‘Come, come here, Mary, come look! Now this was the biggest job of all, hey, nearly broke my back here, just rubble, rubble, rubble. There was another town here, a black one, just bricks, bricks, bricks, kaffirs didn’t live under plastic and cardboard in those days, hey! But now it’s big enough for the petrol, for an emergency, you know. You never know, that’s what I say. And my uncle agrees. A person must be ready, hey? What do you say? For when the shit hits the fan. You know what I mean, hey? Then we hit the great road to the North. I checked on the map. In the CNA. Will take a day or so. Then we’re over the border. First we make a picnic and then we make a new beginning.’
She doesn’t look like she’s making the connections. His hole is open, his fridge is open and he’s wide open. All his stuff is lying here, open. But she’s not looking. Maybe she wants to look at the painting again, at his map.
‘Check, here’s our route, in red, here, here, here.’
Christ, she must be able to see a dotted line! The line’s in red, too. It goes over the lawn, the molehills, the black arrows, the yellow arrows, his mother’s body and the tennis ball in her mouth. He points it out to her.
‘Tennis ball in the mouth. Didn’t have enough space here. Dog’s games, you know? But it’s my mother, this one. Nice lady, full of sports!’
He feels too big, standing here next to his painting. His body doesn’t want to shrink. He tries to grin but his mouth doesn’t want to. Grin! That’s his mother, she’s enough to make anyone laugh. Fuck! Let’s try the mermaid. Maybe she’ll think it’s cute. That mermaid is actually her!
‘And this is you on the car here, Mary. I dreamt of you, long before you even knew me.’
Maybe she doesn’t like laughing at herself. Well then, let her laugh at him then, him with his big ears and his sideburns, sitting in the driver’s seat.
‘And that’s me, ready to take you wherever you want to go, to the wild open spaces …’
At last! A smile! About fucken time too. Just a half-smile. But that’s all he needs. Take the gap, Lambertus, take it!
‘… to the sleepy villages, where the lion roars tonight! Hawhimbawe! Hawhimbawe!’
His mother always laughs when he sings that song. Ever since he was small. But now the smile’s gone again. Maybe she thinks his plan isn’t good enough. Maybe she doesn’t like the sound of his lions.
He points, north, north, north, he points where he wrote in the names this afternoon. Those are not petrol stops. The petrol’s been sorted out. They’re just piss-stops. Pretoria, Nylstroom, Naboomspruit, Messina. He wrote Messina in big letters. Across the border. His plan is fine. There’s nothing wrong with his plan.
‘And she’ll make it, Mary, don’t you worry, she’ll make it. I tuned her, I checked her points, I tapped off her oil. And in any case, we’ll take Flossie with us, the beach buggy, for spares, for in case. As we say in Afrikaans, there’s always a light at the end of the wagon-trek. Hey, old Mary, man, even if it’s a long way to Tipperary, hey? You know that song?’
Fuck, he’s really doing his very best here. Maybe he should sing instead, he’s in any case singing for his smiles tonight. It’s a long way to Tip-perrar-reee! She’d better open that red mouth of hers for a change. He can’t do all the fucken talking all fucken night long!
‘Listen, my china.’ Here she comes now, but she’s coming too slowly. Oh, shit, what now? Now she’s swaying her backside at him. She’s even turned around so he can see her backside.
‘I haven’t got no time to waste, hey. I’m a busy lady!’
Fuck! Let him get out of the way here. She mustn’t come and act all high and mighty and start swinging her backside around. He’s also been fucken busy!
Jesus. Now she’s on the bed, legs and all. Loosening buttons. Yes, that’s what she’s doing, she’s unbuttoning her blouse. Lots of buttons. What’s that underneath? A bow, a fucken little red bow. In the middle. Between the tits. The tits are in a see-through bra. Black net-stuff with holes in it. Sit, she motions to him, he must come and sit here next to her on the bed. Please, God! Those long red nails!
‘Hey, hey, wait now, Mary, man, let’s not rush things now, man. Come, there’s nice chairs here, man, look, specially for you!’ Pop’s chair. His mother’s chair. Next to each other. ‘Nice chairs, I promise, family chairs, they come a long way, they can tell stories, these chairs, man, like you won’t believe, stories for Africa.’
It’s the truth. He’s not talking nonsense now. Right. That’s better. She’s buttoning up again. Yes, better.
‘As you wish. I hope you know what you’re doing. Time is money, you know that?’
Of course he knows. What’s the time there on Treppie’s clock–radio? Only twenty to twelve. He checks his watch. That’s fine. The night’s still young, as Treppie always says. What’s she getting so worried about, anyway? There she sits in his mother’s chair now. It looks funny, but at least she sits nicely, with her legs closed.
‘Don’t worry, just relax, Mary, I’ll get you a drink. What do you like? I also got brandy and Coke. Come on, what do you say?’
‘I don’t drink on the job, Cleopatra’s house rules.’
Why’s she grinning again? It’s the oldest trade in the world, after all. Her kind fancies a snort. She mustn’t think she can come and spin him a lot of crap here.
‘Cleopatra’s foot in a fish tin, man!’
‘Just Coke, I mean it.’
‘Suit yourself, lady.’ If he can just get a snort or two into her. But he must tune her nicely now. Don’t rush a woman. That’s what Treppie always says when his mother takes so long to do things. When a woman’s revs finally get going, they really run high. Then you struggle to bring them down again. He says he’s seen it time and time again.
‘I have lemons, I have ice, might I make you a Lee Martin, just like in the Spur? You know what a Lee Martin is? No? Crushed ice and lemon and things?’
She shakes her head. No.
Looks like she doesn’t know bugger-all. Fucken weird, that’s all he can say. Maybe the Cleopatras don’t go to Spur.
‘Never too late to learn.’ Take a deep breath. ‘Never too late, my baby.’
Mary just sits there, looking at her nails. She says fuck-all. It looks like that ‘baby’ went straight over her head, like she didn’t even feel it. Maybe he said it too early or something. Fucken worse than a jammed compressor! And he can’t very well go and kick her, but he’s tempted, hell, a nice kick under the backside is exactly what she needs. There go his knees now, jerking up and down under the skin. It must be ’cause he’s thinking about kicking her. He mustn’t kick her. She’d fall to pieces, first shot. No, he won’t kick her. He’ll just stand here next to his work bench. Stay nice and cool. He grabs the edge of the work bench, his service counter that he prepared so neatly, with so many nice things on it. Ai, fuck. He hears her lighting up, here right behind his back. That’s what he needs too, a good old cigarette. Sit for a while, in Pop’s deep chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him so his knees can stop jerking. Yes, a cigarette.
A thought begins to form in his head, but he can’t get hold of it properly. Come now, Lambert! Got it! It’s the thought of an ashtray, and an ashtray is the other thing he forgot. A carpet and an ashtray. Can you believe it? Most of the time he tips his ash on to the floor and he stubs his cigarettes against the wall, just anywhere. He had to sweep so many cigarette butts out of here … never mind, she won’t know the difference. He picks up one of the bowls with painted stags and passes it over to her.
‘Ashtray.’
‘Thanks,’ she says.
‘Some ashtray, hey.’ Mary looks at the ashtray. Then she turns it round and looks at the back.
‘I inherited it from my grandmother. Grand old lady. They did it in style in those days.’
‘Hmm,’ is all she says. ‘How’s the Coke coming along?’
‘Won’t be a minute.’ But before the words are out of his mouth he realises he’s got a new problem. Ho
w’s he going to give her crushed ice without making a mess? If it was just him alone it would be a simple matter – he’d take a hammer and smash the ice-blocks to pieces on the work bench. Not that he needs crushed ice every day. Ice-blocks are good enough and even those came into his life only after the fridges were fixed. He’s seen in the movies how they put ice in a dishcloth or something, in those fancy American kitchens where everyone stands around with drinks in their hands, then they knock the ice against a wall with neat little thuds, like it’s something they do every other day. But now he hasn’t got a dishrag. And it’s not something he does every other day. When he does knock things in kitchens he makes holes in the doors of dressers. Fuck! As far as he knows, the only dishrag in the house got used up today, to clean all that drain-goo on the floor. And he’s not going to open up his steel cabinet to look for anything ’cause then all those pipes and dirty clothes and GTX tins that he stashed in there will come piling out.
Maybe he should go fetch something in the house. Look in his mother’s room. Suddenly he sees himself crushing ice on the den’s wall with his mother’s dirty housecoat. Crush, crush, crush. No!
He’ll just tell her the ice-crusher’s broken. Out of order. He’s never seen one, but he’s sure you can buy them.
‘So, have we suddenly gone as quiet as a mouse, big boy?’
Is she really smiling at him here behind his back? Yes, she is, with a pouting mouth too. Well, well, what have we here? Wait, let him first get this ice out of the tray. Fucken ice-tray. Hit the blarry thing, that’s the only way. ‘Thock! Thock!’ he slams the tray against the edge of the work bench.
‘I’ve just got a problem’ – ‘Thock!’ – ‘with my ice-crusher. Looks like it’s out of order.’
‘Well, I’m getting mighty thirsty here, ice or no ice.’ Now she doesn’t sound like she’s smiling. She switches that smile of hers on and off, on and off, faster even than Treppie. Get that smile going again, lady! If I can, you can! Keep smiling, girl!
‘Thirsty, hey, and we haven’t even started yet!’ Shit, that one just slipped out before he could stop it.
‘Well, at this rate …’ Mary says, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He pours himself a stiff brandy and Coke. One glass in each hand. Steady, now. He’s standing in front of Mary. He’s standing wrong. He can feel it. He mustn’t stand still, he must move, keep moving. Make a noise.
‘Listen. Nice song they’re playing there.’
The Highveld Stereo woman is talking. She says it’s Leo Sayer. She says he’s always so spot on about the eternal questions of love.
When I need you
I just close my eyes and I’m with you
And all that I so wanna give you
Is only a heartbeat away
Mary takes her Coke. Right. Now sit down a little. With a cigarette. It’s in his jacket pocket. But where’s his fucken matches now? He checked a hundred times to make sure they were in his pocket. You don’t want to get stuck looking for matches in the heat of the moment. Just shuddup a second, there, Leo. Fucken close my eyes and find my fucken matches, now! He can feel Mary looking at him as he digs in his pocket.
Here she comes with her lighter. Come closer, she motions. He doesn’t trust this.
‘I don’t bite, honey. Come, let me light your fire.’
There’s that half-grin again. That tongue, licking her lips.
Grin back at her, Lambert. Now you’re even her honey! But it doesn’t sound right to him, this ‘honey’. And what’s this about a fire? He still doesn’t feel warm. He feels strange and cold. The insides of his hands are sweating.
He leans over. No one has ever lit up for him like this, let alone a woman.
‘Chick!’ goes her lighter as she flicks it on. ‘Sssss!’ goes the little flame, here next to his face. Those longs nails right here next to his cheek. Christ! Now he’s gone and breathed too hard. Out goes the lighter. God in heaven!
‘Easy, boy!’ She flicks it back on again.
Now he gets it right. He leans back in his chair. Man, this cigarette’s going down well. He takes deep pulls. Nothing helps like a nice deep pull. He feels a slight shudder down his tail-end.
From where he sits he has a full-frontal view of his fridges. The cigarette’s helping, but it’s not helping enough. And his fridges can’t tell him fuck-all, either. They look fucked. Small and dirty and fucked out.
He steals a glance at Mary. She also says nothing. She’s smoking with her eyes screwed up, drinking her Coke in small sips. She doesn’t take her glass away from her mouth.
Now their conversation mustn’t go and dry up. If push comes to shove he can always go and fetch the TV from the lounge. Maybe there’s a scary movie on Bop, or fast American news, there-then-here-now. If only Treppie was at home. He would have known what to do. But maybe not. Treppie would’ve stuck around too long, until it was too late for him to make his birthday happen.
He sees her looking at her watch. She looked just a minute ago. Ten to twelve. Time to try another angle.
‘So what do you think’s going to happen on the twenty-seventh?’
‘Why?’
Why? Why? He’s not fucken asking her which side the sun rises every day.
‘Well, uh, it’s a turning-point in the history of our country!’
She gets up quickly.
‘Jesus Christ! You need to find your own bladdy turning-point. Come on, now!’
What’s that she’s taking out of her bag? She throws it down on the bed. Fucken FL’s! Right, if she can push, he can also push.
‘Are you challenging me, lady? I’ve got my own, you know. Rough Riders. Very nice. So get ready for a bumpy ride!’ He gives her a fat wink. Now he must move!
‘Shall we dance first?’ Turn up that radio. For Christ’s sake, let’s have a good song now! ‘Just right for a cheek-to-cheek, hey. Nice song. Jim Reeves. Golden Oldie. Big fan of Jim Reeves. Do you know him?’
‘Lord, have mercy!’
Just look how she flicks away that stub with her fingers! Not bad! Stamp on it, girly, stamp on it with that dainty little shoe of yours. That’s more like it. A bit of a temper is better than nothing. Here she comes, on her high horse.
‘That’s what I like in a woman! She must be game for everything!’
Now he must hold her tight. Like the heroes in the movies who dance close with their girls. Soft guava! That’s what Treppie always says when those scenes come up. Soft guava and cucumber power!
Here she is, now. Right up against him. With that shiny hair of hers right under his nose.
‘So, what are you waiting for, Prince Charming?’
She smells sweet. Too sweet.
His hands feel her hands taking hold of them. She puts his hands on to her hips.
‘Come on, Lambert, we haven’t got all night.’
Now she’s swaying her body into his, but the beat isn’t actually right for a slow dance. She pulls him so he can start moving. No one has ever pulled him like this before. His hands slide further and further down her dress. Smooth, no funny bumps. No, hell, wait. He moves his hands up again. Rather listen to Jim Reeves.
Mary marry me
Let’s not wait
The time we have
Is all there is
And then it might be too late.
‘Do you hear that?’ She’s pulling him by the jacket now. ‘The time we have is all there is.’
But now she’s starting her shit again. Here comes more loosening of buttons. This time it’s his buttons. Three, four, five, look how quickly she works those thin, brown hands of hers. Christ, those red nails here high up against his white skin! Well, at least it’s just here around the top. Don’t lose it now.
‘You know what we call this type of dance, Mary?’
She shakes her head so hard the curls whip into his nose.
‘Soft guava, we call it the soft guava.’
‘Papkoejawel! You think I don’t know that word?’ Mary laughs.
H
e doesn’t like that laugh. Is she trying to play the fool with him or something? Let him rather laugh along. Ha-ha-ha! Then he can button up his shirt again, pour himself another drink. If she wants to laugh she can sit down and laugh till she’s finished.
‘So, you can speak a bit of Afrikaans?’
Now she’s suddenly packing her cigarettes back into her bag. Where does she think she’s going? Maybe she thought he was talking about her guava.
‘Look here, man, what do you take me for? The man in the moon? Of course I can speak Afrikaans.’
‘I thought you were a Creole, from Creolia or someplace!’
‘Creolia? Ha-ha-ha! Very funny. A Creole, lat ek vir djou sê, Mister Ballroom Champ, is ma’ just a lekker coffee-colour dolly what can mix her languages. So if that’s your problem, if that’s what’s putting you off, I’ll just leave sommer right now. I’ve got my money. I’ve got nothing to lose. Time’s nearly up anyways.’
24:00, it says on Treppie’s clock–radio. Forty!
‘Please, please don’t go. I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.’
A darky. So, that’s what Treppie was making big eyes about. Well, he’s not bothered by a piece of coffee-skirt, if that’s what Treppie’s idea was. A bit of the dark stuff is no problem for him!
A neat brandy. Without Coke. Then he’ll be ready. ‘It’s all right, man, anyway, you are so nice and smart with your make-up and everything, I bet you can actually pass for white any time, Mary, hey? You get my drift? I mean, it can’t be too difficult for you. What about another Coke, hey? With half a tot? What do you say?’
Dead silence here behind him. What’s it this time? He turns round. Mary’s looking at him with wide eyes that shine like daggers.
‘You bastard! Look at you! Look at this place! Who the hell do you think you are, hey? You’re not even white, man, you’re a fucken backward piece of low-class shit, that’s what you are. Useless fucken white trash!’
‘Excuse me? What did you say there? Is there something wrong with my ears or is somebody calling me a piece of shit in my own house?’
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