Kiepie Khaki Shorts puts down his beer, walks off and returns with the dishes, the shallow one and the deep one.
Blue Bikini and Speedo come over to the food. Speedo’s hand drops to her bum. They’re standing next to Johnny, who’s busy taking the T-bones off the fire. Kiepie’s holding the shallow dish for Johnny.
‘This here’s a proper piece of meat,’ Speedo says, bunching Blue Bikini’s bum into his hand and squeezing it.
‘Oh yes,’ says Johnny, feeling the meat with his fork. ‘Bought it at Roodt Brothers this afternoon. They know their meat there.’
‘Forty Years Meat Tradition,’ says Kiepie, ‘the best in Triomf.’
‘The best,’ says Johnny. ‘These were on special.’
‘Special, hey?’ says Speedo, moving his hand over to the other side of Blue Bikini’s bum. Lambert watches as he gathers the soft meat of her bum into his large hand.
‘Very special,’ says Speedo, slipping his hand under the bikini’s elastic, moving it lower and lower until he’s right in there, between the split, right down at the bottom.
‘Well,’ says Blue Bikini, trying to move the hand away, ‘if you ask me, it’s that wors that looks nice.’
Pink Bikini giggles.
‘Good Lord,’ says Big Flowers, coming out the kitchen with bowls of salad, ‘can’t you two control yourselves?’
‘Leave the children alone, Ansie,’ says Little Flowers, ‘horny is horny. Nothing to be done about it.’
‘He can at least go and put some decent clothes on,’ says Big Flowers.
‘Auntie, Auntie,’ says Speedo, ‘it’s like this, Auntie, I’m feeling too hot to get dressed. This way I can at least cool down a bit.’
Everyone laughs.
‘Come, let’s get the eating done now,’ says Little Flowers, ‘look how late it’s getting. Otherwise that meat sits too heavy on my stomach and then I can’t sleep.’
‘Okay, Mom, we’re just waiting for the pap and sauce to warm up a little here,’ says Johnny. ‘Make sure it doesn’t burn,’ he says to Kiepie, ‘I’m going back to get some more beers.’
‘Check if the baby’s still sleeping,’ Pink Bikini tells him. Blue Jeans rubs her on the shoulder.
This is how Lambert peeps at the people in Fort Knox. He listens to them as the moon shines blue light across his back. He watches how they take their seats on plastic chairs. He sees Big Flowers dishing up everyone’s plates to the brim, there at the stoep-table. He can see three bowls of salad, one with bananas in yellow sauce, one with tomatoes and lettuce and one with potato salad. There’s a T-bone and a piece of wors on everyone’s plate. And a heap of pap with sauce on top. They have to push their food back on the plates; there’s so much, it wants to fall off.
‘Now, let’s first drink to Fanus and Yvette,’ says Hairy Paunch.
‘Happy first anniversary,’ says Little Flowers. Blue Jeans’ and Pink Bikini’s faces turn towards each other across the plates of food on their laps.
Lambert hears them kiss.
Now that they’re sitting, all he can see is the top half of their bodies and the bottom part of their faces. Large bites disappear into half-mouths.
‘Well now,’ says Big Flowers. She holds her plate in both hands on her lap. ‘You wouldn’t say we’re in a recession now, would you?’
‘Eat your food, Ansie,’ says Little Flowers.
‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ says Speedo.
‘So, Kiepie,’ says Johnny, half laughing, ‘you figure the kaffirs are going to come and take their houses back, here in Triomf?’
‘Ag no, man,’ says Pink Bikini, ‘don’t start with that again, you know how upset Ma gets.’
‘Yes, don’t upset me,’ says Big Flowers, taking a large mouthful of pap and then a bite of wors.
Upset, Lambert thinks, upset! They reckon they know what upsets them. Let them just sit there nicely and eat their fucken T-bones. ’Cause right now his mother’s going to cut the grass. She doesn’t know it yet, but that’s what she’s going to do. Then they’ll see what upset means. The kaffirs wanting their places back is nothing, completely fuck-all. He’s going to set the blades so the revs run nice and high. And he’ll put too much oil in so the machine comes out smoking blue. He’ll see to it that the whole lawn gets cut, front and back, in the bright light of the moon. He’ll upset the whole of Triomf. It’s not just other people who can make a noise around here.
He walks with long strides back to his den, in through the back door and over the crates and pipes to the inside door.
‘Ma!’ he shouts down the passage before turning back to get the lawnmower from his room. Then again: ‘Ma!’ he shouts over his shoulder as he pulls the lawn-mower out from under the blankets in the room. And once more: ‘Ma!’ as he drags the lawn-mower, ‘rickatick-rickatick’, over the loose blocks into the lounge.
And then, again, as he walks in through the lounge door, he shouts so loud that the windows rattle: ‘Hey, Ma! Get yourself ready to cut. The grass is long!’
He pulls the machine into the middle of the lounge. Then he bends over, shoves open Pop’s knees, and drags out his toolbox from under Pop’s chair. He wants to set the petrol to ‘open’, but the lever’s broken, so now he needs long-nosed pliers to shift the broken piece of stub. But he can’t find the pliers. The fucken thing isn’t in his toolbox. With one flick of his arm he turns the whole box upside down on to the lounge floor. ‘Kabam!’ Pop rises slowly from his chair. He’s reaching out in the air for Mol. She’s been up a while already.
‘Where’s the oil? Where’s the petrol?’ he shouts at them. ‘Come, come, you’re all half-dead in this house. Move! It’s Saturday night!’
Treppie comes in, leaning against the lounge door. He says nothing. He squints at Lambert.
‘Hey, what you looking at, Treppie? What you looking at?’ Lambert shouts as he scratches among the heap of tools on the floor.
‘Me,’ says Treppie, ‘I’m looking at a mad fucker with a big dick, scratching around for small pliers on a Saturday night.’
‘Viewmaster,’ says Mol, lighting up a smoke. It looks like she’s surrendered. She’ll go through with it. Whatever.
Lambert’s up in a flash. He takes one stride towards Treppie and then lifts him up into the air by his shirt. Treppie has to stand on his toes. He shouts into Treppie’s face. Treppie turns his face to avoid the spray.
‘Now let me tell you what it is you see, you fucken bastard. You see a plastic pipe behind the bathroom door, and you see a fucken funnel in the den under the bed. You see an empty Coke bottle in the same place. You see how you siphon petrol until that bottle’s full and then you fucken see how you bring that bottle here. That’s what you see! Don’t look for shit with me now. Move it! Go siphon some petrol!’ He lets go of Treppie in mid-air.
Treppie finds his footing again, ironing out his clothes with quick, sharp little plucks at the edges.
‘Go siphon your own petrol, you mad fucken arsehole,’ he says, turning back to his room.
‘Hey,’ says Lambert, starting after him.
‘Hold it, hold it,’ says Pop. ‘Leave Treppie alone, I’ll get the petrol.’
‘Okay,’ says Lambert, ‘but let me tell you one thing tonight …’ And he turns around to face Pop and his mother, to tell them something as they stand there, next to each other, with their careful faces. ‘… and I’m going to say it just once.’ He wants to say it just once to his mother, who’s standing there and fingering her bun. And he wants to say it just once to Pop, who’s standing there half-asleep, pulling his braces over his shoulders with his thumbs. He wants to tell them, the two of them standing there like they’re going down an escalator into a big dark hole – he wants to say it to them, but then he says nothing. He’s forgotten what he wanted to say. It was too much to say. His eyes burn and his throat feels tight.
‘The GTX,’ he says instead. ‘The GTX. It’s under my bed. Don’t open the full can,’ he says, swallowing down the burning feeling an
d blinking. ‘There’s a can that’s half-full. Bring it here.’
He looks down. The long-nosed pliers. It’s fucken lying right in front of his fucken feet. He picks it up and goes down on his knees next to the mower. He sets it to ‘open’.
Mol fetches the oil while Pop siphons some petrol. Treppie’s swearing in rhymes in the passage: ‘Dammit, fukkit, dogshit!’
That’s better. He feels much better now. At least now there’s some action. A person can’t sit around like this and do nothing on a Saturday night.
‘Sow the seed, oh sow the seed of the watermelon,’ he sings as he sets the blades higher.
‘Shuddup!’ Treppie screams, but Lambert just sings louder.
‘We must get a better siphon,’ he tells Pop after they fill up the mower. ‘This one messes too much.’ He’s talking loudly.
Pools of oil and petrol spread over the parquet floor. Mol goes to the kitchen to fetch a rag.
Lambert wants to start the lawn-mower, but the cord’s slack. ‘Grrr!’ He pulls. ‘Grrr, grrr!’ Once more: ‘Grrr!’ ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Fuck this piece of rubbish!’ He kicks the lawn-mower.
Treppie walks past in the passage, looking into the lounge.
‘I told you, you should pull your wire rather than pull that silly little string – then at least you’ll have something to pull.’
Lambert picks up a spanner and throws it in Treppie’s direction. Treppie ducks. The spanner hits the wall and falls on to the blocks. One of the blocks goes ‘click’ as the spanner bounces it loose. A big, thick piece of plaster goes ‘poff’ as it falls on to the floor and shatters into small pieces. Now there’s a big hole in the wall, with hairline cracks all around it. Lambert looks at the hole. He can see powdery red brick where the plaster came loose. Big cracks running in all directions.
He bends over and rips the cord. ‘Puff-ta-puff-ta-puff-ta-puff-ta-puff’ goes the engine, and then it takes. He sets the petrol further open. There’s a lot of oil in the petrol. Spot-on. The lounge fills up with blue smoke.
‘Ma!’ he shouts after Mol, who’s gone back to the kitchen with the dirty rag. ‘Come!’ he shouts. ‘Come, come, come!’
He pushes the lawn-mower towards the front door. Clouds of blue smoke rise from the machine and start pouring out of the door. He works the mower down the two steps. There’s a sharp noise as the blades catch the edge of the stoep. Sparks fly. Mol follows him.
‘It’s night, Lambert. I can’t see anything,’ she shouts above the noise of the machine.
He lets go of the mower. Then he turns his mother so she faces the moon.
‘There!’ he shouts, pointing up. ‘There! Can you see it? There’s your light, Ma! It’s a fucken heavenly spotlight! What more do you want? You start this side and then you go right around, hey.’ He pushes the mower to the strip between the house and the prefab wall, where the grass has grown long.
Pop comes out the front door. ‘Hey, Lambert,’ he shouts, but the noise is so loud he can’t hear himself speaking. He taps on his wrist where his watch used to be. It’s a long time since he had a watch.
He motions with his arms to the moon. It’s late, he shows with large movements. People are sleeping, he signals, folding up his arms next to his head.
Lambert signals back to Pop he must shuddup. He, Lambert, finishes what he starts. Everything’s going nicely now. He pushes past Pop, who’s standing there in the front door. Then he sits down in front of the TV, lighting up a cigarette.
Pop walks up and down between the front door and the lounge. He’d better just sit down now and stop walking in and out, in and out like a dog looking for a bone. He must close the front door now. Lambert hears his mother pushing the lawn-mower through the long grass on the side. ‘Choof-choof-choof-choof’ goes the mower’s engine as it slowly runs down. Then it cuts out. Dead. Now he’ll have to drag himself all the way back outside to his mother, ’cause the dumb cunt won’t be able to get the thing going again.
He’s up like lightning and out of the door before Mol even makes a move.
‘Ja!’ he shouts at her. ‘What’s your problem, hey?’
She points to the dead mower. God in heaven, surely he can see what’s wrong?
‘So, you let the thing die, did you?’ he shouts. ‘What you do that for, hey, what you do that for, hey? Hey?’
He bumps her out of the way, bends over and grabs the cord’s handle. His shorts are almost right off his backside, but he doesn’t pull them up. Let her look if she wants to. When he was a baby, his nappy also used to slip down like that. It’s ’cause his bum is too high. That’s what she always says. Stuff her. He can’t help it if his bum is so high.
He pulls the cord so hard the mower lifts right off the ground.
‘Put your foot on it so I can pull!’ he shouts. Mol walks round to the front side so she can do what he says. The engine takes after the third yank.
‘Right!’ Lambert shouts. ‘When she slacks off, you lift the nose up into the air, like this, and then you move the machine back, just a bit. Then you let it down again. Come, let’s get going. Move, move, move!’
He watches her as she pushes the mower back up the strip next to the house, where the grass is longest. ‘Choof!’ The machine chokes again. He waits for her at the stoep as she drags it back. He’s not going to let her off, no way.
‘Can’t you get it into your head, Ma, that you have to press the fucken thing down on your side so the fucken nose lifts into the air, so it can get some fucken air, so it can fucken run again, hey? Hey!’
He rips the mower out of her hands, steps on it himself, and starts it up again with one mighty heave. He shoves the machine back in his mother’s direction. Then he points at her. Stupid fucken old woman. How could she let it die a second time? Pop’s standing in the doorway, waving his arms like he’s trying to kill flies. Lambert pushes him out of his way.
‘Go sit!’ he says to Pop. ‘Go sit down so you can stop walking up and down all the time.’
Pop lights up a cigarette. He says nothing. They listen as Mol finishes cutting on the side, and they hear how she keeps saving the machine from dying at the last moment. She lifts the machine up on number ninety-nine, gets it up to speed again, and then brings it down for more cutting.
Treppie walks into the lounge with a bottle of Klipdrift and a litre of Coke under one arm, and three glasses in the fingers of the other hand. Then he steadies the glasses on to the sideboard.
‘So!’ he says. ‘Busy, busy tonight at the Benades, hey, Lambert. Sow the seed, oh sow the seed!
‘Sow the seed of the watermelon,’ sings Treppie. He does a few dance steps, holding the bottle above his head.
‘His mommy’s arse’s in the grass, his dad is dinkum telly-mad, his uncle’s dandy with the brandy, so let’s sow the watermelon!’
Treppie switches off the TV. Pop’s holding his head at an angle so he can hear how Mol’s doing outside. She’s almost finished on the one side. Now she must do the back, where the grass is also long.
‘A double for me,’ says Lambert.
‘But of course, Bertie old boy. Always double for the single man!’ says Treppie, first pouring the Klipdrift and then the Coke, ‘ghloob-ghloobghloob’.
‘Doubles are forever, doubles are for always, doubles to clink on, for double fuck’s sake, oh for double fuck’s sake,’ he sings to the tune of ‘He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’.
‘Doesn’t Mol get any?’ asks Pop.
‘Leave her be so she can cut the grass once and for all,’ says Lambert. He takes his glass.
‘The shit’s still going to fly here tonight. Here’s your drink, Pop,’ says Treppie, handing Pop his glass. ‘Drink up before it happens, ’cause when it does it’s really going to fly in a big way.’
They drink in silence. Behind the house they hear Mol lift the mower again. But she doesn’t put it down. The engine starts running fast and loud.
‘What the fuck!’ says Lambert. But he doesn’t get up. He waits. He knows wha
t he’s waiting for. Then he hears the noise coming from next door. Two men start shouting over the Fort Knox wall.
‘Shuddup with that noise! Shuddup! It’s fuckenwell eleven o’clock at night! What the hell do you people think you’re doing!’
‘That’s it,’ says Lambert. He slams his hands down on his legs as he gets up. ‘They’re looking for trouble again. Think they’re big shots. Think they can stick their noses in our business. Stuff them too!’
He hears his mother let the machine down again. ‘Choof! Choof!’ It cuts out. Here she comes now, round the other side. She doesn’t want trouble with the neighbours. She parks the mower in front and stamps her feet to get the grass off. Then she fingers the bun at the back of her head. ‘Enough,’ she says. She pushes past him.
‘Finished?’ says Lambert.
‘Next door’s complaining,’ she says. She points to the sideboard. ‘Where’s mine?’
‘You’ll get yours when you fucken finish cutting the grass. That’s when you’ll get yours. You hear! Do you hear me!’
‘Next door,’ she says.
‘Fuck next door!’ says Lambert. He pushes his mother on the chest.
‘Sow the seed, oh sow the seed,’ Treppie sings from where he sits. He smiles an old smile. His eyes are shining. When Treppie looks like this, then he’s into the game, then he wants to play along, then things start cooking. Fine, maybe something will cook up here tonight.
‘Mol,’ says Treppie. ‘Mol, you know what happens when the fucken grass is long. You know very well what happens. Then the shit starts flying. You remember what happens, don’t you?’
‘First rest,’ she says. ‘First sit.’ She goes and fetches herself a glass in the kitchen. When she comes in again, she pours herself a drink. She sits down heavily, flinging her legs wide open.
‘Close your legs, Ma, close your legs!’ says Lambert.
Pop lets his head drop into his hands. ‘Lambert,’ he mumbles.
Lambert shoots a look at Pop. If Pop has something to say then let’s hear it, he says. Didn’t Pop hear what Treppie just said about the grass? Or has Pop suddenly gone deaf? And can’t he even feel that long drop of snot hanging from his nose? Must he, Lambert, wipe it off for him?
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