Ivan Vladislavić - The Restless Supermarket

‘Where’d this come from?’

‘Ask old Churl,’ Wessels said.

Another opportunity to introduce ‘The Proofreader’s Derby’ came and went. It would be madness to raise a serious subject in the company of this rabble. I should bide my time until Errol and Co grew bored and wandered off into the streets. When the old crowd was left, in the lull, I would produce my fait accompli .

As for the trophy, much as it pained me, I must let them have their sport, they would tire of it soon enough; not one of them could concentrate for more than five minutes at a time on a single activity, pool excepted. At an opportune moment, I would recover the trophy and put it somewhere for safe keeping. While I was musing, the trophy had already been discarded on table No. 2, and they were beginning to drift off in the direction of the pool room with the Pfeffi in hand. Then that blasted Darlene sat straight up in her chair as if she’d been bitten by a horsefly.

‘What’s a champoin?’ she squeaked.

Stupid woman. No social graces whatsoever, all flaking varnish and crooked pri-horrities. She showed the trophy to Wessels, who buffed it with a forefinger like a maulstick and guffawed. I ought to have cleaned it.

‘What is it now?’

‘Put on your spectacle and you’ll check.’

Spilkin stuck his nose in and smirked, ‘This is rich. A corrigendum.’

‘Cham-poing!’ said Wessels, as if one of his inner springs had finally broken.

They were pulling my leg and pinching a nerve. Spilkin thrust the trophy at me, almost gleefully, and I glanced at the inscription, still touchingly familiar, although I had not examined it closely in years: Transvaal Gymnastics Union — Senior Ladies — Overall Champion. Except that it did in fact seem to say: Overall Champoin. I would have been grateful for a more palatable explanation, I might even have stomached a practical joke — but the simple transposition of i and o was irrefutable. Champoin. Engraved in metal. I had missed it. I saw at once what had happened: those io’s in ‘Union’ and ‘Senior’ had lingered on the retina and the after-image had bamboozled me. Then again, the whole inscription had been an irritation. Was it because I’d wanted too badly to wish it away that I’d overlooked a blunder so elementary even Spilkin’s illiterate lady friend had spotted it?

I felt my cheeks burning as if she’d slapped me.

‘I’m glad you noticed that.’ A melting ice cube jammed in my throat for a breathtaking instant and then slid down. ‘That’s half the reason I bought this particular cup. To test the mettle of the champion. Or should I say: the cham poin . At the prize-giving.’

She was looking at me blankly. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember whether she knew about ‘The Proofreader’s Derby’. She must have, they all did. Surely Spilkin would have told her. When exactly had Darlene come among us? I looked at Spilkin, for whom my rather clever explanation had been intended. If he could be convinced … He looked back with a sceptical smile on his cherubic lips, but said nothing. I’d never noticed before quite how curvirostral he was, for a cherub.

‘There’ll be no silverware for you,’ I said, ‘if you don’t know your Onions.’ I’d been saving the joke for later, during my speech, but it slipped out now, as if Wessels had poked me in the ribs.

No one laughed.

Once when Spilkin was doing the crossword, he’d got stuck on: O-o-. Authority on English language (6). Naturally I suggested Onions, thinking they had Charles Talbut in mind. Talk about throwing a spilkin in the works. They were looking for ‘Oxford’!

Excuse me, back in a tick.

My legs felt wobbly. What a scrape I’d got myself into. And even though I’d managed to come out of it with my dignity unsullied, I saw afterwards that it was the turning point of the evening. From that moment on, it was downhill all the way. It was as if they’d sensed some weakness in my character, caught a whiff of blood on the breeze, and that gave them the courage to turn on me. Like the herd on the old bull elephant.

*

The Gentlemen’s room smelt of Jeyes Fluid. I took off my spectacles and splashed water over my head. My excrescences were acting up — the eight o’clock occipital had begun to throb and its companion at nine was itching sympathetically. In the frosted glass of the window, behind which my precious copies dangled over the abyss, the familiar pattern of light appeared, like a pelt stretched to dry. Tan me hide when I’m dead, Fred . The paper-towel dispenser was empty and I had to mop my head with my handkerchief. So we tanned his hide when he died, Clyde. What do you call a boy who’s been mauled by a lion? Claude. One of Merle’s games. I felt queasy. I went into the cubicle to suck a mint. The lock had been jemmied, and I wedged the door closed with a cigarette box from the floor. On the back of the door was a childish drawing of genitalia, male and female, labelled ‘Supply’ and ‘Demand’. I could imagine them as two painted signs: Adam and Eve, Jack and Jill, Mickey and Minnie. Or pinned to the notice boards in the public library. What do you call a boy with a car on his head? Jack.

A scrap of melody with its agmas in tatters bowled along the horizon of hearing … tumblin’ along, like a tumblin’ tumbleweed … and disappeared into a merciful silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to take a short break. We’ll see you in ten minutes.’

Machines must be weary.

I sat down on the throne to compose myself. The King of the Elves. Glancing to one side, I saw that someone had bored a hole clean through the chipboard panelling. What would the vandals think of next? Putting my tireless right to the hole, I discovered that it afforded nothing but an unobstructed view of the urinal. Honestly, I was thinking to myself, of all the senseless — when Hunky Dory came in to relieve himself and made the purpose of the hole apparent. Thank God he didn’t see me.

*

Once the neck oil had been broached, there was no stopping them. They wanted to sample every bottle on the shelves. BYOB went by the board. Put it on the tab, they said, devil-may-care, and Tone obliged hopelessly. Errol made his selections with the tip of his pool cue and potted the stoppers off the end of the counter into the waste-paper basket to demonstrate that they would not be needed again. Bokma. Gestookt , it said. Bärenjäger honey liqueur, with a plastic bee stuck to the label. Moringué. Made of peanuts.

Wessels came hobbling at the first pop and pronounced the Friesian genever the best thing he’d ever tasted. It wasn’t long before everyone wanted to join in. Mevrouw Bonsma ordered Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and Errol made it a round for the company. The stuff tasted of chocolate.

Tone put a brave face on it. He unsealed concoctions even the Bogeymen had declined to consume and mixed up a cocktail called an Exploding Rainbow. Like a chameleon in a paintbox (punchlines, Wessels). Errol drank it down in a gulp.

I’d never seen such drinking in all my days. It was inhuman. And they would keep forcing one to join in, practically pouring the liquor down one’s throat. When one was upset too, what with the shock of Merle’s death and the closing down of the Café to deal with.

*

‘Howzit Phil.’ It was Huge, in the vernacular. ‘What you got there?’

‘This is a dictionary. The Pocket Oxford Dictionary of Current English . The words of a language with their meaning and usage. Mausoleum ~ mean ~ mean ~ mechanical.’

‘Come again?’

‘Do you know that you’re in here?’ I asked, thumbing. ‘See: Huge. Adjective. Very large. Huge mountain, rat, difference. ’