Black Buck(60)

“Darren, marhaban,” Mr. Aziz said, gesturing to a small wooden table set for three.

I hadn’t been there in a while, but it was exactly as I remembered: brown suede couches; flat-screen TV with a foreign cable box; glass cupboard full of colorful plates, bowls, and utensils; an oversize photo of Soraya’s little sister, destined to be five years old forever.

“Thank you, Mr. Aziz. It smells amazing in here.”

He laughed. “Well, I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but Soraya said you eat everything, so there’s maraq, which is a delicious soup made from goat meat broth; mandi, which is spiced rice and slow-cooked lamb made in a traditional tandoor; shafoot, which is a spiced yogurt; and, of course, salad and different types of pita. Please, dig in. I hope you like it.”

An hour later, I was stuffed. The care that Mr. Aziz put into the meal was obvious; every single bite was different from the last. After we discussed the changes in the neighborhood, Mr. Aziz’s plans for expansion, and the rising cost of living in Bed-Stuy, Mr. Aziz put his drink down, and said, “So, Soraya and I saw the news about the FBI and Sumwun. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Aziz. We have it under control.”

“It doesn’t look like it. People are saying your company should be shut down and that your pompous CEO should be in jail. What do you think?”

I gritted my teeth, beginning to regret not blowing off the dinner. “I’d prefer to not talk about it, Mr. Aziz. If that’s okay.”

He shot a look at Soraya, then back at me. “Darren, you’re a smart guy. I’ve known it since I first saw you. So why do you want to be mixed up in this? Maybe it’s time to move on.”

I turned to Soraya, whose eyes were full of concern, like I was a dopehead in need of an intervention. Then I faced Mr. Aziz and forced a smile. “Thank you for your concern, but trust me, everything will be fine.”

“Will it?” he asked, ripping a floury piece of pita in half. “You need to cut your losses before it’s too late. I’m sure there are plenty of other places where you could work, and with people more grounded than that so-called CEO of yours. He reminds me of—”

“Mr. Aziz,” I cut in, past my breaking point. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Soraya coughed, rising from the table. “Tea? I think we need tea.”

“I came to this country with nothing and made something of myself, Darren. So I believe that I do know what I’m talking about. It’s obvious the company you work for has done more harm than good, so why not take your talents elsewhere? Someone like you can—”

“Take my talents elsewhere? Mr. Aziz, Sumwun is where I belong, and Rhett gave me an opportunity when I needed it most. We help people want to live another day. And if you call that ‘harm,’ then you’re as crazy as the people who believe everything the news says.”

“Darren!” Soraya shouted, dropping the saucers onto the table. “Apologize to my father right now. He’s trying to help you. We all are.”

Mr. Aziz raised his hand in Soraya’s direction. “It’s okay, Soraya. Your boyfriend is what we uneducated and crazy people would call brainwashed. It usually happens to the ones who think they’re too smart to be tricked.”

Soraya, horrified, looked from Mr. Aziz to me and back to him, no doubt trying to figure out how to fix this. But it was too late.

In a situation like this, the old me wouldn’t have said anything—he would’ve apologized and tried to smooth things over, but the old me was gone, and I was happy about it, because he was a boy and I was finally a man. A man who took shit from no one.

“You know what, Mr. Aziz? You’re the one who’s brainwashed. You came to this country thinking that buying a house and setting up a chain of cheap bodegas meant you’d be successful, when selling a bag of chips for ninety-nine cents has never changed the world. You wouldn’t know what innovation was if it slapped you in the face.”

Soraya rounded the table and knelt beside me. “This isn’t you, D. This isn’t you at all. Please apologize to my dad and let’s just have tea. It’ll be fine, right, baba?” she asked, turning to Mr. Aziz.

“No, Soraya,” he said, staring at me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it will be.”

“Funny,” I said, getting up from the table and heading for the door. “We finally agree on something.”





17





“Darren!” Someone was banging on my door. “Darren Vender, wake up! Are you alive in there?”

My head felt like it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler carrying elephants and cement. I opened my eyes, my blurry vision slowly focused, and I tried to respond, but my throat was drier than a nun’s vagina.

“Darren! Do you hear me? If you don’ get outta bed and open this door in five seconds, so help me God I will break down this door and beat you awake.”

After I’d left Soraya’s, I grabbed drinks with Eddie and Frodo, drowning my anger in vodka, rum, gin, and beer. But hangover or not, I leapt out of bed and opened the door before she reached zero. “I’m up, Ma,” I said, blinded by sunlight pouring into the room. “What’s up, the house on fire?”