Dear Lord, just look at her from all the stings. But now Pop’s rubbing Prep on her sore places, and that’s nice and cool. Mol’s sitting in her chair with her legs spread out in front of her. She’s holding Gerty on her lap. Gerty breathes heavily. The poor thing had the whole swarm on top of her and now her eyes have closed up from all the swelling. Mol can’t bear even to look at Gerty. Instead, she looks down at her legs where Pop’s busy rubbing on the Prep. Her legs got the worst of it. Her arms too, plus a few stings on her neck and two on her head, right on top. Right through her hair. Pop’s already done her head and her neck. He started on top, working his way down, but now she stinks of the stuff. Pop said he would first rub Lambert, ’cause Lambert got the worst of it, then her, and then Treppie last of all. But Lambert didn’t want any of it. And Treppie said no ointment in the world could make the Benades look or feel any better.
Treppie’s acting nasty ’cause Pop’s the only one who didn’t get stung. Pop was inside, and Treppie sprained his foot. That’s why he’s feeling so sorry for himself.
Pop must get a move on with his rubbing. Any minute now the pest-control people will be here. It’s Wednesday already, which means those two from the NP will also be coming. She’s really not in the mood for them today.
Even before Pop took them all to the hospital for injections, on Monday, he phoned the municipality. Since then, they’ve all just been sitting around in the house, looking at the bees outside.
It was a hellishly hot day, and Treppie spent too long working on the roof. That’s why it happened. Monday he decides today’s the day he’s going to fix everything Fort Knox broke on the roof. Just like Treppie to choose the hottest day for something like that. Then she had to run up and down fetching tools for him. And each time she walked to the den at the back, she saw the bees swarming around the vent, there near the foundation. But she didn’t say anything. She was too busy trying to keep her head straight so she could remember what Treppie was asking her to bring.
It took hours. First Treppie cut the broken overflow pipe straight with a hacksaw and then he fixed it on to another pipe with glue, taping the whole thing up as well. He splinted the TV-aerial with a piece of iron and knocked it back into the roof. And all this time she had to pass all kinds of things to him up there on the roof. She had to climb halfway up the ladder each time. Up and down, up and down. After a while it felt like she was going to pass out, she was so tired. Lambert didn’t even lift a finger. He just stood there on the stoep, screwing up his eyes. He felt dizzy, he said. But he wasn’t too dizzy to chip in all the time.
Those joints Treppie was making, he shouted from the stoep, wouldn’t stand the first strong wind. In that case, Treppie shouted back, Lambert would have to fix them, ’cause there was practically nothing those two hands of his couldn’t do, or was he imagining things again? And then he winked at Lambert.
Treppie drives Lambert mad just by the way he says things. All Monday morning, up there on the roof, Treppie peppered him. Lambert, he said, was standing there on the stoep just like a shift boss. So now, he said, what did the Inspector of Works think about this or that? And if Lambert wanted to peep at the people next door, he shouted, then he should get on to the roof right from the start. With his welding helmet on so he could look through the sparks, ’cause from where Treppie was standing he could see right into Fort Knox’s main bedroom. No one was there now, but he could see more than enough evidence of ‘burning passion’. That was when Treppie began to play the fool, hugging himself up there in the hot sun. He was grabbing and touching himself something terrible. All you saw were those claws of his, groping himself around the shoulders. He began to sing ‘Oh oh oh what a night!’ Loudly, up into the sky. For all the world to see.
At first, Lambert didn’t catch on it was Treppie who was working on his nerves so much. He thought the bees must be making him feel so mad. By then the bees had come out of their hole. They were flying round the house like bomber planes. Must’ve been worked up from all the commotion and the welding’s white light.
Fucken bee, Lambert kept saying. He picked up the steel Treppie was clearing off the roof, and then he chucked it down again. Lambert was still slapping at the bees when he suddenly dropped everything. He grabbed the yellow bucket she was using to clean scrap iron for Treppie, and then he took it with him to the tap. ‘Fucken bastards! Now I’m going to drown the whole fucken lot of you. Buzzing round my blarry head all the time!’
He limped off with his sore foot to go fill the bucket with water.
‘Ag, don’t be so spiteful, man,’ Treppie shouted. ‘They must think you’re God’s own double sunflower, with those crooked saucer-eyes of yours.’
But Lambert was already on the other side of the house. He was making for the air-vent in the foundation. The next thing she and Treppie saw him sprinting round the side of the house, with Gerty on his heels, his mouth opening and closing. The bees were clogged in a black swarm around his head. His face was white and he was running hell for leather with that big lumbering body of his, sore foot and all.
Treppie, meanwhile, was running in circles on the roof, trying to keep track of Lambert as he ran around the house. Then she also took off after him. As she ran, she pulled off her pink housecoat and dragged it under the tap, which Lambert had left running, so she could throw it over Lambert’s head. But Lambert was shouting and swinging his arms like a windmill. And each time she and Gerty passed a window on their way round the house, she saw Pop’s face trying to keep up with the goings-on outside.
‘Stay inside, Pop!’ she shouted. ‘Keep Toby in!’
‘Don’t come out, Pop!’ Treppie shouted, but he was laughing so much he could hardly talk. ‘It looks like Kyalami out here. Old Lambert’s doing laps! Bzzz! Bzzz!’
The more she shouted that Treppie must get off the roof to come and help her, the less he seemed to hear.
All she could see in front of her was Lambert’s back, twisting and turning as he ran with the bees, who were bunched in swarms around his shoulders. Every now and again he managed to get a sound out, a kind of low growl she’d never heard coming out of his mouth before.
‘Ow-whoo, ow-whoo!’ Gerty cried as the bees stung her.
‘Oo-ooo! Hee-hee-hee-hee,’ Treppie laughed from the roof. ‘Lambert, it’s not a merry-go-round, man, change direction. Other side! Hee-hee! I’m going to piss myself here!’
Treppie was still laughing like that when his foot slipped and he began to slide down the roof on his backside. He turned on to his stomach as he tried to find something to grab on to. He wanted to break the fall by wedging his foot in the gutter, but the gutter wasn’t there any more, and he fell, ‘boof!’ right on to the ground. He landed in the molehills, thumping red dust up into the air.
And there he sat, clutching his foot, unable to get up again. ‘My fucken foot’s broken!’ he said.
It was actually his ankle. Sprained.
At that moment, Lambert came running another lap around the corner. He knocked himself silly over Treppie, who was still sitting there. Then she came up behind Lambert and fell over the two of them. And there they lay in a heap. And the bees came straight for the heap.
She was wiping bunches of those bees off Lambert’s back with her bare hands. She took him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up. Then she grabbed Treppie and pulled him closer too. And she dragged Gerty by her neck into the middle of the heap. She waved the wet housecoat around in the air to open it up, throwing it over the lot of them with one swoop. As they sat there, they could feel the bees walking over their heads on top of her housecoat. Every now and again a bee would sting right through the material. Lambert was moaning and groaning. Treppie kept saying: ‘My foot, my poor fucken foot!’
She told them they must sit very still now, ’cause she remembered what Lambert had read in Beeld about the mad bees in Pretoria. Nowadays Lambert also wants to read newspapers like Treppie, but he says he doesn’t read old news or Jew’s news. There in Pretoria, he read, the bees swarmed under the foundations at the Union Buildings. The only time they came out was to sting people. Lambert said those bees could kill you with their stings. After fifty stings, your throat began to close. After seventy your heart went lame. And if you got two hundred stings, you were brain-dead. Nothing to be done about it but be a vegetable for the rest of your life. The whole Union Buildings were apparently full of brain-dead people. On every floor. Ministers, deputy ministers, typists, tea boys, the lot. Treppie said Beeld was talking crap. Lambert liked reading Beeld but Treppie said Beeld was a fucken joke. Still, the next day Treppie read them the same story in the Star. Only this time the ministers didn’t go brain-dead when they were stung, they got like that the day they were sworn in. Yes, said Treppie, that wasn’t such a bad insight for a paper like the Star. Just look at how Pik Botha’s head was sunk into his shoulders. That’s ’cause his brain was dead. A dead brain, said Treppie, was heavy. Like a ball of lead. That’s why Pik Botha’s head looked the way it did. The same went for old Magnus Mauser. His lower jaw bulged out so much ’cause his brain had collapsed, pressing everything else down as well. No wonder he became minister of bushes. And now he was minister of nothing.
Pop told Treppie he had no respect for the government, no matter whether they were dead or alive or brain-dead.
But now she realised they must make smoke under the bees. Lambert had read something about smoking out bees. They’d called the fire brigade to come make smoke at the Union Buildings. Smoke calms bees down.
She took Treppie’s John Rolfes and his matches out from under the little flap of his pocket, sticking three cigarettes into her mouth. Then she lit them with one match and handed them out.
And there they sat, smoking like crazy under her housecoat.
That’s why FW de Klerk smoked like a chimney, she said, trying to calm them down. Also John Rolfes. It kept the bees in the Union Buildings away from his bald head. Treppie and Lambert were sitting still, but they screamed like pigs every time a bee stung them. She was the only strong one. She must say, she really had the whip-hand that day. Thank God she remembered everything Lambert had read from the paper. About FW who smoked so much and his wife’s face-lift, to take away the frown between her eyes.
Marike was the one who said, at the garden tea-party after her operation, that no woman could be a campaigner for peace with a frown on her face. Lambert showed her the pictures of Marike. She couldn’t see any scars. There was a big water fountain in the middle of the garden with pink ice-cubes and watermelon slices. In trays that looked like shells.
The Jehovahs say it too. They say the end is near and we should approach it with the name of God sealed in our foreheads. Then there’s no space left for a frown.
Sitting still and smoking like that made the bees nice and calm again.
Then she said they must get up slowly with the housecoat still over their heads, walk carefully up to the front door, and shout to Pop that he must have the Doom ready.
But Pop opened the door even before they began to shout. He sprayed Doom straight at their heads, especially Gerty, who was crawling with bees.
Mol looks at Gerty on her lap. Shame, the poor thing. It’s a wonder the stings didn’t kill her. Can’t see a thing. And breathing so heavily. Mol can’t bear to look at her. She looks out of the window instead.
Two bakkies from the municipality and a white lorry stop outside the house. She points. Everyone comes to look. They watch as the pestremovers unload their equipment. They’ve got silver rods with funnels in front. It’s a smoke machine, says Pop. He says they should take their drinks and go see what the people are doing outside. But she says the rest of them should go, she’s not feeling so well. She’s had quite enough of bees, thank you. First go lie down a little. With Gerty.
Mol wakes up. There’s a knocking noise against the wall, right next to her head. She gets up with Gerty in her arms to look out the window. No wonder. They’re busy knocking a hole in the foundation. As soon as they finish knocking a little, they stand back, pick up the shiny thing with the funnel and stick it into the hole. The air’s full of foul smoke. She closes the window. No wait, she may as well go look outside. She sees Pop and them through the smoke. Pop’s looking tired. Treppie’s standing on one leg. He’s leaning on Pop’s shoulder. Lord, just look at that Lambert. His face is so swollen he can hardly see out of his eyes. But he’s talking and making big waving movements with his hands. Lambert loves gadgets and things, and he fancies the people who work with them too. He also likes drinking Klipdrift with everyone. The three of them stand there with glasses in their hands. She sees the half-tray with the bottle and the Coke on the grass. Not such a bad idea.
She walks towards the lounge. She’s almost at the end of the passage when the sound of people talking stops her in her tracks. Just in time, too. Who’s this inside their house now? She steals a look around the corner. One is sitting in her chair, and the other’s in Pop’s chair. They’re shuffling their papers. Piles of pamphlets lie on the floor in front of them. It’s the NPs.
‘How much longer must we sit and wait here like this, Jannie?’ It’s the girly. She’s wearing one of her dresses again, but this time there aren’t any straps. The dress is cut low in front. It looks like it’s about to fall off her shoulders. Why’re they sitting there now? And how’s she supposed to get past them? Those two make her feel funny.
The man looks at his watch. ‘They said they were coming just now. Give them ten minutes or so,’ he says.
‘The people in this house are scum. They make me sick in my stomach,’ she says.
Maybe she should go out through the kitchen. But what was that about sick in the stomach? She goes back. She knows you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. But she didn’t invite these two into her house. And what right do they have to sit in her and Pop’s chairs, saying things about them?
‘Where do you think the old bag is today, Jannie?’ the girl asks.
‘God only knows, Annemarie. Must be lying in the back here somewhere. Befucked. Bee-fucked!’ He laughs.
‘Sis, Jannie! You shouldn’t make fun of illness.’
She slaps him playfully on the knee. He catches her hand and pulls her towards him. They kiss. Can you believe it? The girl pulls away.
‘Hey, behave yourself, man! This place gives me the creeps.’ She pulls her dress straight, looking around her with a fed-up expression.
Mol leans back against the passage wall. She feels funny. She wishes she had something to throw. Sit and smooch here in their lounge! Let her just get out of here and tell Treppie what they’ve been saying. Scum! Hmph. He’ll fix them up. In no time at all. She can’t believe it, but the thought of Treppie gives her courage. She must listen carefully what these two buggers say about them. Nobody can insult people better than Treppie. And this time she’ll help him. ’Strue’s God. Old bag, hmph! Befucked! Their bladdy arses!
‘I don’t know why we still canvass this lot. They’re rotten, worse than …’
The man holds up his finger. ‘Hang on, Doll, count your words. These people are the voting public. Every NP vote is worth its weight in gold.’
‘Yes, but not the votes of backvelders like this lot. What are they good for, anyway?’
‘You must try to think strategically, my angel. We don’t have time for emotions or for whims and fancies. The main issue is to keep having a say in what happens, and if we can do that with the votes of this lot, then it’s a say no less. You heard what the chief whip said. The issue is language and culture. No more and no less.’
‘Ja, but what kind of culture will you find on this property? All I see here is brandy and Coke and crock cars.’
‘Ag no, come now, Doll, try to think less emotionally. Think laterally, as Prof. Joubert says. What will become of us if there’s no longer an Afrikaans-medium university in this country? You and I want to become academics one day, right? So we can fight for Afrikaans in the courts and everything. This is one of the few chances we still have left.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘No more buts, you must keep a sense of perspective here. These people are our foot-soldiers in the election. They’re right at the bottom of the ladder and they feel threatened. They’ll buy anything we tell them.’
‘Yes, but they’re the kind who’ll vote for the far right. That’s if they bother to vote at all. That idiot with the high backside, you want to tell me he can read and write?’
‘You’ll be surprised. Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ the chappy says. Mol smiles. They’ll be very surprised, both of them will be very, very surprised.
‘And the far right’s looking for militants. They can’t afford a bunch of inbred drunks. They want war. And we want peace, don’t we, peace and a say in how we’re governed?’
‘It doesn’t sound right to me, Jannie. It’s not honest, man. Let’s rather leave them alone. Let them work out their own destiny.’
‘Ag no, Annemarietjie, what’s wrong with you now? You heard what FW said. Election politics is not for sissies. Get a grip on yourself. There’s always a light at the end of the wagon-trek, remember.’
The man doesn’t really look like he’s ready for wagons. He looks like he wants to fuck. He pouts at the girl. They start smooching again.
There’s a knock at the front door. Slowly, someone pushes open the door. The NPs are so busy kissing they don’t even see. Only she sees.
She sees an astronaut in a white costume with a high, white screen on his head. He’s wearing thick gloves and white rubber boots with thick soles. The astronaut comes towards her with wide-open legs. There’s too much stuffing in his pants. ‘Rickatick’ go the blocks under his feet.
‘Dear Lord!’ She almost drops Gerty.
The astronaut signals to her she mustn’t be afraid. He talks in a dull voice behind his helmet. He says his name is Van Zyl. He’s come to fetch the bees and he needs a bucket. Maybe there’s honey. He relocates bees, he says. He lives just around the corner, in Meyer Street. Works with Pest Control. But, he says, for him bees are not pests, they’re a source of extra income. He says he’s sorry if he’s inconveniencing her. He calls her madam. Does she have a plastic bucket or something like that for him? Then he says good evening to the NPs in the lounge. They’re standing around now, looking all embarrassed. ‘Good evening, madam,’ they say to her.
‘Good evening, yourself,’ she says. To the bee-catcher, she says, no, fine, she’ll go fetch a bucket. She addresses him as sir, but she looks down her nose at the NPs.
Mol fetches a bucket in the kitchen. She takes it round the back for Van Zyl. ‘Thank you very much,’ he says. There’s a big, white hive next to the hole in the wall. She puts Gerty down at her feet. Then she takes Pop’s glass out of his hand and swallows it in one gulp. He must fill the glass again, she says. Pop gives her a funny look. Fill up, she says. She’s on the warpath. The NPs have come round the front.
She looks hard at the NP chappy. She looks at him so hard he starts talking about the weather.
‘Not a cloud in the sky,’ he says, looking up. Little twat thinks he can act like an angel here in front of her. But Treppie’s there, in a flash. She doesn’t even have to say anything.
‘Good weather for bees,’ says Treppie. ‘You must watch out, those are New South Africa bees in that hole.’
‘Foot-soldiers,’ says Mol. She sees the girly shoot a look at the man. Ja, a bit of their own medicine.
The man keeps a straight face. ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘Do you know much about the, er, social habits of bees?’
Treppie laughs. ‘Well, they don’t have a president.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘they get quite dizzy from the smoke, the scum, then they relax completely and pull in their stings. Like aerials, bzzt, just from a little smoke.’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Treppie. He puts his arm around her. ‘My sister is the queen bee around here. She should know, she thinks FW smokes too much. Ask my nephew, and his mother, both of them are bee specialists.’
‘Befucked,’ she says, ‘but not brain-dead. We can still read and write and all.’
Lambert laughs.
‘Mol!’ says Pop. He takes back his glass. He signals her to go slowly now. She signals back he must leave her alone. She knows what she’s doing here. ‘Just the little dog, she’s suffering the most, but it’s from the Doom.’
‘Doom?’ The girly looks frightened.
Treppie rubs it in. ‘Yes, Miss. Doomsday blues. We’ve all got it, but the dog’s got it the worst. Coughs terribly all night.’
She holds Gerty up so everyone can see. ‘Yes, shame. Yes, this is my poor little dog, and I say to you, the great day of the Lord is near, and hasteth greatly. The mighty man shall cry there bitterly. Definitely not for sissies.’
‘Jeez, Ma. Are you drunk or something?’ Lambert can’t believe his ears. Pop looks the other way. Treppie wants to kill himself laughing. He’s playing along nicely now. He takes Pop’s glass and pours her another shot.
Ja, he says, he doesn’t know about the NP, but the Benades will enter the portals of heaven with the name of God written on their foreheads. Sorry, he means spray-painted, it’s more resistant to the thin air in heaven.
‘And without any frowns,’ she says, ‘just like FW’s wife, she’s the one who says you can’t fight for peace with a frown on your face.’
‘That’s it, Mol, give it to them. Give it to them!’
Right. Then she’ll let them have it.
‘Otherwise we won’t be suitable for the New South Africa, or for heaven. No culture on this property, just waste material.’
She draws deeply on her cigarette. She feels full of words. Full of mischief. ‘We just want peace, peace and quiet and a say in what happens in the country. And free smoke.’ She blows a mouthful of smoke right into the chappy’s face. He takes a step back. He looks at the girly.
Now Lambert also smells blood. Let him. These two want to go and say ugly things about him.
‘You two,’ Lambert says, ‘are you two also easy targets? For the bees, um, and the birds?’ He winks.
‘Lambert!’ says Pop.
‘Never mind, Pop,’ she says. ‘He means are they going to target the Union Buildings in a hurry, or the university. Those kind of people know lots about the birds and the bees, but after two hundred stings their brains sink like balls of lead. Then they think they can talk any old shit and people will buy anything they say.’
‘Come now, you lot!’ Pop nudges them. He says they must all go inside and pour another drink, so they can hear what the NPs have to say. The NPs also have a job to do, and it’s getting late now.
‘Why’s that Van Zyl lying there so quietly?’ She wants to know. She doesn’t want Van Zyl to get hurt here in their yard. He looks like a decent man to her.
‘Don’t worry, Mol, he’s talking to the bees. You have to negotiate with bees before they let you touch them.’ It’s Treppie. He slaps the NP chappy so hard on his blazer that he hiccups as they walk in through the front door.
‘Look,’ says Blazer once they’re back inside and the drinks have been poured and they’re all sitting down, ‘for us this election is about spiritual matters, about the higher things.’
‘Higher honey,’ says Treppie.
‘Higher than what?’ she asks. Tonight she’s not taking off her housecoat. Not for them. Not a damn. She puts Gerty on her lap. And she won’t close her legs for them, either. Their backsides.
‘Higher than the basics,’ says Treppie.
‘Exactly,’ says the chappy. ‘The higher things. Preserving the higher things, and having a say over them. Our language and our culture, for our children and for their children. It’s one of the most important minority rights.’
‘Why minor?’ she asks.
‘Minor as opposed to major, like in majority,’ says the girly.
‘Who’s the majority then?’ she asks.
‘Well, madam, er, our, er, other countrymen, who’re in the majority.’
‘Other? What do you mean other?’
Lambert steps in.
‘Ma, they’re talking about the bantus. The natives, the plurals, the kaffirs. The darkies. The munts.’
‘Like Nelson Mandela, Mol,’ says Treppie.
‘Ohh!’ Now she catches on. ‘That old tatta who wears such nice shirts and a cap? He looks quite jolly to me. And Tutu! Jaaa! Now that one’s really jolly.’
She throws her arms up into the air, the way Tutu did it once, from a pulpit on a soccer field. ‘We shall be free, all of us, together!’ she shouts.
‘Yes, madam, that might be what they say, but the blacks are fighting for basics. For food and houses and work and schools.’
‘Mol,’ says Treppie, ‘let’s rather put it this way.’ He puts on his preacher’s voice. ‘Us whites, we must vote for roses. We already have a house, and wheels, and bread.’
‘And polony.’
‘That’s right, madam,’ says the girly, ‘and polony, but we must insist on the right to have roses too.’
‘Constitutionally guaranteed under a new government,’ says Blazer.
‘Our right to the finer things in life,’ says Annemarie.
‘In other words, the right to our culture,’ says Jannie. He brings his fingertips together and rubs them softly against each other, as if he’s touching something soft.
‘Culture for the backvelders – Klipdrift and Coke and crock cars.’
‘Ja, that’s it, Mol,’ says Treppie. He laughs and winks at her. Now she’s really on a roll. ‘But you two are supposed to be educated, so tell us a little what culture really means.’
‘Well,’ Little Blazer says, looking at Girly, ‘how did Prof. van Rensburg put it, culture is the, er, complex product of a creative, er, socially determined grasp of nature, er, such as historically determined by a language and a religious community.’
‘Jeeesus!’ says Treppie. ‘Just watch how I determine this Coke by grasping the Klipdrift, old buddy!’ He pours from both bottles into Blazer’s glass at the same time.
‘What?’ says Mol, sitting upright.
Close your legs, Lambert signals to her.
‘Let me put it this way, ma’am,’ says Girly, looking at Jannie with big eyes. ‘All he means is this: culture is looking after your own garden, yourself.’
‘Your rose garden,’ says Treppie quickly, ‘your right to culture is the right to make your own rose garden. Yes, that’s it, to make your own corsage just the way you want to.’
‘You and your own cultural group.’ Blazer’s pointing his finger at Treppie. He’d better take that finger away, quickly. But it’s too late.
‘Puke!’ says Treppie.
‘Excuse me?’ says Girly.
‘I said puke-group, you and your own puke-group.’ Treppie’s eyes are glittering. He’s talking softly.
‘Treppie, I’m going to smack you,’ says Lambert.
‘Just you shuddup for now, old nephew!’ says Treppie, shaking a long finger in front of Lambert’s nose like he’s a naughty dog or something. Treppie turns back towards the two NPs.
‘It was about a month before we became a republic. Two little NP men came to visit here one day. Remember, Mol, you were visiting the school principal about Lambert’s bad schoolwork. We received a letter about the matter.’
Treppie pretends he’s taking a letter out of an envelope. He unfolds it.
She remembers. It was in terribly learned Afrikaans, and when they read it, Treppie had to explain almost every word. About how she must please come for an ‘audience’ with the principal, ’cause Lambert didn’t want to do his work. And how he smelt bad, and how he was ‘indecent’ with little schoolgirls. And how important every single child was, and how the principal felt he could make a diamond from even this piece of coal. Then Treppie said Triomf should have been named after that principal, ’cause anyone who thought a school was like a mine must also think bulldozing kaffir rubbish was some kind of great victory.
Treppie pretends he’s at the end of the letter. He signs the school principal’s name with large, frilly letters in the air. ‘Doctor Hans van den Berg,’ he says slowly, as he signs. ‘Bee-Ay-Em-Ed-Pee-Aitch-Dee,’ he reads.
Treppie indicates that he wants the NPs to clap hands for the principal’s letter. They must cheer, he signals. He waits. No one claps. The NP chappy just smiles, shaking his head.
Only Lambert gets up. He looks like he wants to start smashing people around. Treppie must block him, otherwise there’s going to be trouble here again.
‘But he turned out fine, old Lambert. Just look at him. All ship-shape.’ Treppie sniffs in Lambert’s direction. ‘Always clean-shaven. Hair always neatly combed. Poor but clean, as befits an Afrikaner. And he never swears. Terribly civil to his uncle and his father, and especially to his mother. When the need becomes too much to bear – Lambert here’s a bachelor, remember – then he does push-ups on the lawn. Push-ups! Forty at a time. Does he ever touch himself? Never. That Dr Hans fixed him up very nicely.’
Treppie slowly pushes Lambert back on to his crate. ‘Come, Lambert, sit down so I can finish my story. I take it you still want to hear the story?’ He looks at the visitors. Cutesy-Collarbones nods her head half-heartedly. She looks like she’s scared of Treppie. Blazer’s perched on the edge of Pop’s chair. Pop’s sitting on a crate with his head in his hands. Mol rubs Gerty between the ears. Let Treppie stir the pot here. He’s the best one to do it.
‘So, then those two snotnoses came here that afternoon. They were about as old as you two. Nice and wet behind the ears. Nats! Two little chappies in suits and waistcoats. The one had a little Hitler-moustache. They came round the back, where we were fixing fridges. And guess what they saw first? They saw the roses that Mol was going to sell that night. And guess what they said? They said how nice it was that the finer things in life were also getting some attention, here among the Afrikaans working classes.’
Treppie looks hard at the NPs.
‘Ja, they said, didn’t we want to make a contribution to Republic Day. Something like corsages, they thought. For wearing at the Republic Day festival at the Voortrekker Monument. That, they said, would be a cultural act of great distinction. I had to stop myself from kicking those two bullshitters right off the property. Those two schemers knew nothing about fucken anything.’
‘That’s it, Treppie, let them have it!’
‘They knew fuck-all about fuck-all, but they wanted to come and tell us about the finer things. Us with our hands full of rose thorns and fridge oil. With our grandfather who lost his land in the depression and our mother who coughed herself to death from TB. And our father who hanged himself by the neck in a Railways truck. They knew nothing at all about the meaning of misery.’
‘Hey, Treppie.’ Pop lifts his head. ‘Leave it now. Just leave it right there, man.’
‘Leave it? Just fucken leave it? Not a damn, Pop! When I do something, I do it properly.’
‘Chief whip!’
‘That’s it, Mol, tell them. If they can’t see it for themselves, tell them Treppie’s the chief whip here at the Benades’!’
The girly looks at the chappy. Then Treppie goes ‘ka-thack’ in the air as if he’s cracking a whip. The girly’s head jerks, she gets such a fright.
‘So, we learnt to know your sort very well.’ He points at the NPs. ‘We were still young then, but we remember.’
‘There’s always a light at the end of the wagon-trek!’
‘That’s it, Mol,’ says Treppie. ‘That’s it,’ he says, winking at her.
‘It was the same bladdy story in ’38, and again in ’48.’ He puts on his speech voice. ‘There’s always a light at the end of the wagon-trek. They never said there’s a gun or bread or a factory or a trading licence there at the front of the wagon. No, always a fucken light, a column of fire, a Spirit, a Higher Idea, an Ideal of fucken Unity or something. And that’s ’cause we’re all supposed to be from the same culture. What kind of a fucken thing is that, I ask you, with tears in my light blue, poor-white eyes?’
‘Wait, wait a minute now, Mister Benade!’ The girly looks like she wants to stop Treppie with her hands. But there’s no stopping Treppie.
‘Don’t come and Mister Benade me! If you think you can come here and sell us a wagonload of shit …’
‘Well, then, in that case we’ll be on our way …’ and the girly half gets up.
‘Oh no,’ says Treppie. He gets up quickly, closing the front door. ‘You’re here now. And you’ll stay to the very end. Here with us, with our roof above our heads and the bees under our backsides!’ He turns the key in the door’s lock. Then he puts the key in his pocket.
Dear God, now he’s going too far. Now there’s going to be trouble again. Let her rather go outside. Around the back.
Treppie’s eyes are shining. ‘No, Mol, wait now. Don’t be such poor company. Who wants another shot?’ He pours for everyone. For her too. Ja well, matters will just have to take their own course. The NPs shake their heads and cover their glasses with their hands. No thank you, they say. They’re actually not allowed to drink on the job. Treppie fills Lambert’s glass to the brim.
‘Come, Lambert. Why don’t you and your mother tell the story of how we became a republic. About how many hundreds of rand we made, in straight profit, just from an idea.’ Treppie dances a few steps. ‘Just look how jolly we are tonight! If Pop still had some breath left, we could have some music too. What you say, Pop? Where’s your mouth organ?’ Treppie slaps Pop hard on his back.
‘Leave Pop alone. Just leave him alone.’
‘It’s you who should have left him alone, Mol. Look what we’ve got now from not leaving him alone. One fucked-up Fuchs and one total write-off of a Tedelex. And a pot of burnt-out Benades!’
‘It’s from not having enough volts!’ says Mol. Yes, that’s what they want to hear, so let them.
The NPs laugh nervously. Lambert also laughs a half-laugh. Pop lifts his head and smiles a little smile. Did Mol really say something funny?
‘Hey!’ says Treppie to the NPs, pretending to be serious. ‘There’s nothing funny about it. You can’t help it if your lantern’s a bit weak. Then all you’re good for is to be a mascot. Come, Mol, tell them a bit about me and Lambert. How we walked around at the monument with white eyes, foaming at the mouth, like this!’
Treppie shows them exactly how, in the middle of the room.
‘Come, Lambert, come stand here next to me, then we’ll show our guests how we did it. They’ve fuckenwell seen nothing yet. Come, come, man,’ he says to Lambert, pulling him up. ‘Don’t be so upstairs. Show them!’
Lambert gets up slowly and stands next to Treppie. Treppie pulls at Lambert’s face until he looks mad enough.
‘The HF Verwoerd Institute for the Mentally Retarded.’ Mol says. She gets up. Right. Now she’s going to play along too.
Treppie writes the words on his chest, fast and wild, with his index finger.
She picks up the half-tray, pulling the plastic rose from the cat’s neck. Treppie and Lambert start shouting: ‘Corsages, corsages for the baby republic!’ They walk over to Pop’s side, pulling her after them.
‘Mister,’ says Treppie, with a thick tongue. He lets the spit run from the corners of his mouth. ‘Mister, check here quickly.’
‘National colours!’ Lambert shouts in Pop’s ear.
‘Mother, sister and brothers!’ Treppie shouts in Pop’s other ear, rolling his eyes to heaven.
Pop sits dead still with his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up. She wants to keep them away from Pop. Can’t they see he doesn’t want to play? ‘Hey, come here, you two. That customer’s deaf,’ she says, ‘come let’s try these two.’
‘Just check these larnies, I say.’ It’s Lambert. He lets his mouth slop open. Slaver runs down his chin. ‘They must have a lot of fucken money.’
‘No,’ says Treppie through the spit, ‘money doesn’t count here. Not if you’re a Nationalist to the quick, with your heart in the right place and your hand ready for the golden handshake, give or take.’
‘Now listen here,’ says Blazer, ‘we won’t allow ourselves to be pushed around.’
‘So fussy!’ she says, pulling her nose up.
Treppie pats her on the back. ‘Yes, spoilsports,’ he says with his mad face.
‘Come, Jannie. Come, let’s go now.’ The girly sounds like she’s choking.
‘First buy a rose, missie, it’s only plastic but it’ll last forever ’cause it stands for an Idea!’
‘Hey, Treppie.’ Lambert comes waggling up to him. ‘Where will she pin it up? She’s half-naked anyway.’ Then Lambert pretends he’s trying to find somewhere on her shoulder to pin the flower.
‘Don’t you dare lay a hand on her,’ says Jannie. They’re both standing now. Jannie puts his arm around Cutesy-Collarbones.
‘But she must first buy our rose,’ Mol says, shoving the plastic rose into Blazer’s face. ‘It’s a yellow rose, but it’s better than nothing. The new flag’s got at least one yellow stripe in it.’
‘No, dammit,’ says Jannie. ‘I’ve had enough now.’ He opens his leather wallet. He presses a fifty-rand note into her palm.
‘Gee, sorry, sir, but now I don’t have any change on me,’ she says, pretending to feel for change in her housecoat pocket.
‘Yippeeee!’ shouts Treppie. He grabs the fifty-rand note and jumps up and down with Lambert on the blocks. ‘Click-click!’ they go.
‘Afrikaners like parties, no doubt about that,’ they sing, with mad faces.
Treppie suddenly comes to a dead-stop. He pulls his clothes straight with furious little plucks. All of a sudden he’s dead serious.
‘Fix your face,’ he says to Lambert. Lambert does as he’s told. Treppie shoves the money into Lambert’s shirt-pocket. He slaps the pocket.
‘See how easy it is?’ he says. ‘That’s how a person makes money from talking a lot of crap.’
‘We made hundreds of rand profit that night,’ says Lambert.
‘Inbetween the speeches. It was lots of fun. Very jolly!’ Mol nods her head up and down.
‘And if you want to see some more sports, then you must come again some other night. But you’ve seen enough for one day, not so?’ says Treppie. He unlocks the door.
‘Treppie, give them back their money.’ It’s Pop. Treppie pretends he didn’t hear.
He opens the door. He makes a deep bow. Then he waves them out as if they’re bits of fluff. Strangely enough, Van Zyl is standing out there on the little stoep, still in his helmet. There’re a few bees on the net over his face.
Dammit, there she’s gone and let this man give her a fright again. Where’s Gerty?
‘Not to worry,’ says the bee-catcher, ‘they’re nice and tame from the smoke, madam. We’ve got the queen. Now we’re taking the swarm away. You must just close up that hole, otherwise they’ll come back. There was lots of honey.’
He hands over the yellow bucket. ‘I washed it out nicely at the tap first,’ he says. ‘I’ll say goodbye then. All the best, folks,’ he says, waving a white glove behind him.
When he goes, they all look into the yellow bucket under the stoep-light. It’s half-full of wax-pieces. A few larvae stir in the honey.
‘I’m not eating any of that,’ says Lambert.
‘Let them take it,’ says Treppie, ‘then at least they’ll have something for all their trouble.’
‘And their fifty rand!’ says Lambert, laughing.
‘Thanks very much, but no thanks,’ says the girly.
‘Sights. They’re full of sights!’
The girly looks at her with big eyes. Good, good. She’s the one who wanted to come here and say nasty things about them in their own house. She pulls Blazer by his sleeve to the front gate. He still wants to turn around and say goodbye.
‘Come, missie, don’t be so high and mighty. There’s strength in the sweetness. You might still need it!’ Treppie shouts at their backs, but they’re already in their car. It’s pasted full of I love FW bumper stickers. Then they step on the gas, down Martha Street.
‘The last of the great pretenders,’ says Treppie. Pop says they must bring the bucket into the kitchen. He wants to work the honey. He tells her she must collect some bottles from under the sink. From those days when Lambert wouldn’t eat anything but pickled onions.
They work until late. Pop piles up the pieces of wax on a tin inside the bucket, so the honey can run out nicely. Meanwhile, she washes the bottles in boiling water to get rid of the onion taste.
She washes those bottles over and over. Pop smells every bottle carefully before filling them with honey. After a while they’ve got twelve bottles. Enough for a whole year, says Pop. He’s so tired of golden syrup.
At eleven they’re finished. She cuts two pieces of bread for everyone and spreads them nice and thick with Sunshine D and honey. Then she makes coffee.
It tastes good.
‘Mmm,’ says Lambert. ‘Tastes a bit wild.’
Ja, says Pop, it does. He just wonders what could be so wild, here in Triomf. Tastes almost like khaki-bush, or no, like flowers, the kind that grow on the island in the road, there next to Shoprite.
‘Afrikaners,’ says Treppie. ‘Stinkafrikaners.’