Awesome Blossoms: Horn OK Please (4 page)

CHAPTER THREE

By Melani Strachan

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If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.

- Marcus Tullius Cicero

A Respect for Words

T
he glass door to the bookshop would never close properly at the first attempt. You had to slam it a second time if you had the nerve. This would set off the hollow clanging of a string of brass bells hanging from the frame which in turn would invite the sideway glances from a few browsers and get Adrian to look up from his perch behind the counter. But once the commotion stopped, you were safely inside and the particular silence reserved only for bookshops and libraries was restored. You had once again successfully shut the wind and the traffic of an ordinary day out and the anticipation of a rare find started to unfurl itself in the pit of your stomach. That’s what brought her back time and again, that stepping over the threshold of the mundane, announced by a clambering of bells, into a quiet world where most things were possible.

Of course the lure of the books also played a role, but their presence was more as silent witnesses of this other world. It was as if their authors had left them there for dead while they tended to a new set of characters, another story waiting to be told. They would only come alive again when you chose to pick one up, breathing life into the muted pages as you blew the dust off and held it closer to your chest. This, to Adrian, was always a clear signal of a def
inite sale, a claim of ownership. But until then they were props, carefully positioned in their appropriate sections: biographies, politics, history, motivational, short stories... They were the wise, silent onlookers to the story of life. Dressed in dust jackets once designed to impress, where careful consideration had gone into choosing color, design and font, they now bravely tried to stand upright in ever fading covers.

In the far back corner next to the children’s section stood a fa
ded floral couch, the seats hollowed over the years, and a couple of chairs.  An honesty tin for coffee money and some chipped mugs waited patiently next to a percolator that hissed and sputtered loudly as it dispensed its specific aroma that would linger unnoticed in her memories and come back to her years later, by chance, in a coffee shop in Italy. It was here that one could feel the spirit of the place. Adrian would often reprimand the kids when their sticky fingers were too rough with the pages, “Remember every book has a soul,” he would say. If a bookshop had a soul, she would think, this would be its seat. Here, where she would come every afternoon and share the thoughts and dreams, that were unimaginable in the world outside, with like-minded people. Where you could relay your own history, discuss your country’s politics, tell a story and maybe motivate an artist. It was here that she met people that looked at her in such a way that she knew they were reading the thoughts behind her words, people with a respect for words, readers and aspiring writers. People who didn’t see the color of her skin as a barrier that real friendship struggled to climb over. Real people, with whom she could enjoy an intellectual conversation without the ever growing ink stain of gender prejudice. South Africa’s democracy had struggled to mature to a naturally balanced, healthy and content entity. Orphaned, soon after birth she had been adopted by an elderly white couple whom she loved and respected and yet never really could bond with. After they died within a month of each other, the bookshop had become her haven, a place with books and people that she loved. People like Harriet.

She smiled now as she fondly remembered Harriet. Harriet
, with the unruly red curls that refused to be tucked under any beret, beanie or other form of headgear that she would always proudly don. Harriet, who would have no problem with slamming the door shut a second time, sending the brass bells cluttering against the fragile glass and thus announcing her entrance as a whirlwind might do. Flinging her scarf over her left shoulder she would march her way around her favorite shelves which included cookery, crafts and poetry and pull out new arrivals. She would then make her way to the counter with a little mountain of books tucked under her arm and slamming them down would calmly enquire what Adrian thought of the game last night. Without waiting for him to finish she would go back, all the way sniffing and inhaling the coffee aroma audibly, fall into the sofa and putting her feet up, would slurp the first mouthful as her eyes would haze over in ecstatic bliss. After being invigorated she would sit up suddenly, lean over to where Arif was paging the newspaper and in a conspiratorial tone tell him just how much she enjoyed the love poems of Pablo Neruda last night.

Arif would cough, take off and wipe his spectacles and usually entertain her by quoting a few lines that he had memorized first, before proceeding with a philosophic discussion comparing love as observed by Rumi, the Sufi poet and its relevance to modern day Islamic writings.  Arif had a beard that intimidated the kids in the kids section next door but that also gave him a wizened look that contradicted his young age but somehow enhanced his sharp sense of humor. He also had that patient listening manner that made him the one you’d go to when confronted with an unexpected existe
ntial crisis or other sudden bouts of unfounded guilt. When your near hysterical verbal flurry eventually ran out of steam and came to a hesitant halt, he would turn to you and, clapping his hands together, say something like, “Now that’s an interesting topic for a short story! Why don’t you write it out, write it out of your system.” This gave you that new perspective on your dilemma, it got you to step away from it and, tilting your head, looking at it from a writer’s angle you could see some possibilities emerging from the grey smog. It was at such moments that you reached into your rucksack without looking down and retrieved your notebook and pen, all the time maintaining eye contact with that fictional character that was now very distinguishable in the greys of your torment as it stepped into the number one position as candidate for the role of protagonist in your next writing attempt.

A story that would later slowly take shape in the nights to come on the intimidating white pages that seemed to float on the sea blue background of a Microsoft Word Document. You were motivated and you stuck to it, struggled with it as you paced and sat down
. You were writing it with the determination of someone who knew he had a reader. In fact you were so eager to get it to read that you often printed it out after the first draft. Sitting with your arms folded at 2 o’clock in the morning, watching nervously as sheet after sheet slowly disappeared into the obliging printer that squeaked and grunted hungrily and deposited your processed thoughts, your imagined lives, fantasies and fears in a neat little stack that had a title and your name on it. At that hour of the morning, things always felt and looked different, ordinary things presented an eerie silent side enhanced by the blinking of the little green light on the microwave, the fridge light casting a warm red glow on the white tiles as you went to sleep. Satisfied but with anticipation laying next to you in bed, you could blame its constant fidgeting for the restless night you had getting to to the bookshop an hour earlier that day.

Eyeing Harriet and Arif on the sofa absorbed in an animated discussion, you would leisurely scout the shelves for your next read, glancing over at the empty chair ever so often. Tim was often late, not by choice but by nature. He got distracted by an array of things and people that happened to cross his path on any given day. Whatever the distraction might be on the day
, you knew you would be entertained by his anecdotal account of events that would either leave you in tears or stitches of laughter. Tim could tell a story like very few could. It was as if he saw events the way he pictured the subjects of his paintings, in bold vivid brush strokes, color plastered thick and lush on a canvas that had no choice but to spring to life in loud gallops of imagery and bursts of humor. Either that or in sensitive hushed tones of pale greys and translucent purples, the sadness curling around your heart from the cold breeze that swept the tall stark trees in a landscape that spoke of grief and loneliness. That’s precisely why you took your new story to Tim first. Tim knew sadness and joy in equal measures, and somehow that balance was what you felt safe with when you presented your little stack of paper and he took it with a nod that told you that he would read it, make pencil notes in the margins and never speak a word about it unless you asked.

Having successfully delivered your story you would feel light as if a load had been lifted and that would make you turn to the shelves again. Now you needed a good read and Adrian’s shop had plenty. It was on just such a day that she made a discovery that would change the course of her life. She had been sitting on the little low plastic chair that was your backs best friend when you perused the bottom shelves. The label sporting a neat handwriting read ‘Miscellaneous’ and was curled at the edges where the glue had dried up. This was where Adrian shelved book
s that didn’t fit in any of the other categories he had created. Somehow this section always seemed neglected. It was as if these were the street kids of the shop, not quite belonging anywhere and seldom taken home by anyone. Adrian always made a point of calling his books “pre-owned”, answering his phone with the formal businesslike greeting of “Afternoon, Adrian’s Bookshop for PRE-OWNED Books, how may I help you?” Yet somehow the term “used” came to mind each time she browsed the miscellaneous shelf.

Compared to the fiction shelves that were brimming with best sellers and
page-turners carefully arranged in alphabetical order by author’s surname, this shelf was in disarray. There was no way to order them as neither author nor title was significant in assisting a search and to add to that they came in all shapes and sizes, from coffee table size to the little mass market paperback size. Some of these books had been there even before Adrian had bought the shop from the previous owner who decided the country had no future and following the brain drain, moved to Australia. Adrian had been retrenched when the bank he worked for was taken over by a foreign institution. Driven by a passion for books and fuelled by the refusal to accept that he was nearing retirement age, he used his pension to buy the shop including all stock and furnishings.

As she absentmindedly ran her hand across the spines from one end of the shelf to the other and back again, almost like a child would on the keys of a piano if he couldn’t play but wanted to hear the notes one after the next, she discovered an irregularity. Som
ething had broken the rhythm of her fingers and made her lean right in to investigate the little gap. Reaching in she discovered a book that had been pushed right back and had ended up lying on its side behind the row of upright spines. As she retrieved it, it presented itself in a cloud of dust. She bashed it a couple of times on her knee and read the faded gilded title. It put a frown on her forehead as she puzzled with the foreign language, eventually deciding it must be German. Upon getting up, her knees stiff from the long sit on the low chair, she ambled over to where the percolator had announced that a fresh brew was ready. She held on to the little red book with the faded foreign title, immediately feeling an unfounded affinity for it that she couldn’t explain and that only another bibliophile could understand. She wanted it and there was no reason why.

Harriet, Arif and Tim looked at her as she joined them with a mug in one hand and the little red book in the other. “You have that face that says I’ve found what I’m looking for,” Arif observed
to which the others agreed and Harriet held out her hand in a gesture that said it’s time to reveal. The next few minutes had them all speculating on the language, the publication date and the owner’s inscription on the front end paper that simply read “Thabo, Germany, 1977” in a flowing pale blue ink. When they all sat back again to relish the coffee, she fanned the pages to air the musty smell that sent Harriet into a sneezing frenzy that only abated when Tim handed her a serviette from his pocket on which he had scrawled a phone number. As Harriet attempted to inspect the number by turning it this way and that in between sniffs, Tim gestured for her to go ahead, to which she replied by blowing her nose so loudly that a cute little 3 year old from the kids section dropped her book and ran in search of her mother.

It was then that it fell on her lap. Almost in slow motion she watched an envelope dislodge itself from the musty pages she was fanning with and float down to rest like an autumn leaf on her lap.  Arif, Harriet and Tim simultaneously put their mugs down and stared at the brittle envelope on her lap. It was addressed to “Miss Thabile Sisulu, c/o Umtata General Dealer, PO Box 321, Umtata, Transkei,” in the same pale blue ink writing that they all
recognized as belonging to Thabo, who owned and inscribed the little red book in 1977.  He had written and addressed this letter to a Miss Thabile Sisulu, but had never sent it. Instead he left it in his book and there it stayed sealed and imprisoned by circumstance and time. The inevitable question soon presented itself unspoken but loudly in their midst. “Should we open it????” Somehow it felt wrong to invade the privacy of words that did not belong to any of us. It would be like breaking a holy seal, sacrilege almost. The dilemma was short lived however, because Tim turned the envelope over and there the triangle was gaping at them, open, the glue had long since lost its adhesion.

She said nothing but she could feel that a defining moment was about to present itself. She was watching her pulse knock on the walls of her wrists when Tim carefully unfolded the onion skin paper, cleared his throat and started to read in a slow deep voice:

“22 December 1977. My dearest Thabile, I trust that your health is in good order and that your pregnancy is not a burden to you. The winter is cold and harsh here and I long for the African sun, the tall yellow grass and for you, my beloved wife to be. Germany has been kind to my fellow comrades and me. We are training hard to become the freedom fighters that our fathers can be proud of. Exile is not an easy thing, our spirits are often low as we miss our families, but we find courage in the hope that one day we shall return to our beloved country, free of the oppression that has destroyed so many of our brothers and sisters. The future will be ours one day, Thabile and you, with your talent for words will be free to write and publish your books and our child will grow up in a new South Africa. I dream of this unborn child. The spirits of my ancestors visit me in my dreams and tell me about this unborn child. As I mentioned in my previous letter, I think she is a girl and I request respectfully to remind you once again that you should name her Thuli, after my grandmother.