In the early seventies I sewed caftans for a shop called Central Africa Imports. Located on West Fourth Avenue in hippie land, it was run by a couple, Alvina and Tom.
Tom, a large man with a gravelly voice, sported a bushy grey beard and short-sleeved cotton batik print shirts. At his leisurely pace, he told stories. When the shop was quiet, he played the thumb pianos he'd acquired in Dar es Salaam, when he worked at the National Museum of Tanzania.
Alvina was quiet and self-contained. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and she wore it in a French roll. She kept on top of the business of the shop, while Tom chatted to customers.
At meal times "Al" cooked fragrant curries on a hotplate in the back. Behind the bead curtain, the tiny storage area was packed from floor to ceiling with goods. As well as the aroma of exotic foods, the back room exuded scents of sandalwood and dust from distant continents.
How well I remember the exotic items in that shop. Red frangipani and patchouli oil in tiny vials, striped Indian bedspreads block printed with elephants, caftans and embroidered rayon shirts, and above all, the wonderful ebony sculptures that my friends had collected slowly over their years in Tanzania, buying them from Makonde carvers who sat by the roadside unearthing spirits from heavy African blackwood.
I learned much from Tom and Alvina, even some words of Swahili. Only once since they closed have I smelled something close to the scent of their shop; that elusive and transitory fragrance hit me with the force of a tsunami of longing to revisit those years with my friends.
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