by Z. P. Dala
“Oom. She’s my girl. She is Ismail’s . . .” Moomi said softly, looking imploringly into the older man’s eyes. He stared at Afroze.
Afroze hid farther and farther behind Moomi’s thick jersey. Both her itchy shawl and Moomi’s cheap jersey made her erupt into a loud bout of sneezes.
“Ey, you! I’m telling you one time. See this child, so sick, she is in the cold. Now, Dawud, don’t make me get angry, neh. You take her inside. You want this small child to catch the nimmonee?” Tall Reyhana bossed her husband. A murmur rippled through the crowd of women. They recalled a terrible bout of pneumonia that had claimed a young boy some months ago.
Dawud looked at Moomi, who looked away. Suddenly, the tears that had been threatening to burst from inside her welled up in her kind eyes. The security guard could do nothing but agree. He tutted and shook his head in a half-hearted attempt to appear angry at his overbearing wife. But he looked at Moomi. They all knew her story well. They knew Ismail; they knew pieces of his dark past. And they saw the stains of his anger on Moomi’s skin.
Dawud held out a hand to little Afroze, who clung tighter to Moomi. “Kom now, kindertjie. Don’t be frightened of Oom, Uncle Dawud. Come inside. I’ll show you the famous rooms before the whites come. It’s very nice, neh. Kom now.”
Afroze looked up at Moomi, her eyes large and watering from the icy-cold wind. Moomi nodded at her softly and nudged her toward Dawud. Slowly, she took hold of the man’s large, rough hand and walked off with him up the stairs into the building. Moomi watched Afroze walk away, the large gray shawl trailing like a train behind her thin frame, and her hot tears could no longer be contained. She began to sob, and there were many shoulders for her to lay her crying head on, and many warm arms to hold her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rush of warmth inside the museum made Afroze shudder like a puppy shaking off a sleep, and she wondered why warmth made her shudder yet the cold outside did not. Her little body relaxed, and she realized how tightly she had been clenching her muscles the moment she stopped. She stood in the large entrance hallway, and the smell of something ancient and wondrous wrapped its way around her. She did not know what it was. Maybe it was the smell of old wood, the scent of books tucked away in library archives. Maybe it was just the clean smell of purity, filled with light and air.
She had suffocated with the smell of the strong spices that hung in the air from Moomi’s cooking, hot, cloying smells inside a very small house. The walk to the city from the Malay Quarter was frightening in the semidark of a Cape Town morning—murkiness chased Afroze into every nook, and evil things lurked under every bridge and eave. Acrid smells of stale urine and unwashed beggars who lay passed out, reeking strongly of the cheap wine that they drank. Afroze enjoyed this sudden scent of subtle opulence.
Always a child sensitive to smells, Afroze remembered the strong spicy attar of her mother’s perfume and the sharp stink of the medical antiseptics that had haunted her Brighton days. And here, the Cape Town smells of musty kitchens and filthy beggars turned her stomach. This new smell of richness and cleanliness that large ceilings, straight pillars, and arches that spanned into lavender-scented courtyards conveyed etched itself into her mind. Afroze could smell spaces and shapes, as if spaces and shapes could emit fragrance.
The museum was a balm. It was luxury, and beauty. Just a sprite of six, Afroze sensed something grand in the halls and facades. Perhaps it was in the child’s nature to seek out space and light, to notice curves and lines in much the same way children notice a new wrinkle at the corner of their mothers’ eyes long before anyone else does. When she suddenly arrived at a place that just made sense, who she was and how many years she had breathed didn’t matter anymore. A puzzle piece that she had been searching for her whole life now fit neatly into its place. She might be six, but she knew that she was among familiar friends. Afroze drank in the neatness of it. She had a knack for knowing what went where, and why.
“Yessus kindertie, don’t you sommer stand and gape, neh, I must put you somewhere sharp-sharp. White man coming now-now, neh.” Dawud shuffled nervously around the entrance hall, looking under glossy tables and opening little doors. He silently cursed that wife of his, the strong Reyhana. She always seemed to get her way. And he knew her well. Reyhana took on sad stories and clung to them with her strong arms, willing them with her sheer force to become happy stories.
Dawud was not unaccustomed to coming home from the mosque after saying his evening prayers and stealing a little smoke from a hookah with the men on the street, and then finding strange-looking urchins seated at his dinner table. He would sometimes wake up from a sleep, if he had done the night shift at the museum, to find women he barely recognized scuttling about his home, hair undone, barely covering their battered faces. He had warned Reyhana many times to stop trying to save the entire world and focus on her own nest instead. But she had never changed in all their years of marriage, and nothing would change her now.
Their two sons and daughter had long ago married and left home, but still they lurked around his home daily, unable to leave the glowing satellite that was their mother. Sometimes Dawud’s home resembled a soup kitchen, a nursery, a school, and a clinic all bundled up into one chaotic mess, with Reyhana in her bright headscarf barking orders at everyone. Dawud enjoyed the peace of the museum. At least there he could smoke his cigarettes quietly if the curator was not around, and he could softly dream all his strange little dreams.
Now he was saddled with looking after this child, finding a place for the frightened thing to hide, while outside, he was certain, Reyhana would be pounding her palm with a ham fist, plotting how to sort out the problem. He had no doubt at all that Moomi and this child, whom he now knew belonged to that indecent, wild husband of hers, Ismail, would soon become permanent additions to his life. He sighed and shrugged. No one could hear him curse out loud. Reyhana would always have her way because he was weak in her presence, and he admitted sorrowfully that he loved her deeply for all the reasons a man comes to love a woman in older age. He admired her strength. He knew he was a lesser person to her, and her charitable heart would one day take them both through the gates of sweet paradise.
He peered inside a tiny closet, the musty place where the cleaning woman stored her brooms, mops, and smelly liquids. It would have to do. He knew that the cleaning and dusting for the day had been done earlier, and no one would care to look inside the closet for the day.
“Ey, dogtertjie. Ey. Ja . . . you. What you dreaming now, white man will mos beat jou blue, neh. Kom hier, kom nou.”
Afroze stood frozen to the spot. The ominously dark cupboard looked very much like a place where ogres took children to murder them. Her wide, dark eyes began to well up with hot tears. Dawud glared at the child. He looked quickly at the clock. It was almost time for the curator, the guides, and the official workers to file in the door.
Secretly he hoped that the women outside had thought quickly and delayed them by trying to sell them food. And then he remembered that Reyhana had barked out an order to him as he had led the child away.
“Yey, Dawud, jou skaap, onthou, neh, die dogtertjie verstaan niks van Afrikaans nie. Engels, net Engels, neh. Ek se vir jou.”
Reyhana had instructed Dawud that Afroze did not understand a word of the language that he spoke, Afrikaans mixed with a touch of pidgin English—the typical dialect spoken by the Malay people, who had long forgotten their language when they were brought to the Cape as slaves from Indonesia by the Dutch settlers.
Dawud spoke good English. He hated it, but he had learned. The important people that often visited this museum cared nothing for his language or dialect at all and persisted in addressing their orders to him in clipped English or very strong Afrikaans. He began to learn little nuances of all languages well—the museum saw visitors from all corners of the world, and Dawud, in his devotion to keeping this job in the sanctity of the one quiet place he knew, had learned fast. He gestured again to Afroze, who was now so
bbing. It had been a while since he had comforted a child, let alone a girl-child. Things like that were left to the women. He had barely hugged his own daughter, even on her wedding day he had shook her little hand in an awkward congratulation.
The fat tears that plopped onto the floor from such a face strangely melted his heart, and he was not accustomed to the tugging inside his chest. He reserved his tears for the days at the mosque when the Imam’s lecture would be particularly emotive, describing in a mournful voice the martyrdom of the Prophet’s grandsons. The last time Dawud had almost broke into racking sobs was when a visiting Qari from Mecca had read beloved verses from the Holy Book with such intense beauty that Dawud had prayed that such a voice would be the one he hears when he breathes his last. But here, this child sobbing in her thick gray shawl threatened to break all his strength.
He held out his arms; the bayonet he kept at his side for no reason whatsoever, as no one dared come near this place, dropped to the ground as it lost its strap.
“Child, come here. Come here. Don’t cry, neh. Don’t be scared of Oom . . . Uncle Dawud.”
Afroze looked away from the dark closet he had opened, its musty maw forgotten, aching deeply for a comforting hug. She could hold out no longer. She ran into Dawud’s embrace with the innocence of one who has suffered deeply. Her taut muscles relaxed into a fluid union with the strong arms of this man who suddenly remembered how to hold a child.
“Look, my child . . . what is your name, neh?”
“Rosie . . .” Afroze murmured, and bit her lip.
Dawud smoothed the glossy hair, tied into an untidy ponytail, tendrils threatening to escape the flimsy ties. He lifted her tiny quivering chin with his finger and smiled in a way that, he hoped, seemed benign. He knew that sometimes an adult’s smile could look very much like a grimace.
“Rosie . . . Ah, what a pretty name for a pretty girl. Like a little pink rose, neh. Stop crying now, I promise you, Uncle Dawud will take very good care of you.”
Afroze looked deeply into his eyes. It was the first time an adult had used the word promise to her. She recognized the word, and she knew it was a good, trusting word. She liked the word.
“Promise . . . promise, Uncle?” she whispered and clung to his arm.
“Ahg hierdie kind, sy sal my slegs ’n vroumens maak, sies tog,” he muttered under his breath, bemoaning the effect this child was having on him, turning his gruff, manly demeanor into one of a simpering woman. He was helpless in her gaze. This child’s eyes could move mountains, and they would.
“I promise. I promise, Rosie, if you go and stay quiet inside this cupboard, very quickly, the time will fly away, and I will take you to your mummy.”
“She is not my mummy,” Afroze said, her voice suddenly forceful.
Dawud glanced up as a creaking door told him that perhaps the curator had arrived. In all the years that he had worked at the museum, the curator had never been late. And it was exactly eight o’ clock. The footsteps pounded on the wooden floor. Quickly, he bundled Afroze into the cupboard.
“I’ll come to see you just now-now. You be very quiet, neh, Rosie. Very quiet,” Dawud said and rapidly shut the door. He said a silent prayer, hoping that no one had seen him and hoping that those large lamplike eyes that shone out of the dark room would not haunt his dreams.
“Ah, Dawud. There you are. I was wondering where on Earth you had gotten to. The basket women on the street seem to have gotten themselves into an awful state. Do you know what’s happened, old fella?”
Dawud stood bolt upright, almost saluting. “No sir, Mr. Arnsworth, sir. I don’t know nothing. You know these women, they must have seen a frog or something, very excitable women, sir.”
“Yes. Yes, very excitable. Now, Dawud, listen. I’m expecting a visitor at twelve o’ clock. His name is Professor Heinrich Opperman, a very famous architect. He’s visiting as a professor at the University of Cape Town, you know, and had kindly agreed to come and advise on the restoration of the Music Room. Very exciting, very exciting indeed.”
The prim and always immaculately dressed curator puffed out his chest, presumptious in his belief that a security guard who was barely allowed into the opulent inner rooms would know anything of a famous architecture professor.
Dawud knew well enough that it was best to pretend, and he beamed with false knowledge and pride. “Really! Wonderful news, Mr. Arnsworth, sir. Very famous man, very, very good news.”
“Oh, indeed, Dawud. Now, make sure you send him straight to my offices, and tell Sweetie to sort out a good tea tray. Only the best for the best, I always say. Righto, off I go.”
“Righto. Righto, sir.” Dawud bowed slightly as the curator wafted to his upstairs office, plushly furnished and overlooking the flower-lined inner courtyard.
He breathed a sigh of relief and went to peek into the little closet, glad that the little girl did not sob or sneeze while the curator stood there. He found Afroze standing rooted to the same spot, bathed in the shaft of light that entered with the open door. He realized then that she had been in complete darkness, standing there among brooms and smelly ammonia and furniture polish. It must have been a scary place to find herself, but the little thing had not moved a muscle. Dawud had the impression that this child was very accustomed to hiding away in corners and fading away into dark recesses.
He could not imagine what her small life had been like, and he did not have a moment to contemplate it. The rattle of castors on polished wood told him that Sweetie the cook was approaching, bringing the curator’s morning tea and breakfast. He wondered if the child was hungry, and decided that she obviously was. He could have included Sweetie into his confidence, but he knew her well. She could barely contain a secret and was known among the staff for her prattling.
Quickly he reached in and pulled the chain that switched on a bare, hanging lightbulb, which flooded the room with harsh light. He put his fingers to his lips, winked at Afroze, and shut the door quickly, just in time for Sweetie to come around the corner from the kitchen to the entrance hall.
“Morning to you, Sweetie. Dis ’n regte koud dag, neh?” he rambled, then quickly stepped in front of the closet door, trying to hide the slit of light that shone through from underneath.
“Ah, Oom, Dawud. It is so cold today, the coffeepot had to be wrapped in my special blankets, neh,” Sweetie joked, gesturing toward the fuzzy crocheted cover that Sweetie had made, an extra-special touch to show her devotion to her job. The loud colors of the crocheted tea cozy clashed with the crisp white tray cloth, sparkling silverware, and pure white crockery.
From underneath a gleaming cloche delicious smells wafted, and Dawud salivated, knowing full well that he had to content himself with homemade jam sandwiches and weak tea. “Oh, Sweetie, you are a clever meisie, neh. Beautiful crochet, beautiful cooking, and so beautiful a face. Must be a lucky man you have for you, neh.”
He bantered with the giggling girl, hoping she would be too absorbed in his praises to notice the sliver of light. Sweetie patted her wiry hair hidden underneath a hairnet and a ruffled, white cap.
“Nee, man Oom. You mos nie say this to me, neh. Youz know how I suffer in my Ma se huis, can’t find a decent man today and age, Oomie. Just the other day my Tannie Elma bring a very nice man for tea. Agh, he was handsome, neh. He working in the lawyer office on Buitenkant Street, neh. But . . . Agh, Oomie Dawud, my ma, she chase him with a broom from the house, neh. Down the road, Oomie, so ashamed I feel. I tell you the story why my ma chase so good man away, neh . . .” Sweetie prattled on.
Dawud silently cursed his line of talk. Everyone knew that Sweetie was a very reluctant spinster, living with her cranky, old mother, and that despite all her best efforts, marriage and suitors had evaded the girl. Talking about her spinsterhood, her mother and all the suitors that she had apparently rejected was a topic that Sweetie relished, and it would be a conversation that could go on.
Quickly, Dawud recovered himself. He pushed the trolley with his foot an
d leaned into Sweetie, attempting to take her into a confidence. He knew her well enough, she would fall for it.
“Wait now, meisie. Listen, I have big news. Curator sir is having very important visitor today—important professor from university. He is coming to do up the music room, neh. And curator sir says to me that I must tell Sweetie only she can impress the professor with her famous tea and cakes and what-all.”
Sweetie’s eyes widened and she patted down her apron, smoothed her skirts. “Oh, Oh . . . Oomie. Thank you. Agh, here I am sommer talk-talk when I have so much to do. Maybe I will make my famous honey cake, neh. Agh, maybe daai watercress sandwiches Curator Sir he loves. Agh, Oomie, nee man, ek kan nie by jou bly vir chat-chat. I must go, now-now.”
“Hou op, Sweetie. Go quickly, neh. Curator Sir said he is relying for you to impress important professor. Agh, meisie, and the coffee must be getting cold too—your beautiful dress you knit for the coffee-pot can only do so much.”
“Ja, s’true Oomie. Let me run now. Your fault, you keep me here asking me to talk to you. Agh, I have so much to do. Maybe I will get some flowers from the courtyard. Maybe I make scones too. I have the fig jam I buy from Moomi outside. Maybe I . . . agh, bye bye Oomie. I must . . . go . . . I must . . .”
Sweetie pushed her tea trolley with rattling force, muttering lists of ingredients and dishes in her wake, and Dawud almost doubled over with silent laughter. He wondered if Sweetie would be imagining a handsome young professor who would sweep her away from her droll life and away from the vice of spinsterhood. He was glad she had not seen the light under the door.
The hours slipped by quietly. Dawud did not venture into the cleaning closet; there were too many visitors that kept coming and leaving the museum. He was kept busy handing over the guest book to be signed many times over, and even had to rap his bayonet against the wooden desk when an unruly little boy began to run among the antique blue and white porcelain tulip vases that sat precariously on spindly legged oak tables. He thought guiltily about the large sign outside: NO CHILDREN UNDER 10 ALLOWED INTO EXHIBITION HALL. He thought of six-year-old Rosie inside the cleaning closet, and how he would lose his job if she was discovered.
