On the route back to Brooklyn in his speeding Porsche, which he hopped into after parking the Maserati at the private penthouse garage and protecting it with the car cover that concealed the beauty nicely, Santiaga said to me out of minutes of silence, “She has no tongue, the white one. Her husband cut it off.”
A warning to me maybe, I thought. About the consequences of talking too much, or talking too much about him and his business in particular? But it was a warning I didn’t need or fear. On my own, I am mindful.
Or maybe Santiaga was sharing a personal secret, or making a confession, or maybe, by introducing me to the women, he was just trying to show me another aspect of himself for some reason.
I was certain that these women were not women he was involved with intimately. They were both at least twenty years over his age. It crossed my mind that the black-skinned one might be his mother. If so, his father would have to be a white man, I thought. Santiaga’s skin color was a degree away from white, not even close to tan without a long trip to a tropical island or even the desert, where the sun scorched and roasted anything and anyone who has a drop of melanin. I thought some more. Maybe the white woman was his mother and his father was a black man.
Is there an African man who would cut off his wife’s tongue? I thought to myself. Each wife’s tongue is so soothing and precious to a man, in my experience. The mouth itself, an opening so intimate, second only to the opening buried between her thighs.
Ameer was asleep now, and laid out on his bed in his party clothes, his red suede Pumas still on his feet. I was still seated on the floor, the wall behind my mattress. I gave up the fight between my mind and my body, and just let go.
* * *
“Something different,” Chris said. He was talking about his riding instructor, Lila, a slim blonde of maybe nineteen years young, who had just mounted the horse where he was already seated. Now she sat closely behind him. “There are places in New York that the everyday New Yorker never even knew existed,” he said, referring to the riding course that was hidden inside Van Cortlandt Park in Inwood, at the northern tip of Manhattan.
Lila reached her arms below his arms and grabbed the reins. She began touching his hands until she had them positioned how she wanted him to hold them. Then she placed the reins under his control. “Yes, now you are holding them the right way, your thumbs up,” she said.
They were both seated in the saddle on top of a beautiful oil-black female horse named Medusa, with sculptured legs and a black mane of hair as long and soft and straight as the flowing human hair that lay on my first wife’s back.
“Medusa? Like the one from Greek mythology who when you look at her, turns men into stones?” Chris asked her, flossing his school smarts.
“It depends how you look at it,” Lila explained. “We call her Medusa because of her ‘paralyzing beauty.’ When anyone looks at her, they come to a complete standstill, almost as if they are under her spell.” Her words seemed to place Chris under a spell.
“First, let’s adjust your posture,” she said to Chris. Then she turned to me seated solo on my speckled dirty white horse, whose skin pattern was more cow-like than anything else, and completely unimpressive. “Are you watching?” she asked me. I smiled at Chris. “Yeah, I’m watching,” I answered her calmly.
“Balance out your weight so that you are not leaning more to the left or to the right,” she said, touching Chris’s sides with her fingertips. “Stay centered in the saddle.” She pressed her body against his back. “Don’t lean forward,” she said after feeling his body’s reaction to her body touching his. “Now, a careful review of what we have learned so far. You will have to remember it all for the times when you are riding alone. Approach her slowly and gently,” she said, referring to the horse. “She senses your temperament. Only match yourself up with a horse that has similar energy to your own. If she becomes agitated, she’s not the one for you. If she is calm and welcoming, sense that and touch her, petting her gently. Stand in front of her, never behind.” Lila reviewed her previous instructions.
“And always mount her from her left side,” Chris added. “And hold the reins firmly but not tight, keeping your hands in the right position.” Chris demonstrated after summarizing.
“Good,” Lila praised him.
“Now can we ride?” Chris asked.
“Patience,” she said softly. “You are learning her slowly. Remember she is responding to your posture, your movements, no matter how slight or severe. Let’s line up your body,” she said, touching Chris’s ear. “You ears should be aligned with your shoulders.” She moved her hands to his shoulders as he continued to carefully hold the reins. “Your shoulders should be aligned with your hips,” she said, now holding his hips from each side. “And your hips should be aligned with your heels.” She tapped the back of his Beef & Broccoli Tims. “Don’t push your feet too deeply into the stirrups,” she advised him. “Balance on the balls of your feet. Got it? Do you think you could handle her alone?” she asked Chris.
“I can,” he said thoughtfully. “But it would be better if you ride with me for today since it’s my first lesson.”
I was cracking up on the inside. She kicked the horse. She had told him to kick her. But Chris replied, “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You are not hurting her. You are guiding her, so she will know what you want her to do,” Lila said, and they were off. Medusa, walking like she wanted to evoke an emotion; Lila, both hands around Chris’s waist. My horse rode beside theirs.
“Don’t be too stiff. Move your hips with the rhythm of her body so she can move freely underneath your weight,” Lila said. “Relax . . . She feels what you feel. If you’re tense, she will panic and react. That’s not good for you or for her. Now if you want her to trot, squeeze her with both legs and do this with the reins,” she gestured, “and she will trot for you.” Both of our walking horses merged into trotting.
The sound of the hoofs in the soil, the bounce of the beast, the trees seeming to revolve around me, and the motion and speed all moved me. The sun beaming down on my back massaged me as I was riding and imagining my second wife riding. She sparked me to do this, although she had no idea that she did, or of what I was doing at the moment or where I was doing it. I knew Chiasa had mastered horseback riding, and I wanted to make it possible for her to continue with it since she loved it. I didn’t want her missing her horse or her country too much. I wanted her to want to be with me, to have whatever she wanted or was accustomed to, and to feel fully content. To do that, though, I had to catch up with her first, become fully capable in her hobby. When I take her riding, I’m gonna ride with her like I’d been doing it all my life, like I’m an expert. Like I am leading her. As a man, I had to do it just like that.
“Have you ever rode horseback? I’m sure you have,” Chiasa had asked and said to me one late night as we lay between the sheets.
“I ride,” I responded.
“Really!” she said super excited.
“A camel,” I said.
“A camel!” she exclaimed and then laughed.
“Seriously. You know I’m from the desert. We raise, ride, race, and rely on camels,” I told her.
“Oh,” she giggled. “I never even considered that.”
“Maybe you’ll teach me how to ride camel? Take me to the desert where you’re from,” she said softly.
She wanted to go everywhere I’ve gone, and be every place I’ve been, and do or at least see everything I’ve done and seen.
“I was born in Khartoum, that’s the city. My father has a second house in the countryside. Then we spent most summers in the south with my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather! I want to meet him,” she said, excited. “Let’s write him a letter and plan a trip there.” She was always about action, even when she was naked on her back, being caressed and her breathing was giving away her complete pleasure.
“He doesn’t have an address,” I told her.
“Everybody
has an address,” she said, laughing.
“Nah,” I said, rubbing the inside of her thighs.
“Yes they do!” she said, exhaling.
“Uh-un, to find him you’d have to travel through the desert and then the jungle until you reach his village. There’s no post office there and no mailbox,” I told her truthfully.
“No mailbox . . . ” she said softly.
“How do they get mail?” she asked.
“They don’t want mail. Everybody they know and love is already in the village.”
“No, not you and your father. Your grandfather must love both of you.”
“He does. But he is the elder, so we have to go to him. My grandfather would say that if my father and I are not in the village where he is and where he has always been, we are in the wrong place.”
“So fucking cool,” she said. “The wrong place, huh? Well then, we’ll go to him. After you make me feel good, please draw a map.” She kissed me.
“A map?”
“From your house in Khartoum to your grandfather’s village,” she said sweetly. Only if life was as simple as it is for her, I thought.
I mounted her. No more words, just heated gentle kisses and deep, slow stroking. And, a lot of love and breathing. That’s how I ended up taking horseback lessons, to keep up with my incredibly swift and curious second wife.
“There has to be more than one riding coach,” Chris said to Lila. Our first lesson had ended and we were all three standing in the stables, where we had returned Medusa and my horse, named “Easy Does It.”
“Of course—there are twelve instructors, to be exact. It all depends on your scheduling requests. Michelle was supposed to teach your friend, but he called in sick at the last moment, unfortunately,” Lila said.
“He?” Chris and I both said at the same time.
“Yes, our apologies,” she said to me. “And Michelle is a Frenchman. In their country, Michelle can be the name of a woman or a man—they’re just spelled differently,” she explained. “He is a student here in the U.S. and in any case, he is a great instructor, even better than myself.”
“My friend here . . .” Chris began saying as I listened closely to how he was about to set this up. I knew he was attracted to Lila and had already decided that he did not want her body pressed up against my back or her fingers locked around my waist, even though she was an instructor and must do it all the time.
“My friend here will reschedule his lesson with Michelle,” Chris said. Then he betrayed me with a sucker punch. “My friend here prefers a male instructor!” he said. I was straight-faced, but laughing hard on the inside.
“So you plan on becoming a serious equestrian?” Lila asked me.
“I’m serious,” I confirmed. “And I want to sign up for the twelve-lesson package, pay up front, get the thirty percent discount and today’s introductory lesson for free.”
“I see you know your stuff!” Lila laughed. Before I could add anything to it, Chris jumped in. “I’m serious too. I want the same package, same time slot as today, and Lila as my instructor,” he said, giving me a stern look. I didn’t fight the challenge, it was unnecessary. I knew he was jocking for the girl. I also knew Lila was already his. I could hear her body talking to him. I knew she didn’t have to get in the saddle with him to teach him to ride, same as she didn’t have to get in to show me. And me, I was good, really good, in love with my women and all of my desires fulfilled in every way.
“Twelve lessons at fifty dollars each, that’s six hundred,” Chris said. “Thirty percent of six hundred dollars, that’s a one-hundred-and-eighty-dollar discount. And today’s lesson is free. That’s four hundred and twenty dollars for each of us.” Chris looked shocked at his own calculation of the cost, and at the sound of his own voice saying the numbers aloud.
I peeled off eight one-hundred-dollar bills and two twenties and paid for both of us. Good thing the payment went into the cashier’s hand and not Lila’s, ’cause her man Chris was at the front counter shrinking under the weight of the debt and his swift agreement without cost consideration. Now the numbers were dancing in his head. But he had also gotten Lila’s phone number. I hoped that smoothed it out for him.
“I think I fucked up,” Chris said. We were on the same train, headed to his house, at his request, even though I had mad shit to do at my house. “Now I owe you four hundred and twenty dollars. My father’s going to kill me,” he said, talking to himself really.
“Don’t sweat it, man,” I told him.
“That’s easy for you to say. Thanks for coming back with me. It’s a tactic. Your presence will cut the scolding I get from my father in half. He doesn’t like to beat me down in front of a house guest.” He let off a nervous laugh.
“You got six hundred more dollars coming your way as soon as we complete the wall,” I reminded him.
“Man, you don’t know the half . . .” Chris said. “My father oversees the management of my life. He says my money is his money, even if I went out and worked and earned it.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“My father will pull out a spreadsheet of all of the money he spent on me since birth . . .” Chris began explaining, and we both had to laugh.
* * *
“Wait here,” Chris said. We had just walked through the doors that lead into his Brooklyn brownstone.
“You can sit down you know, on the couch,” his little sister said to me after I had been standing for ten minutes. I didn’t sit though, wasn’t comfortable taking up an offer from a young girl and getting comfortable in another man’s house without first greeting Chris’s father.
“Okay, well stand up if you wanna,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and reminding me of Naja. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“No thank you, I’m good for now,” I said to her.
“That’s what you think. Daddy talks for a long time and Chris owes you money, so Daddy will be talking for even longer than before,” she warned. Her mother came through the front door and paused when she saw me.
“Oh, hi!” How are you?” she asked me.
“Hello, Mrs. Broadman. I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said. “Let me help you with that bag.” I reached for the bag of books she carried that looked like it felt heavy.
“No, I’m going to set them down right here. Taylor, why haven’t you offered our guest something to drink?” she asked her daughter.
“She did offer me,” I said swiftly.
“Oh, good. So Chris owes you some money, I understand?” his mother asked, though obviously she already knew. I heard Reverend Broadman approaching.
“Son, how are you?” he asked me. My natural smile came out.
“I’m good, Reverend Broadman,” I said solidly.
“So what are you doing in my house talking to my wife?” he asked me with a stern stance and tone. I was stuck. Then he smiled and said, “Take it easy, fella. I hear my son owes you some money?” His smile evaporated. “Step into my office.” He pointed for me to walk forward. I followed the direction of his finger.
He had a pipe and a pipe tray. Seemed all men smoked something. His office was neat, his files in perfect piles. He wrote with a Parker pen, but also had a fountain pen and ink well. I had not seen that in a long time. On his coat stand there were no coats, but there was one of the religious robes that I had seen him wear once before when Ameer and I visited his church. He had a hat stand with all types of hat choices. Most importantly, I figured, at least to him and his followers, he had a degree from Morehouse College, and one also from New York Theological Seminary.
“Since you are the man with the ideas, I want to talk to you one-on-one. I sent my son to his room. He’s your admirer. I’m his father. I support him. Yet, he seems to follow your ideas,” Reverend Broadman said, taking his seat in his black leather spinning chair with the high back.
“Chris speaks highly of you every time I see him,” I said solemnly. “He teaches us the things that you teach him.”
The reverend leaned back and stared at me sternly. “My father is overseas. I listen to what you say to Chris, almost the same as if my father was saying it,” I said, sincerely. I felt this man was about to hit me with a bunch of questions, so I wanted to impact the tone of this conversation. I wanted to say up front that I know Chris has his own mind and thoughts, even though we three are tight and influence one another in certain ways. I wanted to be cooperative with Mr. Broadman and his style of doing and saying things, but I have my own ways and certain things I would and wouldn’t say.
“Like what? What have I taught Chris that you have listened to same as if your own father was saying it?” he asked, his two eyebrows merging into one.
“Your lesson about paying taxes, collecting receipts, and keeping good records. I listened to that and put it into practice in my own business dealings,” I said.
“Is that right? What kind of business dealing does a teenager the same age as my son have?” he asked, as though he might think I was either exaggerating and doing nothing at all or doing something shady.
“I’m in the vending business. My mother and I also have a clothing design and tailoring company. If I had known I would be visiting your house today, I would have brought some complimentary samples.”
“What kind of ‘vending business’?” he asked suspiciously.
“I sell vending machines to business owners who want to expand their stream of revenue. I also own a machine and collect revenue from it as well,” I said.
“Where do you get these machines from?” he asked, and he seemed interested, curious, and successfully distracted from whatever type of sermon he had planned on giving me.
“Of course from a vending distributor. I buy wholesale and sell retail,” I said.
“And where do you store these heavy machines?” he asked.
“I don’t have to store them. The distributor stores them at their warehouse. I have a pamphlet that displays the vending machines and product options. I show it to a business owner or potential customer. Once you make your choice and pay a deposit, I have the machine shipped directly to the location where you want it.”