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let her know just how hard she must beworking 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