100 Days of April-May (5 page)

Eight

Dodgy Dreams

Fluffy says he's exhausted. He's been having problems falling asleep of late, and when he does finally drop off he has bad dreams.

I ask him what he's dreaming about.

Fluffy says it's the same dream. He's running. Someone or something is chasing him. But as he runs, his feet get heavier and heavier. Then they get sucked into a muddy bog – or is it cement? And he can't move his feet any more. He's frozen to the spot. He wakes up just as someone or something catches him.

I tell Fluffy that his dream is possibly the second most unoriginal dream since the falling-off-a-tall-building-and-waking-up-just-before-you-hit-the-ground dream. It's text-book Freud.

Fluffy says, ‘But what does it all mean, April?'

I tell Fluffy that he's running away from something and he is terrified of getting caught – which is the textbook Freudian explanation for the run-away dream.

Fluffy says, ‘Ah, yes, Julia and Sam are going out for the morning.'

I can see that Fluffy is still in denial. Still running in the hope of getting away. It's not who is going out this morning, it's who is coming in. ‘It's the showdown with the builders today,' I say gently, and watch Fluffy's face collapse into a puddle of tired lines as he feels the concrete sucking away at his ankles.

The builders are having a crisis meeting with Fluffy and Ishmael at Chez Matchbox this morning. The first item on the agenda is: Progress on en suite. The second item on the agenda is: Lack of progress on en suite. The third item on the agenda is: What has happened to the advance payment for labour and building materials that Fluffy laid out at the start of the job?

After nearly two months the garage area still resembles Ground Zero. It has occurred to me (and perhaps to Mrs Ho, whose lips have gotten thinner by the week) that all the builders do each week is move the pile of rubble about.

Fluffy has pulled Ishmael into the meeting to try and sort things out before Mrs Ho takes matters into her own hands – like wrapping them around the builders' necks and wringing the life out of them.

It is common knowledge among relationship experts that there are several things that cause stress in an intimate friendship. In particular, the experts and me have identified: moving house, building renovations, a badly behaved dog and the dirty-sock-and-wet-towel habit practised by eighty-two per cent of the male species (of which Fluffy's dirty-sock habit is a subset).

The wet-towel habit requires said man-slob to leave a wet towel on the floor/bed/any place other than on the designated towel rack. This is usually coupled with the dirty-sock habit, which involves balling a dirty pair of socks together, necessitating the washer of socks (Mrs Ho) to stick her fingers into the fecund depths to unball them before shoving them into the washing machine. ‘It's a nasty little habit,' Mrs Ho says. And when she says this she looks at Fluffy as though he's her nasty little habit. One that she wants to kick.

Between the big move, the builders, Nameless Dog and the dirty-sock habit, things have become a bit strained between Fluffy and Mrs Ho. Understatement.

Ishmael says Fluffy mustn't stress. The meeting with the builders will put everyone back on the straight and narrow. Fluffy mustn't forget that Trevor and Phineus can be trusted because they are members of his family on his late father's brother's side.

Fluffy looks at his watch and says, ‘Trevor and Phineus are an hour late, but we can't start the meeting without them, can we?' Ishmael says, ‘No, we can't.' So they drink a couple of pots of rooibos tea while they wait.

Two hours later Mrs Ho and Sam Ho return from the shops and then go straight back out again. Mrs Ho says that she's not getting involved in ‘this mess' and the further she can be from the builders the safer they will be. And will Fluffy put the groceries away, please. She says, ‘Please.' Full stop. But she means please don't let me come back and find the groceries still in their packets on the floor where I left them.

Another hour passes and then the doorbell rings. Ishmael answers the door and shouts to Fluffy that there's a bloke at the door asking for him. Is he expecting another visitor apart from the builders this morning?

Fluffy goes to the door to look and says, ‘No, this is Trevor, your relative – on your late father's brother's side of the family. You gave me his contact details when I decided to convert the garage.'

Ishmael makes big eyes at Trevor and lets him in.

Trevor says that Phineus sends his apologies but he is in the middle of something.

‘How could he do this to me? This is important. It's not a game,' Fluffy says. He looks at Trevor as though he is facing down a nightmare.

Trevor says that's precisely what it is. Phineus is in the middle of a game of blackjack at Gold Reef City Casino and his chips are down. Until he makes back his stake and the losses from yesterday and several days before yesterday he can't leave.

It's a bad start to the meeting and things get worse. Fluffy offers Trevor some tea, but Trevor looks at his watch and says, ‘Somewhere in the world it's cocktail hour …' and that he thinks he could do with something a little stronger.

Ishmael says he thinks Trevor has been drinking cocktails for the past three hours because he smells like he has been gargling with brandy. ‘And in any case we don't drink hard liquor in our family,' Ishmael says, giving Trevor a glare full of meaning.

Trevor lifts his sunglasses and gives Ishmael a bloody eyeball and says that his family were suckled on hard liquor, and what did Ishmael say his family name was again?

Now that I look at Trevor and Ishmael I see that they don't look at all alike. They can't possibly be related. And then Ishmael looks at Trevor and I think he comes to the very same conclusion, because Ishmael takes Fluffy aside and says, ‘I think I've made a big mess.'

I can't bear to watch Fluffy shred his hair so I go and sit on the couch and write a letter to Melly. My dear friend Melly, who is slowly on the mend at Groote Schuur Hospital following her second operation.

I have been instructed by Melly's mom that Melly must not be upset or excited in any way, so I only tell her about the unseasonable weather (violent thunderstorms) and some of Nameless Dog's antics (only the ones that will not cause undue stress – obviously).

Nameless Dog is sitting on the couch next to me, chewing away at some supermarket bags as he watches reruns of
The Dog Whisperer
, an excellent educational show that teaches owners how to train their dogs and wean them off their unsociable habits. Fluffy says that if there is one thing we can do to try and keep a bit of peace, it is getting Nameless Dog to stop devouring everything in sight. ‘It's driving Julia mental.' (A bit like me, though Fluffy tries not to use any of the crazy words in reference to me in case it stops me dealing with my mom issues in therapy with Dr Gainsborough.)

So in the interests of harmony I get Nameless Dog to watch
The Dog Whisperer
twice a day. And Nameless Dog learns from dog-training guru Cesar Millan (and his pit bulls, Daddy and Junior) respect for the territorial rights of the alpha species (humans). I'm just telling Melly how Nameless Dog tenderised Mrs Ho's leather briefcase (a graduation present from her deceased husband) when I hear the front door give a vicious slam. And then a car roars off, with a screeching of tyres.

I go into the kitchen and find Ishmael and Fluffy doubled up. Tears are streaming down Fluffy's face and Ishmael is snorting like a farmyard animal whose name I have forbidden myself from using in the English form (
Sus domestica
).

‘What's the joke?'

So Fluffy tells me. It turns out that not only are Trevor and Phineus not related to Ishmael at all – and they have never even met before today – but, in fact, Trevor and Phineus are not even really builders. ‘Can you believe it, April – not even builders!' Fluffy cackles.

I tell Fluffy that I can believe it. ‘They are just a couple of chancers who saw you coming,' I say.

‘Well, at least that explains why they didn't do much building. I mean, knocking a hole through a wall and shifting the rubble about isn't really building, is it?'

I tell Fluffy it certainly isn't. And as it is now only eight weeks until our euro-flush soccer-mad guest arrives to take up residence in Chez Matchbox's garage, perhaps he should find a couple of people who actually build for a living.

Fluffy and Ishmael laugh a bit more and say things like ‘You fool!', ‘You idiot!', ‘You klutz!' and ‘Oh, what a mess!'. Then Mrs Ho comes home and Fluffy and Ishmael stop laughing.

‘What happened to the advance payment for labour and building materials that you laid out at the start of the job?' Mrs Ho asks Fluffy. This was item three on the agenda. The item Fluffy and Ishmael didn't get around to asking Trevor about before he had to rush off to quench his thirst.

Fluffy says no stress and calls Trevor. The cellphone goes
click
. He phones the number again. It goes
click
. Again. Fluffy does this a couple more times and gets the
click
response.

Mrs Ho looks in the fridge and sees a gaping wound that requires deep prodding with a rusty nail. She says, ‘And what happened to the groceries I brought home and asked you to please pack away?' She looks around the kitchen and the lounge and spots Nameless Dog, who is sitting on the couch with his nose still in a stash of supermarket bags, with one eye fixed on
The Dog Whisperer
.

Cesar Millan is holding a bowl of food at waist height and will not set it down until Junior sits. ‘Dogs must be given permission to eat,' Guru Cesar says.

Then Mrs Ho says things like ‘That blinking dog! For goodness' sake, July, all those groceries!' and ‘Couldn't you just do one little thing!' and ‘This is just the last straw!' Then she storms off to the bedroom shouting about last straws and absolute limits and slams the door.

Sam Ho peers into the kitchen and says, ‘What's all the noise about?'

I tell him that Fluffy's been ripped off by the builders – they've taken all his cash and run. And that Nameless Dog has eaten all the groceries. And that his mother says it's the last straw and has gone to rage in the bedroom.

Sam Ho says that it all sounds like a bad dream, and I tell him that Freud would agree.

Fluffy gives me a look which says, lie to me, April, please, just one small little fib. And then he says, ‘You think the builders aren't going to repay the deposit? My cash is all gone?'

I tell Fluffy that I can't lie to him (on this matter). What hasn't already been lost on blackjack at Gold Reef City Casino is being poured straight into the bottlestore as we speak.

Ishmael pulls a chair out for Fluffy, who sits down and stares over at the couch in the lounge. ‘Ruddy dog,' he whispers.

He looks towards the bedroom door. It is shut very firmly. And then it opens and Fluffy's eyes light up in hope.

Mrs Ho stands in the doorway with her hands bunched at her sides. Her face is a picture of wrath. She throws a fist out in the air and a pair of Fluffy's dirty balled-up socks sail into the room. And then she throws out her other fist, which holds a soggy towel – evidence of another filthy habit to which Fluffy is falling prey. ‘I've had enough! And this
is
the last straw!' Mrs Ho points at the soggy towel and then walks out of the front door.

Nine

The Gods

Nameless Dog and me leave Fluffy and Ishmael staring in wretched silence at each other across the kitchen table and slip off to the park.

On the way I allow Nameless Dog to snack on some garbage bags – one must learn never to put one's domestic waste out on the pavement for the rubbish truck until morning – and to file his teeth on a few car tyres – one must learn always to park one's car in a garage (unless it's being converted into a bedroom with en suite bathroom for a wealthy soccer-mad tourist).

The park is deserted apart from a couple of tramps sleeping off their liquid lunch under the plane trees. I tie Nameless Dog to the pole by the swings and lie down on the merry-go-round and stare at the sky.

I think of Fluffy – alone again without Mrs Ho as his intimate friend. I think of Chez Matchbox without Mrs Ho. I think of Fluffy and me in Chez Matchbox without Mrs Ho. A wave of misery breaks over me.

Call me soppy or cheesy or even soft, but life at Chez Matchbox without Mrs Ho would be an unhappy space for Fluffy and me. I can't bear for her to go. Who will wash my clothes? Who will scrub the dirty pots? Who will cook suppers of which the main ingredient is not two-minute noodles? And the deal breaker – how will I watch
Idols
and
Big Brother
and
Survivor
without Mrs Ho's television and PVR?

I know I am not a victim. I have the power to turn things around. I can take charge of my own destiny. I close my eyes, hold my thumbs in my fists as hard as I can and start bargaining with the gods.

The trick to bargaining with the gods is not to give too much away in the first round – to always have something in your back pocket to break any potential stalemate and clinch the deal. Five minutes into the first round of bargaining with the gods I am down to being cordial to Sam Ho and Sarel The Leech. In return, the gods will ensure that Fluffy and Mrs Ho patch things up and she will stay at Chez Matchbox to wash Fluffy's rancid socks and clean the pots and allow me to nourish my addiction to reality shows.

I wait for a sign from the gods that my offer has been accepted. One of the tramps under the trees howls in his sleep. It is an angry howl. I interpret this as a thumbs-down from the gods. They want more.

I throw in Mom. It will be tough on me, but I can convert from cold antagonism to hot civility. It is time to change tactics in my conflict with Mom in any case. But I don't let the gods know this.

Nameless Dog gives a growl and a whimper from his spot by the swings.

‘What more do you want, gods?' I whisper, opening my eyes and gazing up at the sky. A sharp breeze is playing with the clouds. I see a whale. It grows a trunk and is transformed into an elephant. And then its trunk is squashed into its face and becomes a snout. A curly tail attaches itself to its hind quarters. It takes on the guise of a farmyard animal with an insatiable appetite for lamb-stew sandwiches.

The animal hovers above me in the sky and I close my eyes. I don't need Dr Benoit Mandelbrot or Ben-squared to interpret the pattern that is emerging from these random cloud shapes. The gods want their pound of flesh. They want me to cease my cold war with Fatty.

I resist for a good five minutes. But in the interest of Fluffy's happiness and in pursuit of my own domestic comforts I finally make my pact with the gods. I will suspend hostilities with Fatty and Sam Ho and Sarel – and limit my aggression towards Mom to covert sabotage. It is done.

Music fills my ears. The gods are serenading me. Yes, they are.

I sit up and look around. Nameless Dog is straining at his leash, trying his best to reach a discarded Kentucky Fried Chicken packet. And in the far corner of the park, under the one plane tree that has not been colonised by sleepy tramps, are two figures. Singing.

Call me a gullible fool, an idiot or just simply crazy (the crazy word is gaining currency), but in the dimming light of this Jozi autumn afternoon, I see the gods.

I drag Nameless Dog away from his early evening snack and together we make our way towards the two gods sitting under the plane tree. They have their backs to me but it appears that one is playing the guitar. Both are singing.

The gods sense my approach and stop singing. The guitar-player turns around. The dappled sunlight casts a golden glow on his features (which are indeed godlike), features which I recognise and for which I have a certain psychotic fondness. Like I have a fondness for heights and rough waves and huge thunderstorms and sour sweets that make my cheeks collapse and my ears hurt. Things that are bad for me.

‘Hey, Bella,' the god says.

‘Hey, Bas,' I say and try and shift the golf ball which has lodged itself in my windpipe.

Sebastian gets up and reaches out his palm. I wipe my palm with his. Almost. We don't touch, but I feel the heat.

‘Long time, Bella,' Sebastian says. Understatement.

Sebastian calls me Bella. It's the name I would have called myself if I'd had the choice and not been held hostage to the whims of two unseasonable and discordant parents. The last time I saw him was more than a year ago – as he tumbled down from the roof of Trinity College. It was the disastrous end to a crazy escapade that nearly got me expelled and caused my friend Melly to get concussion and sprain her ankle.

‘How's the leg?'

‘Legs,' Sebastian says with mournful glee. The fall from Trinity College's roof rewarded him with a shattered thigh bone in one leg and a broken ankle in the other.

‘I limp. I think I'll limp for the rest of my life.'

‘Cool,' I say.

‘Yeah, I find release from my pain through my music.'

‘Cool,' I say. Then I smack myself in the face because I sound like a linguistically challenged person (Britney or Tiffney or Stephney).

‘Meet the other member of my band,' Sebastian says.

The other member of Sebastian's band emerges from the shadows and I nearly choke on my golf ball. It's Fatty. He is no god. And his face is dark with dislike at the sight in front of him – that's me.

I see the gods are testing me.

‘Hey,' I say to Fatty. And I look at him properly, so that his shape attaches itself to my cornea. I see him for the first time in more than three months.

‘Hey,' says Fatty, and he looks back at me like he is also seeing me for the first time – which is a bit weird because as far as I know he hasn't made any blood-pacts with the gods.

I suck in my chest and summon all my cordial powers. ‘I heard you singing. You have a good voice.' Realising ‘good voice' might show a lack of commitment to the pact I reboot the expression on my face, retune my vocal cords and add, ‘Magical.'

Nameless Dog agrees. He leaps into Fatty's lap and buries his nose in his trouser pockets. After a lot of tussling and snuffling he emerges with a sandwich. Fatty allows Nameless Dog to run away with his sandwich to the safe spot by the swings.

‘What's the dog's name?' Fatty asks.

I catch Sebastian staring at Fatty and me with his pale-green eyes. But mostly he is staring at me. I want to say, ah, stop staring at me like that, you make me feel shy, but the golf ball does its thing in my throat and I make a sound like, ‘Ahhhhsssstttostaaare …'

‘Alistair? Did you say Alistair?' Fatty says. ‘It means “protector”. That's an awesome name for a dog. Alistair The Awesome-ist. It suits him.'

When I hear Fatty's speaking voice I realise that it's the first time I've really heard it. It's not a big voice to match his size. Or like his singing voice which is warm and solemn. It's small and gentle and cracked.

Nameless Dog returns and sits at Fatty's feet. He does not chew them or sniff them or try and use the takkie laces as dental floss; he just closes his eyes like he's discovered his slice of heaven.

‘This is the awesome-ist dog I have ever met,' Fatty says.

‘He's mine,' I say, but I pull my mouth into a smile and give the word mine a gentle lilt at the end, just in case the gods are listening. I tell Fatty that Nameless Dog is a compulsive eater and uses food to self-soothe as he had a very tragic childhood and feels worthless and angry.

Fatty nods and says, ‘I know how he feels.' And then he scratches Nameless Dog on his tummy.

Sebastian is still staring at me, so I stare back and find myself drowning in his eyes. He asks me how Trinity College is doing and I say that as he can see it's still standing – which is very lame and I am so wishing that he would stop staring at me because everything that comes out of my mouth is stupid and dumb and irrational (and cruel evidence that Sebastian still has a kinky effect on me).

I ask Sebastian how he likes boarding school (dumb question) and he says that it's just school, but his parents are glad that they got him out of Trinity College and away from the bad influence that caused him to injure himself in a madcap escapade. And then he laughs, his mouth wide, showing the gap between his front teeth, and I laugh too, because it's a noise I can make with my mouth without sounding dumb. Except I give a horrible whistling snort at the end.

I tell Sebastian that I'll be off home then – otherwise I'll have to hang myself from the plane tree with Nameless Dog's leash – and he says he'll Inbox me on Facebook or catch me on MXit. I say, ‘Of course.' Except that I know he won't because I don't have a computer and The Brick does not do anything other than calling and texting.

And Sebastian says that if we want to move from the virtual to the physical he always hangs out in the park on the weekends when he's home from boarding school.

I click my fingers at Nameless Dog and he looks at me with one eye and then carries on pretending to snooze. I
click-click
with my tongue and Nameless Dog closes the opened eye and gives a good imitation of snoring.

‘Hey, Alistair, time to go home. Home, you awesome dog,' Fatty says, nudging Nameless Dog gently with his foot.

Nameless Dog stays put but opens both eyes and looks at me.

‘Alistair,' I say. Hearing me call him by his new name, he gets up, licks Fatty's knee and follows me home.

Back at Chez Matchbox I find Fluffy, Mrs Ho and Ishmael smiling weakly at each other over strong cups of tea.

‘You came back? You're not gone?' I say and give the gods a high five.

‘I just went out to get some milk,' Mrs Ho says, giving me a puzzled look.

I tell the gods, okay, you got one over on me, I hope it makes you happy.

‘I think we can manage with one car in the family for a while. Selling mine will get us the extra money we need to continue building,' Mrs Ho says. Her voice is a little crackly, but her hand is in Fluffy's and there is a steadfast glint in her eye.

‘And between this guy I know, who's an expert bricklayer and plumber, and July and me we'll get the building done in the evenings after we come home from work and on the weekends,' Ishmael says. ‘That will save a bit on labour.'

The steadfast look in Mrs Ho's eyes gets a bit blurry.

‘My people built the pyramids, Julia. Building blood courses through my veins,' Ishmael says. ‘It will be a piece of cake,' he adds desperately.

‘I know you won't let me down, Ishmael,' Mrs Ho says, averting her eyes from his smooth hands that are clasped around his fat tummy. ‘And July is going to speak to Miss Frankel about putting the dog in a kennel until she moves into a new house.'

I give a sort of a yelp.

‘It's either the dog or me,' Mrs Ho says calmly.

I tell the gods that they really had fun with me today. That card of theirs was hidden way up the sleeves of their baggy togas.

I get up from the kitchen table and throw Sam Ho off the couch (in a cordial, friendly manner) and go and lie down with Alistair. After a while Fluffy comes over. ‘You know we can't keep him,' he says gently. ‘I'm sorry, April, but that was never going to happen.'

I swallow that golf ball which has by now completely rearranged my tonsils.

‘How about a bird, or maybe a fish?' Fluffy says. ‘It's your birthday in a couple of weeks. How about it, April?'

I tell Fluffy I don't want a pet for my birthday. In fact, I don't want to celebrate my birthday at all.