When Pop woke up and couldn’t pick up the smell of battery acid from Industria, he knew it was going to be a good day. And when he hooked his braces over his shoulders, in front of Mol’s three-piece dressing table – he was standing before the middle panel, the only one still there – he did it carefully, out of respect for the feeling he’d just had. Carefully, ’cause these days he feels to himself like a place he doesn’t know, a place full of strange noises coming at him through a thick mist. Carefully, he blew the dust from the yellow plastic roses. Dust motes flew around his head, but he didn’t move. He waited, bent over, for the dust to settle. You have to be careful on days like this.
And when he got to the kitchen, Lambert was already there. ‘Pop, do you want a polony sandwich too?’ he asked.
He said okay and then Lambert said he must come join them, they were sitting out in the yard.
And when he came round the corner, there they all were, sitting with their bodies in the shade and their feet in the sun. On Coke crates, with their backs against the den. Treppie pulled something out of the den for him to sit on, and Lambert brought him some coffee and a polony sandwich. ’Strue’s God. Who would have believed it?
Now they’re sitting peacefully there in the shade. Treppie’s trimming his nails and Mol’s feeding Gerty little bits of her sandwich. Flossie’s hubcaps are lined up in a row in front of Lambert. The other day he knocked the dents out, and now he’s using a fine little brush to paint the really bad spots with silver paint.
‘How’d you sleep, Pop?’ Lambert asks.
This can’t be true.
‘Huh?’
‘I said, did Pop sleep all right?’
Can you believe it? Someone’s asking him if he slept all right.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he says, ‘I slept nicely.’
As Mol feeds Gerty, Pop sees her head jerk forwards, and then backwards again. No, jerk’s the wrong word. It wasn’t a jerk and it wasn’t a shake; not a nod, either. It was like a little tremor. But she doesn’t look up.
‘Nicely,’ Pop says, and his voice sounds like it’s blowing from far away, through thin clouds. ‘Nicely, thanks, my boy,’ he says again.
Treppie gives a little cough. Then everyone’s quiet for a while.
All you hear is Lambert’s brush. ‘Swish-swish’ it goes over the hubcaps; Treppie’s pocket-knife nail clipper goes ‘clip-clip’; and Gerty’s breath comes and goes heavily inbetween the bites of sandwich Mol’s feeding her.
Around them, far and near, they hear the rush of cars, from Ontdekkers on one side to Victoria on the other, from Thornton’s uphill stretch, where the cars go into lower gear, to the last bit of Empire, where they always dice to the robots.
‘Look,’ says Mol, and everyone looks where she’s pointing. Someone’s let his homers out for the morning. A whole flock of them, flying first bright side up, then dark side up as they turn around. ‘Sweereereep’, they come flying overhead, and when they come past again, they’re even lower, ‘wheedy-wheedy-wheedy’.
‘When they’re full of sights like this, it means the rains are coming,’ says Treppie, clicking his knife closed.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Duty calls.’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ says Pop, pushing himself up on Lambert’s shoulder.
‘I’m staying so I can finish this,’ says Lambert.
‘No, fine,’ Pop says. ‘Then I’ll see you all later.’
He taps Mol on the shoulder as he passes. She clears her throat. ‘Bread and milk,’ she says.
Pop pulls the car out from under the carport. He takes Treppie to the Chinese in Commissioner Street, just as he often does, but today he feels different.
As he drives home across the bridge, back over the railway tracks, he gets a sudden feeling that something’s about to happen.
Once across the bridge, he switches lanes and drives towards Braamfontein. The taxis hoot, but he keeps to his course. He parks next to a meter in Jorissen Street.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He’s not looking for anything. He just wants to feel the rush of people around his shoulders; he wants to look at their faces.
He puts twenty cents in the meter. Then he takes one, two, three steps along the pavement. And then he stops, just looking.
People open up in front of him and then close up again behind him as he stands there on the pavement. He feels them brushing against him as they pass. So many strange, busy people.
Someone rattles a tin in his face. Pop throws twenty cents into the tin. He gets a sticker from the Association for the Blind on the front of his shirt.
People are selling vegetables and things on the pavement. Pop sees mangos, and he suddenly craves one. His mouth starts watering. Quickly he walks away. Then he turns around and walks back. He pays fifty cents for a mango and lifts it to his nose. The smell comes back to him from very far away. Fresh sheets, that’s what the smell of a mango’s peel always made him remember. Fresh sheets hanging up in the sun on the farm, before ironing.
He moves towards the edge of the pavement. Then he leans slightly forward, over the kerb, biting into the mango. He uses his teeth to pull back the skin, so he can get to the flesh.
Why don’t they ever buy mangos at the end of the month?
He works out the lie of the mango’s flesh, strangely crosswise on the flat side of the core. The fibres catch in his teeth and people bump into him as he stands there, eating. Piece by piece he spits the peel out on to the street in front of him, until he can put one end of the core right into his mouth and suck the soft mango sap out of the fibres.
Now all he’s got left in his hand is the core. He looks for a place to chuck it. He sees a blue wire-bin on a pole. He smiles. That was really delicious. He throws away the core.
He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and rubs his hands over the back of his pants. Then he hooks his thumbs into his braces, pulling them nicely over his shoulders again. He’s got that feeling again, the one he had this morning in front of the mirror. It’s sitting nice and deep now. He stands for a while with his thumbs hooked into his braces. He knows the feeling. It’s as if two warm, open hands are holding him in front, against his chest, and from behind, between his shoulders. Under his skin and inside his flesh. Right up against his bones. He stands like that for a long time, feeling how it feels and smiling to himself. Until someone says to him, here at his feet: ‘Please, boss. Asseblief, baas!’
Pop sees a black man with only one leg. The useless trouser leg is folded above the knee and turned back almost all the way to his bum.
Pop takes out twenty cents and throws it into the man’s cap.
‘God bless you, sir,’ says the beggar.
‘You too,’ says Pop.
When he looks up again, he sees the Ithuba stall. Lambert’s always reading from the papers how much money people win – widows, Post Office clerks, even tramps.
He feels in his pocket for the five-rand note. Mol said bread and milk. It’s already become an expensive morning. What the hell, he thinks. He buys a ticket and puts it down on the counter so he can scratch. The black woman first has to explain to him where to scratch. She smiles a big smile at him. Never in Triomf has he seen a black woman smile at him like this. She smiles a lovely smile and then she says: ‘It’s all right, dearie, just go right ahead.’ And: ‘Maybe it’s your lucky day today.’ And: ‘Don’t worry, the others must wait their turn.’
All those behind him in the queue are black men in suits. And would you believe it, he gets three fives! He buys another ticket. Three twenties! ‘Watch this old bugger, he’s on a roll,’ someone behind him says. As the woman counts out his money, he hooks his thumbs under his braces. ‘Come on, be a devil,’ she says to him. He wishes Treppie were here. Or Lambert. ‘Come on, one more time, you can’t lose now,’ she says. He buys one more ticket. My word, three fifties! ‘Now you must buy twenty-five tickets and carry on,’ someone in the queue says. But he’s finished. That was good enough. Three times lucky. He waits while the woman counts out his money, and then he adds it to the rest in his pocket. He’s not sure how much he’s got by now. ‘Have a nice day, sir,’ the woman says. And as he turns, a big black man takes him solidly by the shoulder and says: ‘Hey, well done, old man, now wish me luck.’
‘I wish you luck,’ Pop says, smiling at the man, and now the feeling in his flesh runs like warm syrup through his bones and into his marrow, right down to his feet.
At first, he can’t get Molletjie started. His hand’s trembling, but then she takes, and he’s off, with all that noise around his ears. From close up it’s a lot of hooting and noise. He drives round the block, into Smit Street, and then under the bridge. He goes along Caroline Street until he hits Ontdekkers, towards the house.
He won’t say anything. He’ll show them later. Tonight. You should never announce good luck. He’ll still think of something. Maybe the drive-in, or a decent bottle of brandy. Or maybe not. Don’t be in a hurry. It’ll come, like all things on a good day.
He drives past Ponta do Sol and stops at Shoprite for bread and milk. As he walks up and down the shelves, everything feels different. He can buy anything he wants. He takes out the money and counts it. Seventy-four rand and a few cents. He puts it back in his pocket in a little roll and then closes his hand around the roll.
A tin of ham? A few tins of bully beef? Sardines? He’s really very tired of polony and golden syrup. Or he can go next door to Roodt Brothers Forty Years Meat Tradition and buy biltong and dry wors.
Pop smiles. No, he’ll just buy bread and milk.
What he does with the money has to be more of a thing. He feels a thought coming from far off. It bothers him for a while before he works out what it is. Oh yes, Lambert. Lambert’s birthday. New pants for Lambert.
No. Then it benefits only one of them. It must be something for everyone, all of them together. And it must be more than something you just buy, full-stop. It must be something that happens.
At the house he sees Mol looking at him all the time. In earlier years she would have said: So, Pop, what’s with you, why you smiling so much?
He just smiles straight back at her, right into her puzzled face.
Just you wait and see, Mol, before this day’s out you’ll be smiling too.
Pop walks round the back to fetch Lambert. His four hubcaps are lined up neatly in the sun, drying.
Flossie stands here in the backyard, on bricks. When Pop finds Lambert, he’s taping up Flossie’s back window for spray-painting. Every day Lambert does some more taping. Pop’s always telling him to get finished and spray her so the job can come out nice and even, but Lambert says it works on his nerves; he needs time to think, inbetween.
Lambert’s got big plans for Flossie. She must be their ‘long-distance vehicle’, he says, so Treppie can use Molletjie to drive himself up and down to the Chinese.
Flossie’s seats, he says, must be covered in light blue mock leather, to go with the midnight blue he’s still going to spray-paint her. But now he’s busy on the undercoat, which is yellow. Very yellow. How it’s ever going to get blue, Pop doesn’t know. But he doesn’t say anything, even though he feels they should use Flossie for Molletjie’s spare parts. Lambert must just stay busy. As long as he’s busy, he’s okay.
‘Come,’ says Pop, ‘let’s first fix that postbox of yours.’
‘Right,’ says Lambert. ‘I’ve drawn up a plan.’ He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. It’s a drawing, a thing that looks like a tent with ropes above and below the ground, and around as well. As if a big storm’s coming, above and below the ground.
Lambert explains. They must weld the plate solidly on to the pipe. Then they take little arms of scrap iron, cut them at an angle on both sides, and weld them on to the pole on the one end, and on to the underside of the plate on the other. Then they can weld the postbox on to the top of the plate, also with arms.
‘We’ll show them what real welding looks like …’ says Pop. He doesn’t say anything else. It’s Lambert’s idea and when Lambert’s got an idea you don’t mess around with him. He’ll help with the welding. On a good day he’ll help with welding, any time.
All afternoon long they work. They find enough arms among the scrap in Lambert’s den for struts, cutting them to length with a little metal saw. On one end they make a downward angle, with an upward angle at the other, to make the welding easier.
Then they go outside. Pop with a pair of welding goggles and Lambert with his big welding helmet and the welding box. They put the little struts down in a heap next to the gate.
There’s a storm building, a thundercloud in one corner of the sky with a white head that looks like it’s boiling over in big white clouds of steam.
‘Watch us beat that cloud,’ Lambert says, pointing up with his thumb. Then he sits down on his crate, with his back to the cloud.
‘Right, let’s go,’ he says, and Pop hands him the first strut, for underneath. They shift it around until it fits.
Each time Pop bends down to pick up another strut from the little heap, he can feel the big cloud above him. Like when someone stands next to you and you can’t see him but you can feel his size and his warmth.
That cloud’s tanking up, Pop thinks. He smiles.
He looks at Lambert’s gloved hands. Sparks shoot in an arc around the gate. Everything in front of him looks dark blue, with bright points of light and glowing white smoke. It feels like being underwater, like the Blue Grotto of Capri they once saw on television.
Without taking off the welding goggles, Pop turns around and looks at the cloud behind his back. Short, white lines flash from the cloud’s belly.
It’s welding, he thinks. He smiles.
Mol walks out the front door. The tips of her housecoat flap in the wind like fins. She comes and stands next to them, nodding her head slightly. The plate’s already fixed to the lower arms.
Would they like some Coke? she asks.
That’ll be nice. Pop smiles at Mol from behind his goggles.
The goggles make him feel stronger. When he’s wearing them, he feels he can smile more broadly. He can see Mol looking at him. She knows something’s going on. Pop can see the sparks reflecting in her eyes. He wants to say something more, but he doesn’t know what.
She goes inside and comes back with three glasses and a litre of Coke on the half-tray.
Lambert drops his helmet and Pop shifts the goggles back on to his head. Everything’s clear again. They take big sips of Coke.
‘The rain’s coming,’ Mol says, fastening her middle button. It’s the only one left. She takes the glasses back inside.
‘We’ll be finished before the rain comes,’ says Lambert, lifting the helmet to his face again.
Everything’s working out, Pop thinks. Today everything’s working out just fine. The welding head isn’t clogging, the box hasn’t blown, they’ve got a plan and the plan’s working. Lambert’s okay and Mol’s recovered a bit from yesterday. And any minute now Treppie will come home too.
Then they’ll take the dogs to the open ground behind the Spar in Thornton.
And then he, Pop, is going to treat them. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. He still doesn’t know how. But he’ll know when the time comes.
‘Hey!’ says Treppie, suddenly right here next to him. ‘What’s that spider you’re welding there?’
‘Good afternoon!’ says Pop. ‘It’s Lambert’s idea. Bladdy good idea, if you ask me.’
‘Looks more like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror,’ says Treppie.
‘Just you shuddup and hang on to this for me,’ says Lambert, giving Treppie the welding head.
Treppie pushes the button and watches the welding flame against the dark sky. ‘Big storm on the way,’ he says.
‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Pop. ‘Then we’ll go out with the dogs. You coming?’
‘No, I’m tired. You go,’ says Treppie.
‘Ag no, man, it’s no fun without you,’ says Pop, smiling broadly from behind his goggles. Treppie’s so surprised, he first looks this way, then that way, before looking back at Pop.
What’s going on? he asks with his eyes and shoulders.
Pop signals with his eyes that ‘something’ is going on, but he doesn’t say anything. All he says is: ‘Go tell Mol to get ready so we can go.’
Treppie plays along. He’s curious, thinks Pop. Toby and Gerty come running out too. They know it’s time to go now.
Lambert finishes welding the last of his little arms.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘now she’s sitting nice and tight. Now it can rain or blow. She’ll stay up. Even if you knock this pole out of the ground, the postbox will sit tight.’
Lambert gives the postbox a shove.
‘Careful,’ says Pop. ‘Let the welding settle first.’ Lambert bends over and picks up the tools. The flat spanner lies in a spot of long grass next to the fence. He almost doesn’t see it. He kicks the spanner out of the patch of grass. ‘Grass needs cutting,’ he says.
‘Let the rain come first,’ says Pop. ‘Then we cut.’
‘Okay,’ says Lambert, ‘when the grass has dried off from the rain. Not a minute later.’
‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘it’s a deal. Take Molletjie out then.’ He gives Lambert the car keys. Then he walks to the front door to put away the tools.
’Cause of his fits, taking the car out of the carport is all Lambert’s allowed to do. He won’t ever get a licence. He’s not allowed to drive, even if he does remember to take his pills, and even if they do help. Pop knows Lambert drives around at night sometimes, but he says nothing. Lambert steals the keys from his pockets when he’s sleeping. Treppie encourages him, but Pop says nothing. He’s learnt his lesson.
Then they’re on their way. The sky’s dark already, but Pop smiles as he drives up Martha, across Victoria and right into Thornton. Lambert feels good – his postbox is sitting pretty again. He reads everything aloud along the way. He sees a small, black notice on a wire fence in front of the Congregation of Christ church: ALL RUBBISH AND JUNK REMOVED FROM YOUR PROPERTY R42 A BAKKIE LOAD. PHONE SMITTIE 684473.
‘That’s it, old Smittie,’ says Lambert. ‘Rubbish is rubbish.’
Then he reads the Congregation’s text for the week, on a big, red board mounted on poles. THE GREAT DAY OF THE LORD IS NEAR, IT IS NEAR, AND HASTETH GREATLY. THE MIGHTY MAN SHALL CRY THERE BITTERLY.
Lambert cries like the mighty man. Toby barks. Treppie sniggers.
‘Lambert,’ says Mol, ‘control yourself.’
Lambert reads the list of continuous light blue writing on the gable of TRG Engineers. The place has been standing empty for more than a year now, but they still work in the yard at the back.
CRANKSHAFT GRINDING CYLINDER HEAD RECONDITIONING CONROD RESIZING MOTOR OVERHAULS STRIPPING SPRAYING UPHOLSTERING, he reads.
‘What do they know,’ he says, snorting.
When they pass Ponta do Sol, the dogs push their noses out of the windows. The smell of food and oil reaches right into the street.
‘I’m hungry,’ says Lambert. ‘Nice and hungry.’
Before they can turn in at the Spar, they have to wait for a long line of cars to pass along Thornton. All the cars have their lights on.
‘There’s a helluva storm coming,’ says Treppie.
The dogs jump out of the windows and run to the open veld before they even come to a stop.
Treppie finds the pink Day-Glo tennis ball in the back of the car. Then they all get out, except Pop, who stays in his seat. He says all the standing today has worn him out. He rubs his eyes. It’s from looking at the welding.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees his family out there in the distance. They’re standing in a loose triangle in the middle of the veld. Lambert, Treppie and Mol. They look small as they throw the pink tennis ball to each other. Treppie to Lambert, Lambert to Mol, Mol to Treppie. The dogs chase the ball like mad as it flies from the one to the other. Lambert keeps throwing the ball too high and too hard for Mol. She misses it. Miss, miss, miss. Then the dogs chase after the ball. If it’s Gerty, she brings it back to Mol. Mol smiles each time she bends over to take the ball from Gerty.
She can’t help smiling, Pop thinks. He said she was going to smile today. And she doesn’t know how much more she’s still going to smile. He feels in his pocket to make sure the money’s still there.
Suddenly, lightning flashes in three different places at the same time – long white arteries with side-branches shooting all over the sky. Thunder breaks through the sky so hard that Pop hears the Spar’s roof go ‘kaboof!’
Mol gives a funny little jump, smothering a scream. Then she breaks into a run, making for the car with the dogs hard on her heels. Treppie and Lambert laugh so hard they slap their legs with their hands. They light up cigarettes and then stroll back to the car.
When everyone’s back inside – when the dogs with their wet tongues have come to rest on the back seat, and the Volksie’s tipping over to one side from Lambert’s weight, and the first big drops of rain go ‘plock, plock’ on the roof – Pop asks: ‘So who feels like fish and chips, or Russians, or hamburgers? How’d you like some take-aways, with tomato sauce and Coke?’
No, he doesn’t ask. He says: ‘So, who’s hungry!’
‘And what do we eat at the end of the month?’ asks Mol.
‘This is extra money I’ve got, old girl. Extra. Don’t worry.’
‘Extra what?’ asks Lambert.
‘Money,’ says Pop.
‘That you got where?’ asks Treppie.
‘Let’s go and get some food. I’ll explain on the way,’ says Pop. He turns Molletjie’s nose carefully back on to Thornton, towards Ponta do Sol.
‘How does a person get extra?’ asks Lambert.
‘Yes, how?’ asks Mol.
‘Must be charity,’ says Treppie.
‘Yes,’ says Pop, ‘pure charity, just like that. First I ate this mango …’
‘Then you bit into gold, right?’ says Treppie.
‘No, man, listen now. Just after I dropped you off this morning. I went to Braamfontein. Then I ate a mango.’
‘A mango?’ asks Mol. ‘Mangos are messy.’
‘Ja, but I wiped my hands on my pants and then someone wanted money for the blind. In a tin.’
‘Then I gave him some money.’
‘How much?’ asks Treppie.
‘Twenty cents.’
‘Jeez!’ says Lambert, ‘I bet he gave you his whole tin, right?’
‘No, then a one-legged kaffir asked me for money. In his cap.’
‘And then?’ asks Mol.
‘Then I gave him some.’
‘How much?’ asks Treppie.
‘Also twenty cents. “God bless your soul, sir,” the kaffir said to me.’
‘Sir, I say,’ says Treppie.
‘Then you grabbed his tin?’ asks Lambert.
‘No, then I said: “And yours too!”’
‘What?’ asks Mol.
‘“Bless your soul too,” I said to the kaffir.’
‘Pop, now you’re having us on,’ says Lambert.
‘No, I swear, it’s true,’ says Pop, pulling up outside Ponta do Sol.
Everyone’s looking at him. He smiles back at them, one by one. At Lambert, with his thin beard growing in patches under his chin. Lambert’s eyes are wide open. Light blue, like the rest of theirs. At Mol, who’s playing with her false tooth in her mouth. Every now and again she pushes the tooth right out. She always does that when she’s thinking hard. And then Pop looks at Treppie. There’s an Elastoplast on his forehead and stubble all over his hollow cheeks. You can never make out his expression, he’s so full of wrinkles.
Pop sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out all the money. ‘Seventyfour rand!’ he says.
‘Jeez,’ says Lambert.
‘Good Lord,’ says Treppie.
‘Hmph,’ says Mol.
‘Yes,’ says Pop. ‘It was my lucky day: a mango, a blind man, and a one-legged kaffir. And then I played scratch-cards and I won. Seventyfour rand.’
Pop opens his door. ‘So, what’ll it be, my friends? Lambert?’ he asks.
‘No, hell, Pop. Wait, we’re coming with,’ says Lambert.
They all pour out of the Volksie and run to the other side of the road with their heads down, out of the rain and into the warm, oily air of the shop. They stand there, trying to make up their minds. What’ll it be?
‘Four packets of chips, for a start,’ says Lambert.
‘Three’s enough,’ says Mol.
‘No, four, five, even six if you want,’ says Pop.
‘And a piece of fish for me,’ says Lambert.
‘Me too,’ says Mol.
‘Steak roll,’ says Treppie.
‘And a boerewors roll for me,’ says Pop.
Pop smiles at the black woman behind the glass counter. She must fix up their food nicely.
While they wait, they look around Ponta do Sol as if for the first time.
Lambert picks up a See, puts it down again and then picks up a Getaway. He pages through the magazine, showing Treppie a ‘full frontal of a bushveld baboon’. The baboon’s yawning.
‘Look at his teeth,’ Treppie says to Mol.
‘Look at his you-know-what,’ says Mol.
When their food’s ready, Pop stands at the counter to pay. Lambert brings four Cokes.
‘What about cigarettes?’ asks Pop. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but buys everyone a pack of twenties. John Rolfes for Treppie and Paul Revere for Lambert and Satin Leaf for Mol. He’s been telling her for a long time now Lucky Strikes are too strong. For himself he buys Consulates, in a tin, instead of his usual Van Rhijn. And why not? He feels like a new person. They all feel new. Good evening, they nod at other people, and then they smile when the people nod back.
Halfway out of the shop Lambert turns back. ‘More salt!’ he says as he catches up with them again, holding up a bulging serviette. ‘They always put too little on the chips.’
Pop takes a different route through the rain, over the Westdene Dam and towards the city.
‘Where you going now?’ asks Mol.
‘Wait and see,’ says Pop.
He turns right into Kingsway, past the SABC and then up the steep hill.
‘Just look how they’ve gone and built here,’ says Treppie. There’s a big white building on top of the koppie, with its bottom sitting in a dam full of fountains.
‘Ja,’ says Pop, ‘there used to be nothing but koppie here. But you can still see the view from the top.’
He parks the car in the small open space across the road from the tower, with its nose pointing north so they can see the whole city – from Northcliff on the left, across Emmarentia, right up to the other tower in Hillbrow. Big bolts of lightning flash across the sky.
‘So,’ says Pop, ‘now we can see nicely.’
‘Just like bioscope,’ says Mol.
‘Silent movies,’ says Treppie. ‘We have to say what’s happening.’
‘Psssht’ goes Lambert’s Coke as he opens it. ‘How’s that for sound-effects?’
‘Sweet heavenly Co-o-ke!’ Treppie sings.
‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘get that food out. I’m feeling peckish now.’
Mol hands out the packets. She feels each one to find out which is which.
‘Don’t squeeze my fish like that,’ says Lambert.
‘It’s not your fish, it’s Pop’s boerewors,’ says Treppie, laughing. ‘What will become of the Benades if they can’t squeeze each other a bit,’ he says.
‘Go squeeze yourself, man!’ says Lambert.
‘Hey!’ says Pop. ‘Give it a rest.’
They eat in silence.
Lambert takes out his salt serviette and offers it around.
‘How’s that taste?’ asks Pop after the first few bites. The car reeks of take-away.
‘Tastes good,’ says Mol.
‘Nice, nice,’ say Lambert and Treppie.
‘You smiling yet?’ Pop asks Mol, looking her way. He’s feeling happy. She doesn’t say anything.
‘She’s smiling, she’s smiling,’ says Treppie.
‘Now, Pop, tell us more about those scratch-cards, man. You ate the mango; twice you gave twenty cents for charity; then what?’
‘Well, then it was my turn.’
‘What gave you the idea?’
‘Just a feeling. Just a feeling like it was going to be a good day. Suddenly the booth was right in front of me and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what kind of luck Pop Benade’s got today. And then I won. Three times in a row.’
‘You don’t say,’ says Lambert. ‘And I’ve been buying them for two years at the Post Office without ever winning a cent.’
‘You just have to choose the right day, that’s all,’ says Pop. ‘You get good days and you get bad days.’
‘What’s a good day feel like? When is it ever the right day? What cock and bull story are you cooking up again?’ says Treppie, his mouth full of steak roll.
‘You feel it in your shoulders when you wake up in the morning and put your braces on,’ says Pop. He’s talking softly. He doesn’t want to wake sleeping dogs.
‘Ag bullshit,’ says Lambert. ‘And if you don’t wear braces? Then I suppose you can’t ever have a good day, or what?’
‘You just feel it in your shoulders, that’s all,’ says Pop. He should never have opened his mouth.
‘How?’ asks Treppie.
‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘eat your chips.’ Gerty sits at her feet. Mol feeds her little pieces of fish and chips. The dog is all attention – her ears stand up and her eyes are big and shiny.
‘Hell, it’s only pouring now, hey,’ says Lambert.
The rain’s coming down harder all the time. Pop switches on the wipers. Lightning flashes all around them, breaking in strips and spots and glows. And there’s no end to the thunder – quick, close slashes, and then hard, tearing sounds.
‘Well, naturally,’ says Treppie.
‘No, man, I meant it looked just like Flash Gordon was here.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie. ‘It looks more like the Lost City to me. Opening night.’
‘Guy Fawkes,’ says Mol. ‘Fireworks.
‘Peking Ducks,’ she says, raising her voice on purpose.
‘Is Ma going to start with all that again?’ asks Lambert.
‘Never mind,’ says Pop. He points to Hillbrow. ‘On this side it looks like a creeper with shoots. Shoots of morning glory or something. Every time it flashes you see more flowers on the shoots, blue ones with white in the middle.’
‘No, fuck, Pop,’ says Lambert, ‘your food’s nice, but when you talk shit you talk shit!’ He slurps down his Coke and then he burps. He’s having a good time. ‘If you ask me, it looks more like a couple of okes sitting behind a dirty window, welding a helluva long silencer on to a Mobil lorry or something,’ he says.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ says Mol, ‘have another look … there it is!’
‘Morning glory, that’s what it is,’ says Pop. ‘Grandfather’s Hat, as the old people used to say.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie, ‘it’s all in the mind. Welding flames, morning glories, grandfather’s glory, it’s all in the mind.’
‘Pop’s mind is a bit soft today,’ says Lambert.
‘Well,’ says Pop.
‘Pop’s fine,’ says Mol, ‘leave him alone.’ They’ve all finished eating now and they’re folding up their greasy papers. Mol gathers the left-overs together. For Toby, when they get home. Only Gerty’s allowed to eat in the car. She doesn’t mess. She’s a dainty little dog.
They all open their new cigarettes and light up. The smoke makes Mol cough. ‘Open the windows a bit, it’s stuffy in here.’
The side windows at the front and back are opened just a little. ‘Don’t let it rain into the car,’ says Pop.
Mol draws deeply on her cigarette. She’s feeling strong again. ‘Now let me tell you what I see,’ she says.
When Mol starts like this, it’s always about the old days. Peking Ducks in the old days. Pop puts his hand on her leg, to remind her she must go easy, this is dangerous territory; and to comfort her, ’cause it’s in the past. The lightning flashes deep yellow tufts in the sky in front of them, lighting up the inside of the car. Pop sees the faces of his people in the strange light. They look yellowish, but they’re happy. Especially Mol. She smiles an ancient little smile.
‘Here, right in front of us, I can see roses. Big bunches with lots of roses, or a single open rose with thick petals; it just depends how you look.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie.
‘Whisky Macs. Whisky Macs in full bloom. Almost ready to throw away.’
‘Fuck, Mol, are you sure you didn’t add something to your Coke there in front?’ says Treppie. ‘It’s not nice to drink on your own, you know.’
Pop signals with his head for Treppie to shuddup.
‘Just watch,’ says Mol, and everyone waits, watching for the next flash. Then it comes. A big, round ball of yellow light, with darker, orange circles arranged more densely towards the middle. The lightning flashes from inside a cloud. Its edges and layers bubble outwards, and the whole thing really does look like a rose.
‘Whisky Mac!’ says Mol, slapping her legs with both her hands. Then her voice disappears in a tremendous smack of thunder.
‘I see it too, Ma,’ says Lambert, suddenly all polite.
‘Oh my goodness,’ says Treppie. ‘When it comes again, you lot must watch carefully. It looks like a rotten old arsehole, man.’
‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘you see arseholes wherever you look,’ and then, on a sudden impulse, she adds: ‘It’s ’cause you give everyone such a huge pain in the arse!’
‘Jeez, Ma!’ laughs Lambert, like he can’t believe what he just heard.
Pop also laughs a little.
‘Well now, Mol, Klipdrift or not, from where I sit you’re on top form tonight,’ Treppie says, laughing a crooked little laugh.
’Our old Molletjie,’ Pop says softly.
‘Now, if you look this side,’ says Mol, pointing to Northcliff, ‘then you’ll see something else: closed ones, closed buds. On their stems.’
Pop looks. Good for you, old Molletjie, now you’re back with us. Everyone waits and watches. The rain has quietened down a bit, falling softly on to the car’s roof. The city’s lights seem small and remote to Pop after the spectacles of light in the sky they just saw. His heart feels warm. The day’s holding out. His hip hurts a little from the weather, as always, but that’s nothing. Then, just above Northcliff, lighting up the whole ridge, they see it, one, two, three, a whole row of flashes, each one with a pinkish, closed bud on its tip. On the stem they see flat, silver leaves trembling as if in a stream of warm air.
‘There they are!’ shouts Mol. ‘Prima Ballerinas, all in a row, on their toes, with pretty little ballet dresses!’
Pop claps his hands. The dogs start barking.
‘Let’s go now,’ says Treppie.
‘That was very nice,’ says Lambert.
Pop starts the car. The wipers go slowly back and forth, back and forth.
‘Who’s for pudding?’ asks Pop.
‘The last of the big spenders,’ says Treppie.
‘Me,’ says Mol, throwing her cigarette butt out the little side window. The roses were there for everyone to see – now no one can tell her she’s talking rubbish.
‘Me too,’ says Lambert.
‘As long as it’s not take-aways. I don’t eat take-away pudding,’ says Treppie. ‘It melts and drips all over the place.’
‘No,’ says Pop, ‘we’re going to the Spur.’ Everyone’s quiet.
‘Which Spur?’ asks Lambert.
‘Wait and see,’ says Pop. He coaxes Molletjie down the steep hill, past the SABC. At the bottom he turns left into Empire and then right again into Melville’s main street. He stops in front of the new Spur. They wait for a CitiGolf to pull out and then park in the same spot. Between a Honda Ballade and a Ford Capri.
‘Comanche Spur, I say,’ says Lambert.
‘Look, it’s their birthday. Look at the banners,’ says Treppie, pointing.
Pop sees a banner on top of the building: ONE YEAR COMANCHE SPUR. COME AND JOIN OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS.
‘You got enough money?’ asks Mol. She sounds nervous.
‘About fifty rand,’ says Pop. ‘Is that enough?’ he says, looking at everyone with a big smile on his face. Then he switches off the car.
They go in at the bottom. A few young men who look like students brush past them in the doorway. They stare at Lambert, who stands there in his bare feet.
‘You could at least have put some shoes on,’ says Treppie.
‘Fuck shoes,’ says Lambert.
‘Or your smart pants,’ says Treppie.
‘Fuck pants and fuck you too. Look at you, you haven’t even shaved, and you’ve still got Elastoplast on your head!’ says Lambert.
‘Treppie!’ says Pop. Treppie mustn’t start now.
‘Hey! Behave yourselves,’ says Mol.
Pop looks at his people. They don’t look so good under the Spur’s stairway lights. He wonders how he and Mol look. Ag, what the hell. They are what they are. He looks up at the steps. Can’t see where they end. He hadn’t thought of steps.
‘You two carry on,’ he says to Lambert and Treppie. ‘Go ahead and get us a table. I’ll be there in a minute. My leg’s sore.’
‘Let me help,’ says Mol, taking him under the arm. ‘One at a time,’ she says, ‘then we’ll be up in a jiffy.’
It hurts, but Pop climbs. One at a time. First the good leg, then he stands on his toes a bit and pulls the bad leg up behind him. After every few steps, they rest. They struggle like this all the way up the first lot of stairs.
‘If people come walking past now,’ says Pop, ‘then we must stand to one side.’
‘They can wait,’ says Mol, ‘we’re also people.’
Wooden eagles and big Indian heads look down on them from the stairwell walls.
‘What are these?’ asks Mol, touching a green plant in a pot against the wall.
‘Cactuses. Be careful, they’ve got thorns,’ says Pop.
‘They haven’t. Feel,’ says Mol.
‘They’re not real.’
‘Cactuses,’ says Mol, ‘hmph!’
Now they’re on the landing. One more set of steps.
‘Come, let’s first sit for a while,’ says Mol. ‘First rest a bit. Does it hurt?’ she asks.
Pop nods. They go sit on the landing’s little bench. More people come walking up. Out of the corner of his eye Pop sees Mol ironing down the flaps of her housecoat to make sure they cover her legs and knees. She puts her feet together neatly and folds her hands on her lap. The people stare at them as they pass by. Pop covers Mol’s hands with his own and gives her a little squeeze. He winks at her. She touches her hair at the back.
‘Come,’ she says when the people have passed. She takes him by the hand and leads him slowly up to the top. It’s almost dark upstairs.
‘Can I help you,’ a man asks.
‘Yes,’ says Mol.
‘Yes, our people are here already,’ says Pop.
‘Oh, yes,’ the young man says slowly, ‘I think I know where they’re sitting.’ He leads them down a passageway. Mol’s so nervous she starts giggling.
‘Here you are,’ he says.
Lambert and Treppie sit with their chins in their hands, listening to a waitress telling them the specials, all in a row: ‘… and our other special is the Spur Birthday Hamburger, which is two hundred and forty gram pure beef patties with the sauce of your choice in a bun sliced three ways. Then there’s the Special Spur Birthday Spare Ribs, which are—’
‘No thank you,’ says Pop.
‘Just pudding,’ says Mol.
‘Sweets,’ says Pop.
‘Suit yourself,’ says the girl, giving them a funny look.
‘It’s okay just to eat just pudding, isn’t it?’ asks Mol.
‘Then why’s she looking at us like that?’
‘Her arse,’ says Lambert, pulling the plastic card with pudding pictures out of its plastic holder.
‘Why did you let her start with her long story, then?’ asks Mol.
‘’Cause Lambert’s never heard it before,’ says Treppie.
‘We never get to hear it,’ says Lambert. He’s too busy looking at the pictures to see Treppie’s making fun of him. ‘And it sounds good: two hundred and forty gram pure beef patties with the sauce of your choice …’
‘That’s fuck-all too,’ says Treppie, showing with his hands how big the patties are. ‘These places are a rip-off.’
‘Are you two going to order?’ asks Pop. He motions to the waitress to come over. The night’s getting too long now. His hip’s hurting from the long climb up the stairs.
‘Apple pie with ice cream,’ Treppie says to the waitress.
‘A waffle with syrup and cream,’ says Lambert.
‘You should have ice cream, it’s not real cream,’ says Treppie.
’With ice cream and lots of syrup,’ says Lambert, leering at the waitress. She pretends not to hear him.
‘And some syrup for you too,’ he says. ‘You look to me a bit sour.’ Lambert’s smile gets even bigger.
‘Lambert!’ says Mol, kicking him under the table. She smiles at the waitress.
‘A cream-soda float for me,’ she says.
‘Sorry, ma’am, we don’t serve floats, ma’am.’
‘Ma’am,’ Treppie mimics her.
‘Just bring her a vanilla ice cream and a cream soda in a tin,’ says Pop. ‘And a glass and a spoon and a straw. And for me an Irish coffee,’ he adds. Maybe it’ll kill the pain a bit.
‘Make it two,’ says Lambert.
‘Greedy,’ Mol says to Lambert when the waitress goes. ‘You mustn’t start looking for shit here.’
‘Well, this place is also shit,’ says Lambert. ‘This lot here think they’re the who’s who. Just look at them checking us out. Fucken common rubbish!’
Treppie laughs.
‘Come now, my boy,’ says Pop.
When their order arrives, they eat quickly. Pop makes a float for Mol, but the cream soda and ice cream won’t all fit into Mol’s glass.
‘First finish this one, then we’ll make another,’ says Pop. ‘Then we get two for the price of one.’
Lambert finishes his waffle in four bites. He sucks at the Irish coffee.
‘A whisky mosquito pissed in here,’ he says. ‘We should’ve said double. Two mosquitoes. Pssst, pssst.’ He pretends he’s pressing two mosquitoes into the glass with his thumb and index finger.
Mol laughs.
‘Hell,’ says Treppie, ‘the Benades are really on top form tonight.’
A man in a suit comes walking up to them with a big smile on his face.
‘Just watch how they throw us out now, floats and all,’ says Treppie under his breath. Lambert growls, getting ready. He knows his rights. He hasn’t done anything wrong. They mustn’t come looking for trouble with him now.
‘Good evening, people,’ says the man, smiling from ear to ear.
‘Good evening,’ Lambert and Treppie mumble. They haven’t done anything wrong, but they look guilty. Still, no one must come and bug them now. They stare back at the man. All the people around them turn to look as well.
‘Who’s the host tonight?’ asks the man.
‘The what?’ asks Lambert.
‘Who’s paying?’ he asks.
‘Me,’ says Pop, ‘I’m paying.’
‘Well, sir …’
That’s the third time in one day somebody’s called him ‘sir’.
‘I have good news for you!’ the man says, smiling at the other people too.
‘It is my pleasure to announce that you are sitting at the lucky table tonight, the Spur’s lucky birthday table. Your bill is on the house tonight and here in this envelope I have six free meal-tickets worth fifty rand each for you and your family, accepted at any Spur restaurant right through the country and valid for the next six months. Give them a hand!’
He hands Pop an envelope.
And there the whole Spur starts clapping. The man winks at three waiters, who bring three huge bottles of champagne to the table. Corks pop, glasses are brought and the Benades get served before anyone else. Then all the other people also get some of the champagne. A girl in a tiny pair of hot-pants and Indian feathers on her head comes disco-dancing right here in front of them. She goes and sits on Lambert’s lap, proposing a toast to the Benades.
‘Hi, honey,’ she says.
‘I like your feathers,’ says Lambert. He touches the feather-stuff in the girl’s hair. ‘But your legs are cold!’
‘Check Lambert out, he thinks he’s in a movie,’ says Treppie, laughing.
‘In a See,’ says Mol. She takes a big sip of champagne.
‘Cut it out,’ says Pop. ‘Drink up, Lambert, we must go home now.’
‘With an Indian on his lap! I’m still going to wet myself here tonight,’ says Mol. ‘What shallow little glasses! Let’s use my float glass instead, it’s better.’ Mol grabs the champagne bottle and fills up the float glass. She takes a few more sips.
‘Mol, it’s not a cold drink,’ says Treppie, trying to stop her. But it’s too late.
The champagne’s doing its job. Pop can see her coming loose at the seams, from the champagne, from today and from all the days that came before. ‘I can float to England on this stuff,’ she says. She laughs loudly, wiping tears from her eyes.
‘Come,’ Treppie says to Pop, ‘let’s fuck off now, before Mol starts seeing more roses.’
‘Yes, that’s enough of a good thing,’ says Pop. ‘My leg’s hurting.’
Lambert’s rubbing his own legs. The girl’s gone. All you see of her are some feathers in the opposite corner, among a bunch of men.
‘Lambert,’ says Treppie, ‘you help Pop. Come, Mol!’ he says, pulling Mol out of the seat. She wipes her eyes with a serviette.
Pop struggles to get up. He limps all the way to the counter. Treppie goes with Mol to the car. Pop leans heavily on the counter. The noise of the cash register sounds like it’s coming through a thick cloud. That’s where Lambert finds him.
‘Hey, Pop, we don’t have to pay tonight, remember. Give me those other tickets so I can keep them for you.’
Pop just nods. He limps behind Lambert, who’s pulling him to the exit by his shirtsleeves. At the stairs, Lambert goes two steps down, pulls Pop closer, and then lifts him on to his back. Pop doesn’t resist. He feels like he’s rocking in a thick fog. He sags forward, right up against Lambert’s back. It’s a wide, fat back and it smells slightly sour. He feels how Lambert’s large, warm hands slide in under his bum to hold him up. He suddenly has no strength left, not even enough to hold on to Lambert.
‘Hell, Pop,’ says Lambert, ‘you feel like you’re nothing but air.’
The stairwell lights and the Indian heads pass by Pop’s head at strange angles. He closes his eyes. His ankles knock first against this side of the wall, then that side of the wall as Lambert carries him down the stairs. It feels like he’s going faster than he really is.
Pop pushes his head down a bit, into the space between Lambert’s shoulders. He feels like he’s slowly melting back into the place he came from, a place he doesn’t know any more.
Where does he end and Lambert begin? He doesn’t know. This morning’s feeling is back again. But not just in his shoulders. He can feel it everywhere. Outside, on the pavement, he feels it in the air too. Pure honey syrup. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Without stopping and without end.