Now all hell is loose. But no one can teach him anything about talking shit or making shit. If this off-white number doesn’t watch out he’ll knock her and all her shit as flat as a pancake! Yes, retreat, retreat, you’d better, you toffee-cunt. Let her, she can’t get further than that inside door. He sees her feeling for the inside door’s handle.
‘You’re too late, Mary, too fucken late! Rather give that hand of yours here.’ He locked that door before she came, early tonight, to keep out his mother. And Treppie. They said they were going out but you never know with them. Fuck, if only they were here now, then he could go and call them to come help a bit. Then they could all help him to put this cheeky slut in her place, for once and for all.
‘I said, let go of that door!’
Her breath’s on his face now. Her mouth is thin. She’s got lines round the outside of her mouth. ‘Zing!’ goes his head. Through the zing he picks up a song playing on the radio.
You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me!
Forty years and a few seconds old! Fuck! She turns her face away. Red stuff on that Coloured cheek of hers.
‘Do you hear that, Mary? You must be nice to me now, hey. You’d better behave yourself now, hey! I don’t like spoilsports, that’s one thing I don’t, um, tolerate.’
Nice that he remembered that word.
‘Let go, you’re hurting me!’
She doesn’t sound very hurt to him. She sounds more like a coon-girl with designs in her head.
‘Don’t be a sissy, man. Your sort have seen it all. As long as you play nicely, you won’t get hurt. Got it?’
Another cigarette, that’s what he needs now. Matches. Where? In his shirt pocket, top pocket. He sees his shoes. They look too big. He sees them ’cause he’s not standing upright. He’s bent over forwards. His arms are hanging out. He must get back into his gentleman’s pose. He’s got half a hard-on after that bit of action, but it drops quickly again. This business must get back into swing. Christ, this is worse than fucken fridge repairs.
He tells her she must look on the crate, there next to the bed. In the Coke bottle.
‘Look, I even got you a rose, man, want to smell it? My mother is into roses, you know. Her whole life long. This one here is a Whisky Mac. But there are lots more. Prima Ballerina, Red Alec, Las Vegas Supreme. That last one is an orange one. Hell, I must tell you that story! You won’t believe it. We were in the HF Verwoerd Institute for the Mentally Retarded that day, me and my uncle, he put me up to it, when we became a republic, you know, at the Voortrekker monument.’
Must he go and take it out for her or what? There, let her take the fucken rose. Can’t she see he’s okay again?
‘Go on, smell it!’
Move it, slut! He waits for her to smell. Christ, no, he must get another drink. And this time he’ll stay right here in front of his counter. She mustn’t start getting scared of him now. That business a second ago was nothing.
‘So what’s your favourite colour, Mary? Come, sit down again, come, sit here by me, in my mother’s chair. Let’s make friends again, hey? Let’s talk nicely now, like civilised people, hey?’
‘Civilised! Hmph!!’
To hell with hmph! Now it looks like she doesn’t even want the rose. She’s singing something.
‘The night was heavy
And the air was alive
But she couldn’t push through.’
‘What was that, may I ask?’
Fucken full of shit, that’s what. And she mustn’t look up at the ceiling, she must look at him!
‘Just a song. You know Highveld Stereo, like all the songs they play, say just the things you want to say?’
Fucken chancer! What’s that she’s looking at now?
‘So tell me, Michelangelo, what’s all this here supposed to be?’
‘You can read, man, just read it.’
At least she wants him to tell her something. Stand up straight. Tummy in. Let him show her. Michelangelo. Who’s that?
‘It’s my gallery of foolproofs. Much better than that stupid Cindy Viljoen from Tuxedo Tyres. Blue bikini, pink bikini, they think they can fool me!’
‘Cindy Viljoen?’
‘Yes, man, old Cindy on the calendars, I had them all, from ’76, all round here, to keep track of the time, you know, but then I discovered it’s the same Cindy in the tyre, just with different hair and things. It was all the same. People are not stupid, you know. On last year’s calendar she had so much make-up on, even on her neck and all, past redemption, not even worth a retread. But these things here, they’ll last forever. I finished it yesterday, just for you. They can all fly now, you see? They don’t wear and tear like lawn-mowers, or cars or fridges. They work, like, like, um, like paradise!’
‘Huh?’
‘You still don’t get it? Look, they all got wings on. It’s like heaven. Everything can be an angel in heaven. Rats, cockroaches, everything. There’s even a mole, MOLE II. It’s my mother, you see, even she has wings there. Not in MOLE I, there she’s in a fridge, frozen mole, ready to be fired off, but that’s another story. I gassed all the moles this morning, Mary, so you don’t have to look at them pushing heaps with a mouthful of Swiss roll.’
He can hear his voice going quicker and quicker. It feels like when you try to weld leaks. You can’t keep up with yourself. She looks like she thinks he’s got the horries or something. Stupid fucken floozy, that’s what she is.
‘So on the ceiling I will go on with heaven, all the stars and things, some dead, some alive, the black holes and the time warps and the sundogs and the rim of the dark moon that one can see in the earthshine, ’cause the earth shines too, did you know that? And old Gerty, shame, she’ll also be there, we buried her, jersey and all, in the back here, with a poem on the prefab wall. My uncle is a poet, you know, but he doesn’t know it, not always. He rhymes like shit, I mean, he can make a poem out of nothing. And a speech, without thinking. He made an unforgettable speech at my mother’s wedding, master of ceremonies. He’s quite a devil, you see – just needs horns. Even he liked Gerty, but not as much as my mother, my mother liked Gerty more than soft-serve, but Gerty coughed so much, she died of TB in the bathroom, just like my grandmother.’
‘Allah preserve me!’ Mary puts her hand in front of her mouth.
‘It’s just a dog, man. Toby’s mother – he’s also a dog. Gerty’s son, like our streets here, Gerty Street, Toby Street. But he’s still alive.’
He can’t very well tell lies about the streets. Maybe he should take her for a walk so she can see with her own two eyes.
‘I dipped him this morning, that Toby, so that the fleas won’t bite you. Very much alive that dog. He pisses on carpets. It’s like the AWB. Do you know them? They also piss on carpets. Like at the World Trade Centre, that time. All the policemen took off their caps after the pissing and prayed with the pissboys, they pissed inside and prayed outside!’
‘Have mercy!’
She’s looking up at the ceiling again. Wait till she hears his next story.
‘You know, they even wanted to recruit me, the AWB, just up the road here, opposite the stewing meat, with Oros, ’strue’s Bob, for their task force, they wanted a mechanic.’
‘Not surprising.’
‘Not at all, hey? But they can forget it, there’s more to me than nuts and bolts, I say!’
‘More nuts.’ She laughs loudly.
See, it just takes a little time. Wait, let him get some peanuts for them. From his counter.
‘I’ve got a gun, you know.’
Nice, these peanuts. Now she must watch carefully. Let him just finish chewing this mouthful, then he’s going to get the gun out of his cabinet. Why’s the door jammed like this? Come, bastard! Boom! It’s open. The stuff starts falling on to his feet: scrap iron, pipes, spanners, tins.
‘Holy shit!’
‘Sorry about that, odds and ends
, you know.’
No, Lambert! You knew you shouldn’t have opened the cabinet!
‘Sorry if I gave you a fright, man.’
Where’s that gun now? Here at the bottom, under the rags. Now he’s going to impress this Cleopatra big time.
‘Don’t come near me with that thing.’
‘Don’t worry, man, it’s not loaded. I’ve got bullets, but it’s not loaded. I load it only when I go on patrol. This thing was a real bargain, man, I tell you. You don’t know how lucky a person can get on a dump. I got binoculars too, but that’s for sightseeing – the moon and the stars and the belly of the Jumbo. Big sports. But this is serious business, this is for protection.’
First just move away this rubbish a bit. Under the bed with this lot! He sees her putting her hands over her ears. Bit of a nervous girl, this one. But she’ll still learn, they make a lot of noise around here sometimes.
‘So you, er, patrol?’
‘I patrol, man, I patrol. These days you can’t leave anything to the police, you know, they’ve got their hands full, man, they don’t have time for open manholes and that class of thing. In any case they’re a noisy lot, they drive like maniacs.’
‘But I mean do you patrol for a living, like, I mean for Springbok Patrols or such?’
‘Over my dead body, I’m my own boss. I patrol as a, um, concerned citizen. Free and for nothing. I service the whole of Triomf. But mostly Gerty and Toby.’
‘So, er, what do you do for a living, like?’
It’s high time. Now she’s nice and mellow. Looks like she’s going to dip herself a chip at the counter.
‘Well, um, we’ve got a little fridge business. Triumph Appliances. But these two here I fixed on my own, just for you. Shit, you should have seen the bubbles, man. Just so big as my head, hey. My whole room was in it, heaven and Africa and everything. Looked like magic, I must say. Not like I painted it myself, I mean like a masterpiece it looked. Like the Lost City. My uncle is not from this world, hey, he gave me an exam with Brylcreem on his face. Multiple choice with a red nose. It was very funny. My uncle’s an operator, you know. He sings when the Ding-Dong passes. And he taught me to make the dogs go funny, I’ll show you one day. But I passed with distinction that time. Do you want to hear the dogs go funny?’
Is she getting cold or something now? It’s a nice little coat that. There’s more to life than a housecoat, if you ask him. But what’s she doing now with that bag of hers? Over her head, around her neck goes the strap. And then under the one arm!
‘Ag no, man, Mary. Where are you going now? Everything is going so nice now, man. Let me show you my penny-whistle. It’s from the kaffir hole. It has ar-chae-lo-gi-cal value, my uncle said.’
‘Penny-whistle, my foot!’
What’s she pointing to now, here under his belt? She’s pointing this way but she’s walking that way. Christ, has his zip been open all this time! No, it’s closed. What was that pointing all about then? No manners.
‘I figure you got a French horn or something in there. Out of tune. From playing solos all the time!’
‘French horn, ha-ha! But you’re full of sports, girly!’
‘Time’s up, mister! You’ve had your chance. A woman must eat, you know.’
Shit, where does she want to go and eat now? What’s she doing at the outside door with her hand on the handle? And it’s not locked!
‘There’s all this food to eat here, man. I spent all my money, every fucken last cent, chips, dips, drink, everything. Why don’t you stay, man, my family’s not so bad, man! My old man can play the mouth organ like you won’t believe. I swopped the beds, I took the sheets from the windows, we washed them. And there’s a mirror in the bathroom and a toilet seat, light blue, for a shit in peace, and lampshades from China. It was a lot of trouble, man, the pelmet is panelbeaten straight as hell, and there is a hole in the front door but it’s for Toby, he’s really a decent dog, I promise. Pedigree don’t count, that’s what I say, just decency. Decency, do you know that word? Decent? I’ve got a passion meter too, you want to see it? Educational value, relieves stress and boredom. Give me your hand!’
‘I’m leaving, Rambo, you sit here nicely and relieve yourself like a good boy. I’m getting out of this fucken madhouse, before it’s too late!’
Let her just fucken try. Now she’s twisting her hands, trying to slip them out of his! Quite strong, for a Coloured chicky like this.
‘Listen to that nice song they’re playing, man. Let’s have a shuffle, what do you say? Come, wrap your arms round me, like just now. Let’s sing along, come on!’
Rock me gently, rock me slow
Take it easy, don’t you know
That I have never been
Loved like this before
‘Jesus, Lambert, what have you done to your hand, man?’
His hand? Okay. If she wants to know. His tongue feels like it’s moving in slow motion as he tells her. About time that zings, about how all your birthdays tick past, about how Treppie told him you can make that tick go tick once more, about how he wanted to show Treppie a thing or two, but his hand went right through the dresser, and what a big joke that was, a big hole, and his mother pissed herself from all the laughing and everything.
‘But what’s a little hole, after all? Now things can breathe a little.’
‘And that other hand, Lambert, what happened there?’
The plaster-hand? That plaster still looks fine to him.
Christ! How did she get his belt loose and his zip open so quickly?
‘Ooh, Big Boy, and all in red, too!’
‘You mean my fingertips? That’s nothing, man. My uncle pushed me, by accident of course, got stuck in an escalator.’
‘No, I mean that plaster, man.’
She must go nice and easy with his plaster-hand, but she grips it too hard. Ouch, fuck! What does she know, anyway? Does she really want to know? Okay, let him tell her then. Does she have any idea how hard it is to file open a compressor, does she know how poisonous the oil is, would she know what to do if she got it on to her hand one day? He knows, he’s an old hand with fridges. But that still doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt if people grab too hard. Not that that’s the point, the point is there’s nothing these two hands of his can’t do. Look! She must look at his hands!
‘Maybe you’re handy with fridges, honey, but your hands are a bit too rough for women. Have you ever had one at all, hey?’
‘Of course! Plenty! There’s this girl from the Jehovahs. She gets the hots from Exodus, from the frogs that jump, in the lounge here, and the pillar of fire, that kind of thing. She fancies me, that one, and I give her quite a go, but she isn’t my type, she’s too, um, how shall I say?’
Too what? Where’s the word he’s looking for? Just in front of him in the air here.
Fuck! Here go his pants now. Speedo and all! Down, over his knees!
‘Your uncle’s advice if it gets too hot. Sorry, man, but you’re also not exactly my type!’
All he sees is patent leather. Flash! Out! Hey!
Tackle her! But his feet stick to the ground. Just a bush of shiny hair in his hands. Without a head. Fuck! Trying to run away, hey! Just wait!
Ouch! He feels blood. He’s flat on his backside. Ow, Jesus!
‘Fucken whore! Fucken rotcunt. Fucken cheapskate! Stupid Swiss roll of a slut!’
He feels his nose. It’s still bleeding. He wipes the blood on to his naked leg. Flossie doesn’t want to go any further. Nor does he. He can’t. He’s fucked out of his mind. Klipdrift and beers and Blush. Out of the bottle, out of the cans, out of the box.
He took the stags and smashed them, mountains and all, one by one against the ceiling. He stashed the Fuchs full of sheets and papers and then he set the whole lot on fire. He stoked the fire in the fridge till it made a soft ‘boof!’ sound. And then he sat for a long time, watching the long, thin lines of blue smoke coming out of the seals. ‘Tip-tip-tip’, he heard as something dripped out of the cond
enser pipes at the back. One down, one to go. He must still sort out the Tedelex.
But he didn’t forget the postbox. He ripped it out of the pole and swung it round and round, like a slingweight, until it was going nice and fast. Then he lobbed it, one shot, through the lounge window. Ting-a-ling! Boom! Crash! Sail on, silverbird.
He rattled those loose slabs on their walls till all the dogs in Triomf were barking. Till they were going strong. And he started crying, and after a while the dogs were also howling much better.
Then he thought, wait, let him get into his dream car. He started her up, ’cause he wanted to drive off somewhere, to get lost good and proper, God alone knows where, with all those dogs running after him. Like he was in a circus or something.
But now it’s raining. Thunder and flashes of lightning crash into his ears. And now he just sits.
He looks up into the sky. He’s sopping wet. Hot and cold on his face. Blood and tears and rain. Where’s Mary motherfucker’s curls, let him wipe his face.
He rubs his dick. For what, anyway? For fuck-all. It feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller. But he rubs, anyway, harder and harder. It’s all he can think of doing.
REPORTBACK
It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon, 26 April.
Mol stands in the passage, behind Treppie. They’re in front of Lambert’s inside door. She’s holding on to Pop’s sleeve, here behind her. At first she and Pop didn’t want to come, but Treppie said no, this was their baby too, they couldn’t start ducking out now. It was time for Lambert’s reportback.
You wouldn’t guess Treppie was given a talking to just a few hours ago. He’s so full of the devil it looks like he’s ready to start hopping. When they got home this morning he just smashed his way through the hole in the lounge window. Glass breaking everywhere. No, he said, now he was entering a war zone. Doors and thresholds were for civilians, and if they wanted to play doorsy-doorsy under such circumstances they were free to do so, they must just remember FW said war wasn’t for sissies. Then she said as far as she could remember FW said nothing about doors and thresholds, he said elections weren’t for sissies. Treppie said, no, now she was really falling behind, hadn’t she realised they were holding their own fucken election here in this house and they were allowed as much foul play as they liked, ’cause the playing fields under their feet were never, ever going to get level.
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