time, I did not answer.
About seven and a half blocks over he stopped. We were facing a little cement island where a few older Asian men were gathered. We crossed over toward them.
“I want you to meet my father,” he said, and began bowing and speaking to the Japanese elder men. He singled out his father once he had given everyone the greetings. He introduced us. “Hajime Mashite Boku wa . . .” I showed him respect and used my greetings in their language. His father seemed surprised. I assumed that was because I was Black or because I was young, I don’t know which one.
His father’s skin was smooth and his eyes were serene. He was with a male friend playing a game when we interrupted. After our introduction he sat down and resumed his game.
“Do you play chess?” Sensei asked me. “I do,” I answered. “Well, this is an ancient game called ‘Go.’ These men play here every day,” he informed me. “The Japanese are the masters of this game.
“People all around the world play it. But most of the young have lost interest. My father and his friend have been playing this game for many years. In fact it never ends until one player gives up. My father never gives up.”
I was honored to meet his father. It put a much more personal dimension into our relationship. But I didn’t understand his approach to today’s weapons class. I had only the scheduled two hours to give my attention and I wanted to spend the time learning not chilling.
I decided to be patient because with Sensei there was always a lesson.
“The board for Go is much bigger than a chessboard,” I observed.
“Yes, it’s more complicated than chess. It is a war over territory based on life. There are nineteen by nineteen intersecting lines, and three hundred sixty-one spaces. There is much more space to move around in, just like our world. But of course the more freedom we have, the greater our chances of making a mistake.
“The superior Go player is the best thinker,” he said focusing on the board game.
“How does anyone know who is the best thinker?” I asked him.
“Great question.” He smiled. “The best thinker is the one who can think ahead of the present time and set a strategy in motion that will secure his future. It should be a strategy that his opponent cannot foresee. Because, of course, if your enemy can detect your next move, he will do everything within his power to surround you and capture the territory you thought belonged to you.” He paused, giving the words time to soak into my head.
“You see, this game Go is a game about strategy, but it is more about balance.”
“Balance,” I repeated.
“Sure. Sometimes a new player mistakenly believes that all he has to do is make the most aggressive moves,” Sensei said.
“But you do have to be aggressive in life to win,” I challenged.
“True, but when you are out of balance and too aggressive in this game, you end up leaving an area uncovered. Your opponent picks up on it and exploits your weakness.”
I thought about what he was saying. It sounded true.
“Meanwhile, men who are held back by their own fears play this game too close to the edge of the board just to be safe, but this type of man never gains any territory.
“On the other hand a man who is too eager to control all of the territory jumps in the middle of the board and plays too high. He always ends up getting invaded.” Sensei was explaining slowly and carefully. I listened and began to understand it was his way of talking to me about real life without getting too personal, which he probably knew was not acceptable to me.
“The thing about this game that is different from chess is that once a player puts his stone on the board in a particular area, it can never be moved, never. This means that before a player makes a move he has to think very hard and very much ahead about the outcome because he will not receive a second chance. He can never move that stone out of that position.”
In a café Sensei treated us to lunch, a wedding gift, he said. In the course of us eating, he finally came around to a clear point. “I’m impressed with you, my student, because you have demonstrated the ability to think and do what you believe in, under a tremendous storm of pressure that surrounds each of us every day. So far you seem to have designed a strategy for your life without duplicating what everyone else is doing.”
As I thought about his words to me, I wondered what effect his admiring me would have on our future lessons. He was a master and I was his student. Perhaps he thought I had done something great. But maybe I should just get him a Quran, because all that I was doing was trying to follow the strategy that was designed by Allah. Sensei was mistaken in giving me the credit.
I figured he was right about the point of the game of life being to achieve balance. It became clear to me that an excellent thinker and fighter like Sensei could easily be out of balance without the spiritual knowledge that a Muslim has. And the peace that I had achieved at my young age was probably more about setting limits and enjoying more by not trying to have everything.
Monica Abraham, Esq., had one conference room in her Brooklyn office, surrounded by rows of shelved books. Her degrees were displayed at the top of the room close to the ceiling. I guessed that’s how highly she thought of them. She probably had to work very hard to earn them, I thought. Her first degree was from Howard University. Her law degree was from Yale.
She took charge of our meeting and handled Mr. Slerz-berg and his wife like an expert. Her paperwork stretched across the conference table in short piles, pages opened up to where the signatures needed to be placed.
She treated Umma like an elite client and not a child the way some American professionals tended to treat foreigners who could not speak English well.
After the contract signing, Umma slid the $80,000 bank check across the table and into Monica’s hands. Monica handed the check over to Mr. Slerzberg and explained that it deposited as cash and should be available to him the same day as he deposits it in the bank. I paid the other related closing fees with separate checks, which Umma of course signed.
Our attorney looked at me curiously when I handed Mr. Slerzberg fifteen hundred dollars cash of my own money. But that was the side deal I made to get him to move out of the house within two weeks. It was worth it to me and I didn’t mind using my own money to make it happen. Mr. Slerzberg counted and recounted the cash. He seemed to like it more than the huge bank check that represented Umma’s seven years of careful and exhausting hard work.
Mr. Slerzberg placed copies of the keys to all of the entrances to his house in the trust of our attorney. I joked with myself, thinking there was no risk involved in him turning over his keys before actually moving out. Mr. Slerzberg knew I had been inside of his house and was one hundred percent sure that there was nothing in there worth stealing. In two weeks, we would move in.
In the conference room I embraced Umma. I could feel her breathing a sigh of great relief.
60
GRINDING
I knew we had to keep on pushing because now financially we were next to broke. We still had the minimum one hundred dollars in the bank to keep Umma’s account open and active. I still had most of my personal savings, but when you are used to having money, even money that you bank and don’t touch, there is a terror that comes when you’re down to having none. I’d seen other people walk, sit, and stand around with their pockets flat, worrying but not working and not planning to work. I’d seen enough teens who sat and waited for their parents to toss them a crumb for good or bad behavior. I couldn’t do it like that. I couldn’t live that way.
Umma and I still had our jobs and the income we earned. And our attendance, work, and reputation w
ere unmatched. Through Umma Designs we would have to stay grinding to replenish our treasure chest. I reminded myself to be positive because it was no small thing that now we owned a home.
I had my eye on that league money now like never before. Vega gave me credit at practice every day for the business approach I took toward my game and of course because of the way my skills, he said, made him look good.
On Thursday night when I met up with my wife at the museum, she had three copies of the Museum of Modern Art program for her art show. It was a fancy pamphlet printed on expensive paper, “a big deal,” as her cousin pointed out.
I carried her shopping bags. At our Brooklyn apartment in our bedroom, she opened one of her boxes, peeled back several layers of rice paper, and revealed a beautiful white kimono made of one hundred percent silk. Instead of embroidery, Akemi used a jet black marker and drew the New York City skyline on the bottom part of the kimono. The images were delicate and intricate and accurate. I imagined that she had seen the skyline from the Empire State Building or from the distance in Edgewater, New Jersey, where you can stand right at the Hudson River and look across at the sparkling skyline. She used some type of dye or watercolor to create the brown and grey buildings as well as the colorful skies with the setting sun descending from over New York City.
The sleeves were a wicked cut widened at the wrists. As she draped it over herself and extended her arms, I could see the intricate designs she had drawn. It was awesome to me. Umma would have done the borders with a needle and thread and made it more than exquisite. But Akemi used a marker and paintbrush and made it incredible also.
I called Umma and Naja in to take a look. Umma walked a circle around Akemi. She touched her shoulders and spun Akemi around so that the back of the kimono was now facing me. I could now see how she had painted the rising sun of Japan on the back. I looked at it all once again and put it together in my mind. In front of her was New York City. Behind her was Japan. On her sleeves were the blue waves of the ocean.
With her lovely hand-drawn and hand-painted kimono Akemi had achieved the impossible. She had impressed Umma with designs that Umma had not thought of herself.
My mother lifted the garment off of Akemi and laid it across the bed to get a full view. She stood staring. I knew what she was doing. Probably her mind was flashing a million different patterns and designs of kimonos she could create. Her mind just worked that way naturally. Probably she had already concocted an idea of a kimono she could design and sew from scratch as a gift to Akemi. Her heart worked like that naturally.
“I want to make something too,” Naja said, speaking in Arabic. “You guys are just too good. I’ll never catch up.” Umma hugged her and I did too and Akemi joined in also. “You will learn,” Umma promised Naja.
We enjoyed a late-night meal made of Umma’s pre-prepared foods. The seasoning soaked in and blended so well it was better than freshly cooked.
After Friday night’s ball practice I threw water on my face and hands with a bit of soap, rinsed off, jumped in my jeans and a fresh white tee, and draped a dress shirt over my shoulder. I bounced to meet Akemi on the east side of Midtown Manhattan where she was wrapping up a dinner along with the other teen artists being featured at the MoMA tomorrow.
I didn’t know what to expect. Whatever it was, I just wanted my girl with me. We’d race back to Brooklyn, make prayer, eat, and jump in the bed. I needed at least ten hours of rest for the killer schedule I had been keeping this week, and to have the endurance I wanted at the big Brownsville game tomorrow. Akemi needed to rest up for her show also. She had been working and pushing herself hard. They had been working her like crazy too.
When I arrived at the place, the man at the front door asked me to put my dress shirt all the way on. So I did. I weaved in and around the tables. The teen artists and some businesspeople and chaperones were in a reserved section, about twenty-two of them. I could tell they had already eaten. A couple of them were sharing desserts. Many of them had broken up into cliques and were conversating.
Akemi jumped up as soon as she saw me. I walked toward her. She maneuvered toward me. As soon as we reached each other we were holding hands. I pulled her a bit closer and turned to leave out the door.
As we were walking, a woman from the VIP area followed us. She began clearing her throat loudly enough to catch my attention.
“Do you mind if I ask who you are?” she said in her high-pitched voice tone. I introduced myself. She introduced herself. “I’m Linda from the museum. You are?” she asked again after I had already told her my name.
“Akemi’s husband,” I clarified. She laughed.
“Well, I know that can’t be true. I know for a fact that Akemi Nakamura is only sixteen. But I can certainly understand why any young man would admire her, she’s quite lovely,” Linda said, pausing for my reaction.
Akemi leaned in against me affectionately. While I looked down on this woman, who was at least a foot shorter than myself, I could see that she was nosy and intimidated. But she was more nosy than intimidated.
“Well, I see you certainly are lucky. She seems to admire you too.”
“Good night,” I told Linda, and we left. Akemi never looked back. In the warm train seats Akemi laid her head against me, half asleep. I thought about how Americans take young love and young family for a joke. I wondered if they thought Akemi and I would be better people if we just made love and used a condom and didn’t do anything crazy like get married. Or maybe they would’ve found us more acceptable if we just fucked without a condom and aborted the babies each time they popped up. Or maybe we would be considered more rational if we both fucked random people for recreation instead of getting “too serious at a young age.” I was really understanding Umma’s rage with the Americans on this topic.
Back in little Sudan in Brooklyn, we had showers, family prayer, and soup and salad. We kept it light.
Behind my closed door in my overheated bedroom, I could still see the light-blue summer night sky. With my window open, I could hear music streaming in. I lay on my single bed beneath a cool sheet with my wife. I felt her little hand stroking my body lovingly. She began combing through my nappy pubic hairs with her fingertips. Coach said sex would drain us. To be top-notch we needed to leave the females alone until after the game.
But she crawled on top of me nude, her hair brushing on my shoulders, her nipples brushing against my chest, her lips moving on my mouth begging to taste my tongue. I couldn’t fucking resist her. I just didn’t want to. And what better way to be rocked into a good deep sleep than this?
61
CELEBRATION
Even though it was very early, I felt good in the morning. I got my ten hours’ rest and I could feel the difference. I showered before making prayer with Umma in our living room.
After prayer I woke Akemi with a hot cup of tea. I was serving her today. After today she would be serving me. Umma was excited about teaching Akemi to cook Sudanese foods and also to learn some of her Japanese recipes. But she respected the work that Akemi was involved in, especially after seeing her kimono art. She knew what it was like to have too many demanding jobs all at once. So she also served Akemi with care. I could see Umma’s pretty fingers moving from the top of Akemi’s head to the middle of her back, as she gave her one long beautiful black braid in an instant.
We all rode down to drop Naja with Ms. Marcy.
After a train ride together, I dropped both Umma and Akemi to Rockefeller Center. Both women had full days planned. Akemi had to have her hair and nails done at some Japanese salon where the Tokyo prices were triple the New York rates. She had to meet her translator and kimono team and get prepared for her public performance. I gave her a massive hug, lifting her off her feet. Then I had to push her away as she always had that lingering look in her eyes like she preferred to be with me. I had to smile when she went from clinging to me to holding Umma’s hand in the middle of Rockefeller Square.
But I had to go to Cho’s to make som
e paper. Everything is real, even when you are in love. I was hoping Umma would enjoy her first language class. I thought three hours was a long time to sit in one classroom, but I figured if she was ever going to learn English, it had to start somewhere. Even Umma had that mother’s look that emerges on their faces when their children are about to leave their side. I don’t know, women are like magnets, I thought. And as my father would say, “Women are one hundred percent emotion. Love them but don’t obey them.” There was a time when I did not fully understand these words. But now I did, realizing that if the women had it their way, they would just remain wrapped up with their man and their sons and daughters all day and nothing would get accomplished. Then of course every man learns that if he doesn’t accomplish anything, the same women who didn’t want you to leave their side would lose their admiration and respect for you.
After work, Umma and I met up and taxied home to Brooklyn. We scooped up Naja and headed upstairs to shower and get fresh dressed. Naja wore a very beautiful hijab that matched her up with Umma. Umma wore her niqab for our trip out of our Brooklyn neighborhood, but removed it in the taxi. I was surprised. Even though her thick beautiful hair and pretty neck remained covered her face was opened and exposed. I thought about it a minute, looked in the shopping bag I was holding for her and soon figured it out. Umma was still hoping to win over Akemi’s aunt and uncle. She believed she made some progress that day at Akemi’s uncle’s store where she met them. I could see now that she had gifts in her shopping bag again. I just smiled. Of course I believe in family, but in the case of Akemi and I, I believed that after they were convinced that our love was true, and after a baby was conceived and born, their connection to us would come about naturally.
Late-afternoon Manhattan was buzzing. The museum was in full use as New Yorkers and people from around the world moved in and out and around the place.
Inside of the museum, I could see the reception area still carved out by the velvet rope. There were tables and empty, used glasses left over. There were trays of mostly eaten finger foods and discarded bottles of wine. There were plenty of trash cans.