The Restless Supermarket (37 page)

Steffi Graf went waltzing by with Max Bygraves in her arms. Stepping on his toes in her tennis shoes. The bulge on her hip, under the grass-green sheath of the evening gown, showed where a ball was tucked into the band of her knickers.

‘Umpteen.’ It belongs in the nursery vocabulary. Is there no mature alternative?

*

With a deft twist of my torso, I broke free of Mevrouw Bonsma’s pruinose embrace and made for the balcony. There were a couple of questions I meant to ask Spilkin before I excised him from my life entirely, like a swollen appendix.

‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ Wessels shouted after
me.

There were crowds outside as well. I pushed my way through to the railing. In the grisly shadow of Patronymić, Spilkin and Bogey were leaning. Spilkin’s hair was standing on end like a clown’s, Bogey had a carrot jutting from his mouth like a cigar. Gifts and Novelties. He gave me an apple and suggested I throw it into the street. I looked over the railing at the people milling down below. How big a fool did he think I was? The missile was bound to enrage someone. I gave the apple to Errol, whom I found at my shoulder, and he let fly. Meanwhile, I took out a pencil and sharpener.

Bogey licked the end of the carrot and dipped it in Patronymić’s pocket. It came out sugar-coated. Crystalline
ash.

‘Old Aubs-ss is quite a literati, when you get to know him,’ said Wessels at my
side.

‘Literatus, you burr. Not that there’s a grain of truth in the accusation.’

‘He’s been working on that exam of his again. The other day he was telling me how you guys helped him with the papers and so
on.’

‘Now that really takes me back,’ Spilkin mused. ‘“The Proofreader’s Derby.” I’ll never forget it. An utterly mad scheme. That’s when I thought: he’s a crank. Aubrey, I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you got that bee out of your bonnet.’

He had become a splinter in my flesh. What was it Wessels had once called him? … A chip off the old shoulder. To steady my nerves, I turned the pencil in the sharpener and watched the shavings carried away on the breeze.

‘As a matter of fact
…’

Bee? A Cheese Snack buzzed out of the night and caromed off the side of my
head.

‘Merle used to say that there was something almost Casaubonish about you and your “System of Records”. She thought you were never going to finish it. Not that one required special powers of perception to make that deduction.’

Spilkin’s expression drew me back to solid ground. ‘Of course not,’ I said, while ‘The Proofreader’s Derby’ burnt a hole in my pocket.

*

My copies were still there, and so was the
Concise
.
Funky
. Presumably not ‘terrified, cowardly’ but ‘fashionable, unconventional’. Having a strong smell?
Umpteen
. Indefinitely many. How would one spell ‘Casaubonish’? Casualty department … catafalque … cat-and-dog … But I wasn’t dressed for fartlek. (I’ve since discovered who Edward Casaubon was, and it’s an injustice second to none that we should have been mentioned in the same breath.)

*

‘All this was mantled,’ Herr Toppelmann said sadly, wagging a pimply pickle at the four walls, ‘and now also dismantled shall
be.’

*

They came shouting ‘Viva!’ and dancing the highveld fling. A mob. Capering about like baboons. From the Latin
babewynus
:
an Old World monkey with naked callosities on its buttocks. To think that the Café Europa had once been a haven in an urban jungle, and now the jungle was in here too, on our side of the pale. I looked for a fist waving an apple as a credible excuse, but found no such comfort. Hunky Dory ran away. The hurdy-gurdy soldiered on without him. Patronymić flung Bogey down in a corner and lay on top of him. I hadn’t realized he was a bodyguard. Why should Bogey require the services of a bodyguard? There was a rushing to and fro the likes of which had never been seen before under that roof. The proofreader’s motto came back to me (in the illuminated version that hung on the wall behind Erasmus’s desk): ‘Widows and orphans first.’ So I stayed where I was, in my proper place, a model of dignified restraint.

‘Kill the bull, kill the farmer!’ I’d heard it on the radio. A native folk song. Obviously, if one kills the bull, one kills the farmer, figuratively speaking, by depriving him of his livelihood. Why make a song and dance about
it?

In the green meadows of Alibia, the lion was not lying down with the lamb, exactly, but Frieslands were chewing the cud alongside Jerseys and Aberdeen Anguses. Not an Afrikander in sight. I was there, under a willow-pattern thorn tree, flat on my back in the sweet grass, in clover. The sward beneath, succulent and overgrown, the sky above. One could never lie down in the veld as such, it was too scratchy. A stile over a bony hedgerow. A humpbacked bridge over a babbling brook, running off at the mouth.
Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore? It’s just impossible
.
Mevrouw Bonsma, give the devil her due, had taken over the keyboard and was trying to restore order
–
If I had you, could I ever ask for more? It’s just impossible –
but it seemed to have no effect. Her spotlit face was as soft and wan as a ripened Camembert. A full moon stooped over Alibia, broadening the daylight. In the market place, the grocers were crying the last shipments of bottled beer. On the canals, the boatmen were singing. Children were climbing trees and rolling hoops. Men were shaving boards and twisting nails, tilling the earth and reaping the harvest. A busy human noise burbled up. But it was not the music of the Alibian masses gathered to honour the champions of order: it was the invaders in our midst, clamouring for blood. One beggar at the banquet might be tolerated
–
but a whole crowd of them? Then a voice rose above the din, like an ark on the deluge. Spilkin. Screaming blue murder. It was enough to give a chicken goose-flesh. There he was fleeing, leaping over the furniture, scattering paper plates and bones. They ran him to ground in the corner by the Gentlemen’s room. I was shocked to see Darlene among the pursuers, grinning maniacally, her turban unravelling like a winding-sheet. They crowded in on him. I saw his mouth contorted, his eyes streaming. What were they doing to him? Their shoulders shook, their heads bobbed, their buttocks squirmed. Then the crowd scattered abruptly. There seemed to be more of them than ever. Spilkin had vanished. Had they consumed
him?

I might have escaped their attention, had I remained frozen in my seat. But I must have risen spontaneously, meaning to intervene in Spilkin’s defence, despite everything.

‘Fuddy old barley!’

The strangers set upon me like a pack of wolves. Many hands seized me roughly. I wasn’t going to submit without a fight. I let them have it with a few epithets, the sorts of things that would ring in the ears for days afterwards. I kept my eyes peeled, too, in case there was ever an identity parade. As I fell, I saw Mevrouw Bonsma stoking up the boilers, and then ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ poured forth over the
babewyni
.
Familiar faces, but trampled out of shape, tossed like leaves in the far reaches of the room, stuck to the wallpaper.
Glory! Glory!
Huge with the lid of the trophy on his head. Wessels
–
brandishing the crutch
–
‘Boonzaaier!’ Raylene.

A storm of blows rained down on me. Fists, foreheads, kneecaps, elbows, heels. Hard bone under soft flesh. My spectacles, knocked sideways on my cheek, reduced my assailants to a blur. Yet by a fatal twist of optics, one lens was turned into a magnifying glass, and a single face came into focus within its frame: Darlene. They had wrestled me to the ground, and she was sitting on top of me. The bones in my chest cracked and splintered. I put out my hands to ward her off and clasped instead the swollen yellow bulb of her belly. Great with child. Spilkin?
Impossible!
And now, in all likelihood, gone for ever. Widows and orphans. But they were not even married. Before I could pursue this train of thought any further, my spectacles were plucked from my face and the world flew away.
Climb every mountain
…
Ford every stream
…
Follow every rainbow
… Hands were kneading my cheeks, pinching my chin, tweaking me, buffing me. My face felt cold. Then it went completely black before my
eyes.

*

Merle.

*

My breath came back. I listened to its roar, to the buckled ribs squeaking, the throat rattling. Extraordinarily, I was still alive. The black gave way to grey, shot through with red. Blood in my eyes. I wiped them clear. I patted my head for gashes. Nothing gapingly obvious. One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock … Excrescences all present and accounted for. Pockets? Ditto. I felt around on the floor for my spectacles. A fuzzy teddy bear appeared out of the mist, weeping hysterically, and put them in my hand. Somehow they had come through intact.

The world fell back into focus. A circle of people around me, but keeping their distance, like onlookers at the scene of an accident, chattering among themselves, pointing, pulling faces. I got to my feet. An odd little man stood before me, a black man, some faithful old servant perhaps, who had witnessed the massacre. He was wearing one of the caps with ‘Boy’ written on it, and weeping inconsolably. He wanted to speak to me, but every time he caught his breath, he was racked by a fresh outpouring. I considered slapping him across the face
–
it was the recommended remedy
–
but he had something wrong with his skin. It was as thick as paste. Scar tissue. Wattles of mortified flesh at the neck. Had he been burnt?

Despite the disfigurement, there was something familiar about him. Could it be Eveready? No, he was taller. I studied the features, the gasping maw, the eyes brimming with tears, the dripping nose. And then it came to me in a flash that made me reel. It was Spilkin. And in the glare of that recognition, I saw something else: he wasn’t weeping at all. He was laughing.

I looked in disbelief at the wider circle. Then I pushed the spectacles up on my forehead with a numb index finger and let the lenses fall in front of my eyes again like guillotine blades. Mustering my spent energies, I put each face to the proof. There was Huge, as black as pitch. Nomsa with her wig on sideways, a few shades lighter, but black nevertheless. McAllister, an ’Enry, and a brace of Eddies. And they were black
too.

I touched my own face and looked at my fingers.

Black.

*

I scrutinized without blinking. The Café was barely recognizable. They had turned it upside down. Nothing but black faces on every side. Who were the invaders? The newcomers? The old regulars? One couldn’t work out who was who any more. I felt abandoned by friend and foe alike.

The sea was spilling over the breakwater in the Bay of Alibia. The other walls were streaming too. What was this liquid? Some frightful solvent in which all things would float and dissolve, gradually losing their shape and running into one another. A solution of error. It was striking up through the carpet, I was soaking it up like blotting paper. Sharp little objects pierced through my soles, and my shoes filled with a prickly sludge of delenda.

I bloated and swelled. The trembling in my innards, which I had taken for fear, revealed itself as rage. A rage to disgorge this superabundance of error, to get rid of it once and for all, to blow my stack.

I erupted. I gave them a mouthful, the Amadoda and Abafazi, the shithouses (excuse my Anglo-Saxon) of the holey city of Joburg, the Rotary Anns, the Pump-action Bradleys, Mr Frosty and Mrs Sauce, the Bushbuck Rangers and the Crystal Brains, the bobbers, the peddlers, the stinkers. I poured it out upon them, the printer’s pie, the liquid lunch, the hasty pudding, the swill of tittles and jots, the gaudy Gouda, the Infamous Grouse, the Jiffywrap, the Oatso Easy, the Buddywipes, the Wunderbuddels. Items, one-eared: Vincent van Gogh … John Paul Getty III … Dumbo … innumerable teacups and coffee mugs. I was not in the habit of speaking in this fashion, of seeing, of saying disorder, of chaos, of coarseness, but I had lost my tone. Where were my cadences, my measures? My pages were out of order. To be Papenfus or not to be Papenfus? What do you call a man under a shroud? Paul. Names for dogs, should I ever acquire one: Riley … Puccini … Houdini. Down ~ down ~ down ~ down. The beast would outlive me. It was past my bedtime.

They fell silent. Ashamed of themselves. Mevrouw Bonsma stopped playing. Then there was nothing but the sound of my own voice. It made no sense to me, it was nothing but a long, fluent spewing, it made no more sense than water gushing from a hose. I watched the stream of sound, I saw bubbles breaking underwater. I looked harder. Words were floating to the surface, and I rose with them into the familiar air, and found my place. My ears popped and I could hear properly again. Could hear a new voice, which was really my old voice, replete with authority.

I put my hand in my breast pocket and grasped ‘The Proofreader’s Derby’, my logical conclusion. But prudence caught my wrist. What if they thought I was fetching out a weapon? Nowadays, every second person was carrying a firearm. So I reached instead for Errol’s pool cue, which was leaning against the wall beside me. How was I to know they use these things to beat one another?

*

I reached, as I said, for Errol’s pool cue, his Helmstetter. An object lesson. It was my intention to screw it apart, to present them with Helm and Stetter, to screw it together again. Not with the arrogant ease of its owner, but with authority.

Errol tugged at my sleeve like a child.

‘Keep your cretaceous little fingers off my blazer.’ I jerked my arm free. The moment had given me unnatural physical strength. Errol stumbled back as if I had punched him, and banged into one of the marauders, a brute with boot polish on his hands, wearing his jacket inside out. They grappled and clinched.

Was that all it took, one act of will, one assertion, to rouse them from their torpor? They claimed afterwards that I made to attack them with the pool cue. Can you credit
it?