Not her, God no, she’s staying right here where she is. All she can see now is Treppie and Toby and how they’re staring at Lambert. She can’t see Lambert. He must be sleeping.
Earlier, Treppie picked up a whole bag of beer tins and a Klipdrift bottle outside the den. Judging by the damage, he says now, it looks like more than just a hangover that Lambert’s sleeping off here. It looks like Lambert’s sleeping from pure despair, the kind of despair that comes from one thing and one thing only: not enough blood to the balls.
Couldn’t get it up.
Well, then, maybe that Mary was very lucky here last night, and, if you ask her, that kind of luck is worth the price of a shoe.
It’s them who’ll have to pay the price. The first thing they found was the postbox on the lounge floor. Shame, and Pop fixed it up so nicely for Lambert, painting it and everything. The paint must’ve still been wet ’cause there’s a blue smudge right in the middle of Jo’burg. What’s more, the whole house had been turned upside down.
That pelmet was so bent and twisted, Treppie said even the devil in hell wouldn’t be able to panelbeat it again. And her mirror, the one Pop specially put up in the bathroom yesterday afternoon, was in a thousand pieces all over the bath. And there were loose blocks everywhere, from the passage. It looked like they’d been dug out in big patches with a spade.
Pop pushes her from behind. They must either go in or go out, he motions, but he’s not planning to spend the whole day standing here in the doorway. Let them see what’s what and be done with it. He’s tired.
Just one step, so Pop can also see. Glass wherever you put your foot down. And a thick line of vomit on the floor. ‘Sis!’ Toby sniffs it. ‘Yuk!’
Pop must go fetch some newspapers in his room, Treppie says. Then they can use dry vomit to cover up the wet vomit.
‘God help us,’ Pop says. She watches him as he walks down the passage. It’ll be a miracle if Pop survives this day. Well, she’s stronger, let her take the lead here instead.
Treppie spins the little shoe on his finger like he’s doing a circus trick, spinning a plate on a stick. Just look what they found on the front lawn, he says. If they look long enough for her other parts they might even be able to reassemble the Creole Queen before the end of the day — is that what Lambert understands by value for money.
Lambert doesn’t hear a thing. He’s lying on his stomach in his shirt and his red underpants. The underpants reach only halfway up his backside.
Come, sing along, Treppie says.
‘Wake up, wake up, it’s a lovely day!’ Treppie sings. ‘Oh please, get up and come and play!’ Let him sing if he wants, she’ll just pick up the broken glass. Before there’s another accident.
What’s this flying through the air now? A shoe. Treppie’s thrown the shoe at Lambert.
‘Huh-uh,’ is all Lambert says. He rolls on to his other side. His shirt is full of vomit.
‘Time for reportback!’
How does Pop always put it? Treppie will drill into a dead hole until he finds a spark somewhere. Well, he can try, but this time she’s not so sure. Lambert looks like he’s lost to the world. His mouth hangs open.
Treppie mustn’t come and shove things in front of her nose now, it’s not her who has to do the reportback.
‘Hey, old Mol, check, he even stole your rose for the occasion!’
A rose is a rose is a rose, he always tells her, but she better not throw it back at him now, ’cause today she’s sure a rose will be something different.
Here’s Pop with the newspapers, but he won’t give them to her. He throws them down on top of the vomit himself. Looks like he’s throwing big, thin leaves into a hole. So carefully, like he’s at a funeral or something.
‘Did he fit?’ Pop asks.
Treppie bends over Lambert. He pinches his nose closed, holding his pinky up in the air.
‘His tongue’s still here!’
Treppie takes Lambert by the shoulders and shakes him hard. He must be careful, or he’ll set off more than a spark in there.
‘Fuck off!’ is all Lambert says.
They must get him awake and moving again. That’s what she thinks.
‘Bring some water,’ says Pop.
Treppie bows. ‘Allow me,’ he says. He winks at them and goes out the door. He’s capable of bringing in the hosepipe. She looks at Pop. What does he think? But no, it’s Toby’s red bowl full of water that Treppie carries back with him into the den. He holds it up solemnly over Lambert’s body.
‘Let oh Lord thy countless blessings rain down upon thy servant here,’ he says, his head tilted up. Treppie pours the water from high up in a thin little trickle, first on to Lambert’s crotch, then over his stomach and chest, and then, suddenly, he chucks the rest straight into his face.
‘I told you to fuck off!’
This is what she’s been afraid of. More than just a spark. Let her just get out of the way here, quickly. The outside door is open, thank God.
Lambert sits up straight. His eyes are wild. She can see he’s looking this way and that, but he can’t find his focus. Water drips from his face.
Pop stands in the one corner, Treppie in the other. She’s in the outside doorway.
Now it’s very quiet. Something goes ‘tick-tick-tick’, but it’s not her. It’s coming from the Fuchs, burnt black on the sides. Brown stuff runs out of it.
Lambert sits on the bed with his legs spread out wide in front of him. His shirt’s too tight. He tries to use his arms to stop himself from falling over.
He wants to know what they’re all looking at. What’s so funny and who do they think they’re looking at? She uses her hands to cover her ears. He roars like a lion, this Lambert. Now his arms give backwards and he falls over. His thing is hanging out from his underpants.
‘Pit bull terrier!’
Oh heavens! What’s she gone and said now? Pop looks at her. She covers her mouth with her hand.
But here comes a thing now flying towards her through the air. ‘Whirrr!’ Lambert’s thrown something right into her face. What is it? Oh God, no, it’s all hair and it smells like a person and now it’s stuck on her face like a thing with claws and it won’t come off!
What’s Treppie singing there now? A ‘disjointed’ piece of what? No, he’s singing about a ‘Creole tarantula’. What can that be? She can’t see anything. She throws the thing down. Oh God, it’s a head full of hair. But where’s the head, then?
Pop takes her hand. She mustn’t worry, it’s okay. ‘Wig,’ he shows with his mouth. It’s just a wig.
‘Get out, get out of here!’ Lambert shouts, but he can’t pull himself up.
He must rest, Pop says, they’ve just come to see how things are going with him.
‘My boy.’ That’s what Pop says to him.
‘Ja, old boy,’ Treppie says. Lambert must just calm down, they only came to say happy birthday and good morning and viva Lambert and he must look, there’s some coffee on the table for him, he can’t say his uncle doesn’t have his best interests at heart.
Pop picks up Lambert’s boxer shorts in front of the cabinet. Here, he says, put on some decent clothes. Pop picks up things lying around and then lets go of them again. He picks up the fallen-over chairs. Their chairs. Hers still looks okay, but Pop’s chair looks like someone broke its back. Its one arm is loose. Pop pushes the little peg under the arm-rest back into its hole. Poor old chair!
Now Lambert’s got his shorts on, but he can’t get his balance. Her too, she also feels paralysed.
She must come and sit, says Treppie. He pulls up her chair. He even makes as if he’s dusting off the cushions, just for her. Full of tricks. Never before has Treppie pulled up a chair for her. She’ll only sit when and if she herself decides to. She’ll first stand here for a bit, although that tarantula made her legs feel like jelly. Now Lambert’s drinking his coffee. He goes ‘shlurrrp!’ as he drinks. Now she’ll sit. But just on the edge.