Then Treppie mumbled something that she couldn’t make out, and Pop said, excuse me, what was he saying, but she could see he wasn’t finished yet.
Well, said Pop, he didn’t care if Treppie thought he was talking Boereelectricity or Boere-psychology. It was worth the trouble to try making that peace. Just look at you, Pop said. Ja, just look, she said. Nothing but skin and bone, said Pop. Ja, skin and bone, she said. At this rate, Pop said, Treppie was going to fall down and die like a dog. Like a dog, she said. And dead is dead, and Klipdrift is Klipdrift, whether or not Old Pop ruined him and beat him to a pulp. What did he have to say to that? Was it maybe Treppie’s way of paying them all back? Must they now feel bad for the rest of their lives, and must they feel even worse one day when Treppie died from the horries? If you asked him, Pop said, that was what the English called retribution from the grave, and that was indeed one way of doing things. But it was a very unfair and selfish way of dishing out punishment, to say the least of it. It was a terrible way to make sure people didn’t ever forget you.
Stop now, or you’ll make him cry, she said to Pop when she saw Treppie’s head stay down. She couldn’t stand the thought of anyone crying, especially Treppie. As far as she knew he’d never once cried properly in his entire life and she didn’t want to be in his company when he did.
But by this time Pop was so into his sermon that he was ready for anything. No, he said, everyone needs to cry a little, from time to time, and the next thing he was wiping his own eyes with his Christmas hanky.
Then there was a long silence in the car again. All you heard was ‘tiffa-tiffa’ as Toby scratched for fleas and kicked the seat. Pop held out his hanky so Treppie could take it.
But Treppie didn’t take it. He didn’t even sniff. He just let out a little sigh, and when he opened his mouth again, his voice came out straight and cool, like Klipdrift on the rocks.
Thanks for the sermon, old boy, he said, but Pop should understand, it was too late.
‘Too late for tears,’ he said. ‘But never too late for a laugh.’
Then he almost sounded like he was sad in an old-fashioned way, and when they turned around, he surprised them again. There he sat with a smile on his face. Such a mixed-up little smile, half-shy, half-soft, with a little gleam in his eye. Like he was saying to them, here’s a smile for your trouble. Take it! Now what could they say after that?
So she said it was nice of him to smile for a change.
Ja, said Pop, he could go ahead and smile, it wouldn’t kill him.
But then she looked at Pop and saw that he was looking straight ahead of him. He wasn’t smiling at all. Suddenly he looked like the whole world was pressing down on his shoulders.
She had to nudge him three times and tell him it wouldn’t kill him to smile either. And only then did he smile for her. He opened his eyes wide and gave her a look that said, everything’s okay, she mustn’t worry.
Well, by then they’d outstayed their welcome on that koppie. They’d had enough looking at lights and listening to sermons and drinking Klipdrift. And they were hungry. So they drove to the all-night café in Brixton and bought some take-aways. Nice sloppy hamburgers. Between the bites Treppie said he reckoned Lambert was doing an epileptic striptease for that floozy in his den right now. But neither she nor Pop thought it was funny and Treppie didn’t say anything more on the subject.
Then they went for a joy-ride, all over the place. She thought now she was finally going to see the end of Jo’burg, but the lights just carried on and on, forever.
Where did they stop? she kept asking. Treppie said she should understand, a city like Jo’burg was like a human heart. It was boundless. There were as many lights in a city, he said, as there were hopes and plans in the human heart. Then Pop said, ai, that was now really nice and philosophical, Treppie should write it down sometime.
And then they were allowed to switch on the radio again. First it was speeches by that Eugene-man, explaining how Paardekraal was a beacon in the nation’s history, and how the Waterberg was the place where the soldiers of Jesus were being trained to defend God’s chosen people on earth against the black heathen hordes. It turned out to be Radio Pretoria, broadcasting from Blackangle. Another city.
Treppie said that lot were sitting in more dark corners than they realised. Then he started singing ‘Jesus bids us shine with a pure, pure light’ before switching to another station. Highveld Stereo. Just love songs, one after another. But Treppie was on form again, and he made them laugh by changing the words of all those love songs. Like the words for ‘Distant Drums’. Treppie made up his own ballad to that tune, about Eugene Terre’Blanche and all the different colours of his underpants, with bits of speeches inbetween about how the mummies and the daddies and the grandmas and the grandpas and the dogs and the cats and everyone must learn to shoot with stolen guns, ‘boom! boom! boom!’ It was very funny.
And they even stopped to buy soft-serves before going to Zoo Lake. To rest a bit, Pop said, but they all fell asleep very quickly.
Mol turns around and makes big eyes at Toby. ‘Whoof!’ says Toby. Oh God, she didn’t mean to make him bark now. Toby jumps out of the dicky, over Treppie and into the front. He’s tired of sitting in a car. He wants out. Mol opens for Toby so he can go for a walk. Her too, she also wants to stretch her legs a bit. She walks around the back of the car. Raindrops glisten on the car’s roof. She looks out, first to one side, then to the other. Her neck is stiff from sitting. She sees the sky’s getting paler on the one side.
‘Come, Mol, we’re going now.’ It’s Pop, he’s awake.
‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Ja, fine,’ says Pop. ‘Just not enough.’
They drive home through the grey morning and smoke a last cigarette for the night. Treppie says right now a cup of coffee would hit the spot. She asks Pop if he thinks everything at the house is okay. Pop says he can feel in his bones everything’s just fine.
‘All quiet on the western front,’ says Treppie. They take the top route, along Jan Smuts Avenue. The big lorries are on the road already, splashing water on to the Volksie’s windscreen as they pass. Pop switches on the wipers. In Empire he turns down his window for some fresh air. Deep in the hearts of the trees, she hears the sparrows starting to chirp.
LAMBERTUS AND CLEOPATRA
It’s a quarter past eleven.
There’s a soft knock on Lambert’s outside door. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat-tat’. He knows that knock well. It’s Treppie’s ‘look who’s here’ knock.
Take a deep breath. Stand up. Stomach in. Back straight. Now, slowly to the door, just like he practised it, with footsteps like those in the movies when you see someone’s feet walking in the underground parking but you don’t know who it is, and you figure it’s the unknown hero.
Let him first check if everything’s ready: rose, sheets, lounge chairs, fridges, service counter, all glowing in the red light. It looks full and empty at the same time. A carpet, he could at least have got a piece of carpet somewhere for the cement floor in front of the chairs. Or in front of the bed. There’s a stabbing feeling in his tail-end.
The doorhandle feels cold in his hand.
‘Ta-te-ra-a-a-a-a!’
It’s Treppie. He’s blowing through his fist like a trumpet. Pissed again.
‘Triomf, Triomf, the time is ripe and here comes the stag over the hills!’
Treppie shows with his one hand how the stag approaches, but it looks like the stag’s doing something else. Christ, can’t he fucken behave himself just once? With his other hand Treppie pulls someone into the light.
‘Straight from Cleopatra’s Classy Creole Queens! Meet Mary, the Creolest of them all!’
Mary. She looks at him. She looks like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Well, neither can he.
‘Lambert,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Lambert Benade.’ Now he must greet her nicely. A firm handshake, but not too firm, like Treppie said. The way he tried it out with his mother.
&
nbsp; ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says, just the way he practised it, over and over again.
‘Hi,’ is all she says. ‘Mary.’ She doesn’t take his hand. She looks over his shoulder, into the den. She’s standing right here in front of him.
Her whole head’s full of shiny little curls. Her face is thin. It looks tanned, with lots of make-up. And her mouth seems a bit too big. But her lips are shiny and she’s not sucking them in like his mother does. Red, her lips are red. Her shoulders are high, like she’s pulling them up to say she can’t help it, or sorry, she doesn’t know what to do. She needn’t worry. He’ll show her everything. He’ll show her everything very nicely. A bag hangs from one shoulder on a long, thin strap. She’s got tiny, shaky little hands and she’s holding one hand inside the other, in front of her bust.
‘Well, I leave him in your capable hands, Mary, my dear! I hope you have a Creole of a time!’ Treppie squeezes Mary’s shoulder as if he’s known her for a long time. Is she maybe his piece or something? No, he doesn’t even want to think about that. She doesn’t look Chinese, anyway.
Treppie winks at him. For fuck’s sake, this isn’t the time for winking!
Now he must stand aside so she can come in. He wants to take her softly by the arm and welcome her into his den. Help her up the step. Show her that he knows his manners at all times and in all places, whether she’s Chinese or Creole or whatever.
But his hand comes up too fast and he grabs her too high. She feels soft and slippery. He can see she’s upset about his hand touching her like that. Maybe she noticed his buggered fingertips. But that’s nothing. Apart from his fingers he’s okay. She’ll still see. Completely okay.
‘Steady, old boy,’ he hears Treppie say. ‘Don’t grab, it’s bad manners.’
Treppie must shut his mouth now. Fast. Couldn’t he see it was an accident, that high tackle?
‘Don’t worry, Mary, old Lambert here is fully domesticated. Our local hero with a heart of gold. Meek as a lamb!’
He must close this door, now! In Treppie’s face, so he can fuck off here from his door. He mustn’t come and make big eyes at him now. Treppie looks like he wants to say something with those big eyes of his, like sorry, she’s all they could find and he must just make the best of it. That’s not what he needs now. Right now he’s ready to make a whole new start. That’s what he wants!
He turns around. He feels funny, like he’s too heavy or his feet are sticking to the ground or something. Now Mary’s standing in the middle of the room. She’s looking at the painting above his bed.
‘Holy Jesus!’ she says. She walks closer to the wall, bends down and looks at the postbox, where South Africa begins.
‘Who’s this supposed to be?’ She points to both sides of the postbox.
He moves closer. Just stay nice and calm now. His voice jams. First clear the throat a bit. Yes, like that.
‘This here is Jan van Riebeeck, and that’s Harry.’
‘Harry who?’
‘Harry the Strandloper.’
‘The what?’
‘Harry the Hottentot, man!’
What’s this peeling off here now? Let him scratch it off quickly, then it’ll be okay again. Harry’s got three coats of paint on his body.
‘Government brown. It peels.’
‘I see,’ says Mary, in a shriller voice. ‘Is that how the cookie crumbles around here?’
What fucken cookie’s she talking about now?
He stands away from the bed with his hands on his hips. He feels her eyes moving over him. And now? What’s so funny now all of a sudden? He must have checked in his mother’s mirror at least six times. His back feels strange from walking so upright all the time. Did he say something wrong now, or what?
He hears people talking outside. Pop says: ‘Quick!’ Then the front gate squeaks and the Volla takes off. It’s Molletjie. She roars through first, second and third, and then she’s gone. Now it’s just him here at home. Now he must smile. The time has come to say: We’re on our own now, just me and you. But his mouth opens and closes and he can’t get a word out.
Mary’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a far place. Mister, she says, if you want me to go, I don’t mind. Her voice fades. He tries to cock his ears so he can hear what she’s saying. How do you cock your ears? he wonders. It’s like focusing your eyes, but different.
‘I really don’t mind leaving, you know. In fact, I don’t give a shit! Not this much!’
She clicks her fingers in the air. She doesn’t care shit. No, wait. No, fuck, just hold on a minute now! He sticks out his arms to stop her. No, that’s not what he means, not at all. His feet move towards her. She moves out of his way. She keeps dodging him. Why? He’s not a leper or something, is he?
‘No, no please! I haven’t got the plague, man, please don’t go. That’s just old personal stuff. It’s my hobby. Painting. Wall painting. Yesterday I put the wings on. Finishing touches, like my uncle says. They did it in the churches, overseas, way back, everything had wings on, he says, even the donkeys. My uncle’s a very clever oke, you know, he runs the show here, he’s a very educated man, self-educated and all, he’s a, how do you say it, auto-addict, he remembers everything. Got a photographic memory.’
What else does she want to hear? She just says, ‘Hmm.’ She must still be feeling a bit strange here in his den.
‘Well, and I’ve burnt the Watchtowers, the whole lot of them, and I jump-started the Tedelex, for you, from a car battery, even. Hey, can you believe it? That was nearly a big fuck-up. But it was a miracle, afterwards. And over here’s chips and dips and peanuts. You like peanuts, Mary? Like I said, everything I’ve got. Even a Swiss roll for breakfast. And I have a party trick as well, you look like you will make him cook, I say, but that’s for later.’
She pulls a face. But she needn’t worry. When he puts his hand over hers that thing will really start boiling.
‘And I got music too, specially for us tonight. Listen.’ He points with his finger, but his finger feels funny. He takes it away again.
Now he must get to the music, quick, but his body doesn’t want to move. He mustn’t start tripping over things now. He turns the little dial. He tuned the radio already, earlier this afternoon, setting it to FM, 94, 95, where Radio Orion used to be, and where Highveld Stereo is now. Christ. Now it’s too loud. Turn it down! Quick! Keep smiling, like Treppie says. It keeps your customers happy.
‘Did you get a fright? Nice little radio, hey?’
He knows she’s just standing there looking at him. She’s still not in the mood for smiling. He turns the dial, first this way and then that, playing for time. Just a little time. What do you say to a girl who just stands there and looks at you like you crawled out of a fucken hole or something?
‘Nice romantic background music.’ He tries a wink, but both eyes close at the same time. Now he can’t even wink here tonight! But it doesn’t matter, she’s turned around again. Now she’s standing there with folded arms. She’s checking his service counter. Eat, that’s what, eat something nice. He must get in front of her so he can be next to the snacks and offer her some.
‘Like I say, anything you need, anything you want, you name it, I’ve got it. Late-night snacks. Dip a chip, Mary, man. Here you are.’
Which one? Make it two. A dip and a chip. Avo and a crinkle cut. He holds them out for her.
She shakes her head. No thanks. But he stands firm. She shakes her head even harder. Now it’s more than just no thanks. He puts down the bowls. Maybe she’s not hungry. Maybe she’s thirsty.
‘What about a drink, hey? I got everything.’ Let him open the Fuchs a bit so she can see.
‘Everything to please a queen!’ He points to the things in the fridge. He packed and repacked those drinks so you could see them all at a single glance. His beers and his Cokes, all in tins so they won’t go flat like in the bottles. His Drostdy Hof Blush, right through to the orange juice, for just in case.
‘You see, enough for a week.�
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No see? Okay. Later. Why’s she saying fuck-all now? All she does is put down her handbag and take off her black jacket. She hangs the jacket over his mother’s chair.
‘Well, maybe enough for two days, hey? What do you say? Then we can go get some more!’
Now he sticks to his spot, here next to his fridge. His hands are opening and closing from not knowing what to do next. Things must start clicking here. Fuck! This night must get a move on!
‘For the rest, everything’s right. You missed the bubbles man, Mary, just bubbles, bubbles, bubbles. Everywhere. But now this old thing even makes ice, hey, I swear. I couldn’t believe it. Check here, man, just check this!’
He takes out the ice-trays. Now look, woman! Fucken rock-hard ice! No dice. Put it back again. Maybe she’s a bit raw. Not used to things. If your audience is asleep, Treppie always says, try another angle.
‘And the postbox is fixed. Did you see it? I made him myself, quite a tricky one, that one, kept falling off. Can’t tell you what trouble I had with that piece of shit. But now it’s even painted the colour of peace, thanks to my old man, he’s got a knack for the finishing touches, for sure! And tomorrow they come to paint this whole house, white as snow, good as new, you won’t recognise it. And when they paint, we go, you and me, to get the petrol. I checked all the bags for leaks, two times. And I’ve got a hole!’
Now he’ll show her something! She needn’t keep her face so straight. There’s only one hole like this in the whole of Jo’burg, that’s for sure!
Lift up the plank. Shift it away nicely, so she can look inside. Come now, woman!
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