"But what is this on the floor?" said Shula. All four rose about the table to look. Water from the back stairs flowed over the white plastic Pompeian mosaic surface. "Suddenly my feet were wet."
"Is it a bath overflowing?" said Lal.
"Shula, did you turn off the bath?"
"I'm sure and positive I did."
"I believe it is too rapid for bath water," said Lal. "A pipe presumably is burst." Listening, they heard a sound of spraying above, and a steady, rapid tapping, trickling cascading, snaking of water on the staircase. "An open pipe. It sounds a flood." He broke from the table and ran through the large kitchen, the thin hairy fists laid on his chest, his head drawn down between thin shoulders.
"Oh, Uncle Sammler, what is it?"
The women followed. Necessarily slower, Sammler also climbed.
Wallace's theory that there were dummy pipes in the attic filled with criminal money had been put to the test. Sammler guessed, since Wallace was so mathematical, loved equations, spent nights working out gambling odds, that he had prepared a plumbing blueprint before taking up the wrench.
Treading carefully in dry places became pointless on the second floor. There the carpeted corridor was like a soaked lawn and sucked at Sammler's cracked shoes. The attic door was shut but water ran under it.
"Margotte," said Sammler. "Go down this instant. Call the plumber and the fire department. Call the firemen first and tell them you are calling in the plumber. Don't stand. Be quick." He took her arm and turned her toward the door.
Wallace had evidently tried to stuff his shirt into the break. When calculation failed, he fell apart. The garment lay underfoot and he and Lal were trying to bring together the open ends of pipe.
"There's something wrong with the coupling. I must have stripped the threads," said Wallace. He was astride the flowing pipe. Dr. Lal, trying to make the connection, was being sprayed, beard and chest. Shula stood close to him. If great eyes could be mechanical aids--if staring and proximity could lead to blending!
"Is there no shutoff? Is there no valve?" said Sammler. "Shula, don't get drenched. Stand back, my dear, you're in the way "
"I doubt we can accomplish anything by this means," said Lal. The water fizzed loudly.
"You don't think so?" said Wallace.
They spoke very politely.
"Well, no. For one thing there is too much water force. And as you see, this connecting metal cannot be advanced," said Lal. He lowered the pipe and stepped aside. At the waist his gray trousers were black with water. "Do you know the water system here?"
"In what sense do I know it?"
"I mean, is it city-supplied, or do you have a private source? If it is city water, the authorities will have to be called. However, if it is a driven well, there is a pump."
"The odd thing is I never knew."
"What of the sewage, is it municipal?"
"You got me there, too."
"If it is a well and there is a pump there is a switch also. I shall go down. Is there a flashlight?"
"I know the house," said Shula. "I'll go with you" In the sari, loosely bound, sandals dropping from her eager feet, she hurried after Lal, who ran down the stairs.
Sammler said to Wallace, "Aren't there any buckets? The ceilings will come down."
"There's insurance. Don't worry about ceilings."
"Nevertheless..."
Sammler descended.
Under the kitchen sink and in the broom closet he found yellow plastic pails and climbed back. He recognized that he had the peculiar anxieties of the poor relation. He had certainly disliked this house, always. Found it hard while eating benefactor's bread to be natural here. Besides, all this dense comfort, the rooms crowded with conversation-pieces, attractions, stood on a foundation of nullity. The work of Mr. Croze, with his rosebud mouth, visible nostrils, Oscar Wilde hairdo, suave little belly, and perfumed fingers, who sent, as Elya bitterly said once, as tough and cynical a business statement as he had ever seen. Elya conceded he was being fittingly furnished, done right by, but he didn't like being upgraded by Mr. Croze, who dealt in beautiful rewards, in suburban dukedoms for slum boys who made good! Still--a flood! Sammler could not bear it. Besides, it was a typical Wallace production, like the sinking of the limousine in Croton Reservoir, the horse pilgrimage into Soviet Armenia, the furnishing of a law office to work crossword puzzles in--protests against his father's "valueless" success. There was nothing new in this. Regularly, now, for generations, prosperous families brought forth their anarchistic sons--these boy Bakunins, geniuses of liberty, arsonists, demolishers of prisons, property, palaces. Bakunin had loved fire so. Wallace worked in water, a different medium. And it was very curious (Sammler with the two plastic buckets, which were as yellow and as light as leaves or feathers, had time on the stairs, while the water ran, to entertain the curiosity) that in speaking of his father that afternoon Wallace had said he was hooked like a fish by the aneurysm and jerked into the wrong part of the universe, drowning in air.
"You brought some pails. Let's see if we can't lit them under the pipe. Won't do much good."
"It may do some. You can open a window and spill the water into the gutters."
"Down the spout. O. K. But how long can we keep bailing?"
"Till the fire department comes."
"You called the firemen?"
"Of course. I made Margotte call."
"They'll file a report. That's what the insurance people will go by. I'd better put away these tools. I mean I want this to seem accidental."
"That these pipes just dropped apart? Opened by themselves? Nonsense, Wallace, pipes only burst in winter."
"Yes, I suppose that's right."
"So you thought they were full of thousand-dollar bills. Ah, Wallace!"
"Don't scold me, Uncle. There's loot here somewhere. There is, I swear. I know my father. He's a hider. And what good is the money to him now? He couldn't afford to declare it even if--"
"Even if he were going to live?"
"That's right. And it's like he's turning away from us. Or like a dog in the manger."
"Do you think that's a suitable figure of speech?"
"It wouldn't be suitable for you, but when I say it it doesn't make much difference. I'm a different generation. I never had any dignity to start with. A different set of givens, altogether. No natural feeling of respect. Well, I certainly fucked these pipes up good and proper."