Shukran

Upon entering the old pawn shop in Parow, the dusty air and sour old woman behind the counter will so insult your senses that exiting back into the gas-filled noisy mess of Voortrekker Road is rendered a happy relief.

The sour old woman is Aafia, and she now sits, slumped dismally over the dirty counter, staring blankly at the three lottery tickets she bought along with her morning cigarettes. Most of the light bulbs in the store have blown, and one of the few left flickers eerily.

Aafia inherited the shop from her father, as he did from his father, who opened its doors in his ambitious youth as a means to elevate his family from poverty, and never since did a Pieters child go to school with tattered shoes. When Aafia was handed the keys in her early thirties, she had no specific ambitions in life, so she begrudgingly resigned herself to the swivel chair behind the counter for all her years to come, wishing her grandfather had bigger aspirations and left them a better legacy than one old shop.

Sales have declined in recent years due to more furniture shops opening up around her, and she is vaguely aware that she might have to close it at some point in the future. It is a matter out of her control, and she decides not to let it worry her; she will deal with the challenge when the time comes.

When Aafia hears the doorbell chime, she sinks lower in her chair, hoping the customers won’t need assistance. She surveys the shop with a glance; one couple is browsing washing machines, another is pointing at and discussing frames on the wall and one man is inspecting an old work bench near to where she is sitting.

“Excuse me, ma’am, may I have a discount if I take the bench and the chair?” he asks.

“I would charge you more if you didn’t,” she grunts. “They’re a pair and they get sold together.”

He inspects it for a while longer and then leaves without buying it.

When the day is finally over, Aafia packs her lottery tickets neatly into her bag and locks up. Out in the street, she hails the dingy taxi that must take her to her apartment block in Salt River. She slumps in with heavy feet, visions of what dismal dinner she will cook herself tonight flickering through her tired mind.

“Come, Auntie, I don’t have all day!” the taxi’s young guardjie remonstrates as he ushers passengers in. He is a lean, dark-skinned boy, dressed in an oversized red hoodie and baggy jeans. There is a sparkle in his eyes.

She shoots him a sideways scowl and continues at her slow pace to a seat in the back.

He laughs at her. “Why you so tired, Auntie? Tonight I’m taking you somewhere special, so you can smile for a change!”

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

The bright-eyed youth continues, “I can see you’re going to fall asleep, but you mustn’t; tonight, I make all your dreams come true!”

He laughs, exposing a row of gold-plated teeth. His jubilant air is in stark contrast with the passengers, who are all utterly dismal, staring lifelessly ahead like corpses. As dusk slowly settles around them, it appears the taxi has indeed transformed into a hearse, at last carrying its dusty cadavers to their dreary ends.

The man next to Aafia, whose eyes have been shut, knocks into her every time they go over a bump in the road. He has been dressed in his best, least-faded suit. At the next stop, his lifeless body is hauled out into the night.

When they reach Aafia’s stop, she, too, is ejected and lands mercilessly on the street. She scuffles to the front door of her rundown apartment block, rummaging through her bag for her keys. Her head is bent the entire time, and she is confused when she opens the gate and does not hear its characteristically loud squeak. For the first time since arriving, she is brought to the present. She looks up to discover that the old apartment block has been replaced by a vast and majestic castle.

 

*   *   *

 

The magnificence of this unexpected stone structure takes Aafia’s breath away. Five large turrets that disappear in the clouds encircle a magnificent keep. Every inch is decorated with intricately carved shapes and mythical creatures. The architecture is ancient, yet the walls shine like polished obsidian. Two terrifying stone gargoyles are perched menacingly above an obviously impenetrable four-storey iron gate.

Aafia, not knowing where she is or how she got there, starts to back away slowly when a soldier dressed in a proud red uniform notices her and exclaims some profanity, which she can’t quite make out. She panics when the soldier rushes toward her, but, before she can turn to run, he falls down in front of her, dust erupting about his now pathetic person, and kisses the air above her feet.

“Your Highness!’’ he exclaims most affectionately. “We have searched for thee in all the woods and all the lands! Pray, let me accompany thee at once to thy keep so that Your Highness may prepare for the dinner that is to be held in thy honour this very hour!”

Aafia, rendered speechless, is promptly led over the drawbridge and into the main ward, which has a monumental fountain in its centre and many servants, soldiers and horses bustling about.

When they notice her, they all stop what they are doing and bow.

An astonished Aafia continues following what is now a platoon of soldiers toward the formidable keep. At the door, they move aside in unison to form a path for her, and bow ceremoniously. She still cannot speak as she enters the keep.

The magnificence of the exterior could not have prepared even a king for the magnificence of this great hall in which our pawnbroker now finds herself. Giant crystal chandeliers, great golden monuments of lions and angels, and a grand staircase made entirely of glass and mirrors are but a few majestic objects that further bewilder the senses. The servants here have somehow been made aware of her arrival, and they are now lined up proudly to meet her.

“Thy bath awaits, my Royal Highness,” announces the most decorated of servants, a thin giant of a man wearing a golden monocle and dressed most splendidly. She will later learn that his name is Ugar and that his family has served the crown loyally for many generations.

Aafia remains dumbfounded and silent as they carry her off and bathe her in a large pool filled with oils and lavender branches, and then dress her in a gold and cream gown that has more layers than she can count, and then usher her into another splendid hall that is filled with grand lords and ladies all dancing and laughing most joyously. When she enters, they stop and bow.

Ugar’s voice booms across the hall. “Here enters Queen Aafia Pieters I, our sovereign ruler, worshipped by all her people, feared by all her enemies, and so loved that she is made immortal in all our hearts!”

Upon hearing her name thus used, Aafia realises for the first time that they have, in fact, not mistaken her for another, and is so pleased and terrified at once that she nearly faints. Her servants do not notice her distress. They lead her to a great black marble throne at the end of the room, where she sits for the rest of the night surveying the bizarre sight at her feet. Harpists play cheerful melodies, servants keep her cup filled with sweet nectars and chefs bring before her great legs of lamb, lobsters, cakes and candy apples, which have always been her favourite dessert. At length, Aafia begins to relax and allows herself to enjoy her new setting.

As the days pass, Aafia becomes more and more comfortable with her life as queen, and is soon ordering servants about and demanding treats and pleasures to fulfil her every desire. She neglects what little duties she has, which annoys her subjects, but they can do nothing about it, so they pretend not to notice and they do the work themselves. Aafia senses their unhappiness, but does not care. It is around this time that she becomes increasingly delighted by the beauty of the ornaments in her castle. She goes for long walks along the decorated halls and gardens, and Ugar narrates where every unique item came from. Most are heirlooms from predecessors, and some were gifts from royal families and noblemen. Once she has seen every furniture piece, statue, vase and chandelier, she orders her merchants to travel to exotic lands and bring her more wonderful things, and soon the splendour of her castle is tripled and comes to be known as the most grand and decorated castle in history.

One day, she is seated on her throne when a merchant, just back from China, presents three rare vases to her with trembling hands.

“They are blue and white ‘Dragon and Lotus’ porcelain vases, Your Majesty; they date to the 1700s,” he stammers.

She surveys them critically. “They are handsome,” she says discerningly, “but not enough so to tempt me. Look…” She motions to a row of vases to her side that are, undoubtedly, more ancient and more beautiful. “Yours would be a horrid disappointment when placed next to the others in my collection. Take them away.”

“Your Highness, they were acquired from the descendants of China’s last royal family!”

“And so? What is that to me?”

“Your Highness…” Here, the man bows his head and takes a step toward her. “I have spent all that I owned to acquire them, and, if you do not buy them, I will surely be ruined. I have five children, Your Majesty.”

“Very well, I will buy them from you and use them as doorstoppers,” she says smugly, revelling in her benevolence.

The man is overjoyed. The servants pack up the vases and lead the man to a door to the side so that he may leave. While doing so, he performs a little hop of jubilance whereby he knocks over one of the precious, more valuable vases that the queen referred to earlier, and it falls to the ground and shatters into many small pieces.

Aafia jumps from her throne in great anger and slaps the poor merchant so hard that her hand is imprinted with red bumps on his cheek.

The room falls silent. Aafia blushes furiously. The servants are all staring at her in shock and disappointment.

Aafia retires to her chambers in shame and stays there for days. She makes sure the merchant is paid double what he asked for, but it is clear to her that the servants still do, and will always, hate her. The disregard of her royal duties and her demanding airs in the past now make it impossible for them to look past this one fatal transgression. They still serve her, they have to, but she can see the loathing in their eyes as they do. When she calls Ugar to take her on a tour, he is away on urgent business. With every meal that is placed in front of her, she imagines she sees the telltale bubbles where they must surely have spat. She eats very little and becomes very thin. She notices statesmen whispering in corridors and then jumping when they see her, so she appoints extra personal guards to protect her against an assassination, but the men they bring to her scare her even more than the statesmen themselves. She decides to host another dinner in her honour to regain some respect, but so few guests show up that the great hall echoes with every sound they make, so they stand about in silence as the harpists play simple, un-practiced melodies. Upon her entrance, Ugar drearily announces, “Here enters Queen Aafia Pieters I, great ruler, feared by her enemies.”

Upon hearing this, and remembering the endearing sentiments made by him previously, Aafia bursts out crying. She runs in shame from the hall, out into the ward, and then across the moat. She falls down in the street in anguish. The soldiers all pretend not to notice her, which plummets her heart into an even deeper despair.

After a long while spent in such anguish, one of her grand coaches appears in front of her and the door swings open.

“Come now, Your Highness, I haven’t got all day!” the coachman chimes. It is the guardjie from the taxi. “Where you going to, Your Highness?”

“Anywhere but here!” she exclaims and climbs in.

 

*   *   *

 

The coach rattles on with Aafia in the back, sobbing quietly, until dawn breaks.

“Thank you, Auntie, that’ll be R9,” the guardjie gleefully demands, snapping her out of her melancholy reverie.

Aafia searches her satin gown for pockets, but it has none.

She panics. How will she pay for this ride? She has no handbag; she has nothing.

“I forgot to bring my money with me,” she says.

“You didn’t forget; you threw it away!” The guardjie curses ‘jirre’ under his breath.

She is embarrassed, but relieved that the dingy taxi continues to rattle along Voortrekker Road without throwing her out.

In Parow, they stop in front of the pawn shop and the guardjie urges her to exit swiftly. She gets out and the taxi speeds off.

The pawn shop has been transformed into a cheap modern furniture shop. A spray-painted ‘Sale always on’ is sprawled offensively over the large window. Ugly tables and chairs line the street in front of it. She walks in. Fluorescent lights illuminate a tacky sea of yellow plywood. She picks up a plain plastic vase and puts it down again in disgust.

The storekeeper, a short man with dark rings under his eyes, appears in front of her. “Can I help you, ma’am?” He eyes her critically, for by now her once-wondrous gown has fallen flat and is covered in dust and ripped in several places. “If you’re not here to buy, I will ask you to leave.”

After one last look about the bright faux hell, Aafia steps back out onto Voortrekker Road. With no money, she can’t take a taxi; she has to walk the 10 kilometres to Salt River. Her soiled satin slippers tear quickly and she is soon walking barefoot on the dirty glass-strewn sidewalk. She reaches her apartment block, but, not having keys on her, she has to wait for somebody to open the gate. The person looks her up and down distrustfully, but lets her in. When she gets close to her front door, it opens and a pretty young woman with two laughing toddlers exits and locks it again behind them. Aafia dismally heads back out into the streets.

Aafia spends the dreary days that follow walking up and down Voortrekker Road, eating nothing but soup from the local soup kitchen and sleeping under bridges. She exchanges her tattered satin gown for a brown shirt and jeans from the Salvation Army. Nobody talks to her, except for Lukas, a seven-year-old homeless boy who is so timid and frightful that the other boys bully him and he has no friends. His large eyes are pools of emotion, as though they are always on the brink of tears. Years ago, he fell asleep on a taxi ride with his mother, and, when he woke, he was at Cape Town station and she was gone. He wandered the large station, wailing, for many days until he finally realised his mother was not coming back. Aafia takes pity on him and lets him sleep under her blanket on cold nights. When she finds out he can’t read or count, she decides to teach him. Needing money for books and pencils, she starts asking strangers for work. She cleans houses, washes cars and gardens. The jobs pay little and do not come frequently, but she manages to makes enough to pay for stationary and a bit of food.

One day, she is asked to clean out an abandoned garage. The new owner will pay her R50 and she can keep whatever she finds in it. At first sight, it is filled with a heap of old newspapers, broken bottles and old planks with rusty nails. She proceeds cautiously and diligently, picking away at the dangerous mass. She does not expect to find anything of value in it, but, when she removes a large corrugated iron sheet, a most exquisite thing is revealed. It is an original 1930s Singer chair, with the iconic Eiffel Tower cast iron stand and a round wooden seat and backrest held together by two iron rods shaped with such effeminate beauty and elegance that it makes Aafia’s heart flutter like a child in love. When she raises it out of its tomb of debris, a second chair is revealed. This Scandinavian design has a large flat seat and backrest, it’s material long since eroded, held together by a complex system of wooden rods so artfully and painstakingly crafted that Aafia’s chest burns when she runs her course hands lovingly over them. Aafia quickly finishes cleaning the garage and calls Lukas to help her carry the chairs. The owner sees, but does not realise the value of the chairs, and lets her go with her prize as promised.

Aafia and Lukas spend the week that follows washing, sanding and oiling their chairs in a quiet parking lot in the backstreets of Parow. They have spent every cent they owned on the restoration. When they are done, the chairs glisten like new. The garage owner would not have let her leave with them if he saw them like this. Aafia then visits upholsterer after upholsterer, until she finally finds one kind enough to cover the Scandinavian chair’s seat and backrest with black leather for nothing but a homeless woman’s promise of future payment.

On a cold, drizzling morning, Aafia and Lukas set out, each with a chair above their heads, to the city. The walk is long and the chairs are heavy. When they reach the market square, the day is already over and the tourists have all left, so they beg for some food and go to sleep right there, Lukas curled up on the black leather of the larger chair and Aafia next to him on a soft patch of soil, holding the other chair close.

The next morning, they are awakened by tourists poking them all over, tickling Lukas into a childish giggling fit. Aafia is assaulted with a hundred questions. The pale crowd stares and snaps their cameras, and talks in strange languages. After a long, confusing hour, she sells the chairs for R20,000.

With this money, Aafia peruses pawn shops and curates from them those pieces that the owners do not realise are valuable, and then restores them and sells them to tourists on the square. She pays back the kind upholsterer and brings him a lot of new business. Thanks to her expert eye and love for the items, she soon acquires a small fortune. She buys back her pawn shop in Parow and transforms it into a beautiful boutique antique shop. Soon, she is curating unique antiques and objects d’art from across the globe. Collectors travel from far to visit her, and she welcomes every one warmly.

Aafia names her business ‘Shukran’, for she has learnt gratitude. Gratitude to her grandfather and all his hard work. Gratitude to herself for learning how to direct her life. Gratitude to the artistry within humanity that creates such beauty in furniture. Gratitude to the guardjie who took her not where she wanted to go, but where she needed to go. Gratitude to every hardship in her past.

Aafia buys a big house for her and Lukas and sends him to the finest school in the district, where he makes many new friends. On weekends, he works with her in the shop, and she shows him the beauty of antiques, so that he may love them as she does. Lukas becomes a strong, intelligent young man. He is known and loved by all as a particularly compassionate man, and his confidence and knowledge of life guides him to exercise many great acts of kindness toward others. He builds a great orphanage and school, where he lets in any child, building more rooms when it starts to overflow.

In later years, Lukas marries and Aafia is bequeathed many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She spends her days surrounded by the wealth of family, and feels richer than she ever dreamt to be, and her heart becomes a sweet, swollen thing made entirely of gratitude and love.