Unprofaned.
Ai! God help us!
Look how Lambert’s sitting there and looking at them, his head moving left-right, left-right. He supports himself against the pillows, arms on either side. She can see he doesn’t know which way to go ’cause the whole lounge is inside his den now, chairs and all. Everyone’s got him in their sights. And she can see he hasn’t even got a plan, never mind a story. He can’t even focus properly. And now Treppie’s on to him like a swarm of mosquitoes. Bite here, sting there. Won’t let go until he’s finished, she can see that. Treppie’s smelt blood and, if you ask her, he smelt it back there on the koppie already. Now he’s followed it all the way here to the den. He looks like he knows the death blow is close, but whose death it is, she doesn’t know.
‘She was nice,’ says Lambert. ‘A nice piece.’
‘Aha!’ says Treppie. ‘At last. Pop, come, come sit up nice and straight now, here comes Lambert’s story, at last. Right, you old tomcat, you, everything from the beginning, hey!’
‘We talked. We talked a lot!’ Lambert doesn’t sound like he’s so sure of his case.
‘Ja-a-a-a,’ says Treppie.
‘That was just the beginning, the talking.’
Treppie’s waiting to hear if there’s any more. But there isn’t. Lambert slumps on to the cushions. He looks sick.
‘Shot!’ says Treppie. ‘Glad to hear it. You hear that, Pop? And remember we agreed that if we brought Lambert a girl she’d have to be a talker, a real companion, one made from the rib. A girl who can guess the word that’s on the tip of your tongue. Ja, someone who can pick up your broadcasting, wireless, or who you can wire into if you need to get totally enmeshed!’
Cochrane’s wire.
‘Pof!’ Treppie slaps Pop on the back. ‘Come on, Pop, don’t you want to know what the kids were talking about all night long?’
‘What were you talking about?’ Pop asks. She can see Pop’s only saying it ’cause Treppie’s pushing him. And Pop can’t push back.
‘What about what?’ Lambert doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He looks at her, as if she should know, but how’s she supposed to know?
‘The topic, Lambert. What you talked about, you know, the subject of your discourse!’
‘Well, um,’ says Lambert. He tries to straighten himself against the wall. It looks funny. It looks like his head’s in the postbox and Van Riebeeck’s talking into his one ear with Klipdrift, while Harry’s talking into the other with Coke.
‘And, um, she asked what I thought would happen on the twenty-seventh.’
‘I say! And then?’
‘Then I asked her, why?’
Treppie nudges her. And he nudges Pop.
‘Hey, you two, bladdy good question that, don’t you think? Why indeed?’
Treppie leans forward on his crate. He wants to hear some more.
‘And then?’ he asks Lambert.
Lambert rubs his eyes as though he’s got dust in them. Must be those little white crumbs from the burnt-out beer.
‘Then she said how can I ask why, it’s a turning-point in our history!’ Lambert’s face looks funny. It looks like he first has to think who said what.
Treppie cups his hand behind his ear, as if to say, come again?
All you hear is ‘tiffa-tiffa-tiffa’ as Toby scratches his ribs. Lambert looks at Toby like Toby must please tell him what to say next. No, hell, let her light a cigarette here. This isn’t funny. And Lambert mustn’t start picking on her now, either. She’s not a dog. Why’s he looking at her like that? She hasn’t done anything.
‘Close your legs, Ma,’ he says. ‘And wipe that stupid grin off your face. Now!’
As she says, she never escapes.
‘Yes, Mol, wipe that grin off your face. There’s nothing to grin about.’ It’s Treppie.
What her legs and her grin have got to do with the price of eggs, she doesn’t know. She looks at Pop but Pop doesn’t look back. He just takes her hand and then lets go of it again. That means she must accept her lot. She knows this from the way he takes her hand. Sometimes it means ‘never mind, it’ll pass’, and other times it means ‘don’t worry, it’s not your fault’. But this time she must accept her lot. Heavens above!
‘Turning-point. How come?’ It’s Treppie. He’s trying to get Lambert back on track now, ’cause Lambert’s clearly lost it again.
‘Then I told her, that may be the case, turning-point and everything, but it’s fuck-all compared to the way I can turn on a point. I’m the turning-point of Triumph, I told her, just watch how nicely I can turn! Corkscrew!’
Corkscrew. What’s so funny about that now? But Lambert thinks it’s very funny. ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ he laughs at his own joke. Treppie laughs with him. ‘Hee-hee-hee-ha-ha-ha!’ Treppie shows with his hands how Lambert turns on a point. ‘On a pin,’ he says, ‘neat as a pin in Triomf!’
‘And then she wanted to dance as well.’
As well. Hmph! Lambert’s telling lies here, she can see it on his face. He thinks he can lie to Treppie. Treppie looks like he can see the dancing before his very eyes. He’s putting on a helluva big show again.
‘Classy girl, hey, and then you two rock’n’rolled until the legs fell off these chairs, hey?’
Treppie’s up in a flash. He sings:
‘When I was a little bitty baby
My mamma would rock me in the cradle’
Out comes his foot now. He pretends he’s dancing, but he’s not dancing, he’s kicking. He kicks the bed’s leg, ‘crack!’ It sags slowly on to its one side.
‘Whoof!’ says Toby.
‘Oh, shit, sorry, old Lambert. Just a little accident,’ he says. Just look how sorry he looks.
First he sprayed beer and now he’s kicked the bed, but it’s all just a little accident. As if there isn’t enough of a mess in this place already.
Lambert mustn’t worry, says Treppie, if he just gets off the bed for a second he’ll shift a crate underneath. Then everything will be fine again. There, see? No problem at all. And if it wasn’t rock’n’roll, then what kind of dance was it?
‘It was a slow dance,’ says Lambert. Mol can see he’s holding himself back. She saw how long it took him to weld that leg back on to the bed. He doesn’t sit down again. He props himself up against the wall.
‘It was a shuffle,’ he says. ‘On Highveld Stereo.’
That’s just what Treppie wants to hear, ’cause now he’s standing at the ready with the radio that he just picked up from the floor. The radio’s in its glory. Its insides are hanging out on the one side.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Cheerio, Highveld Stereo!’ he says, throwing the radio down on to the floor with a ‘crack!’ and then kicking it under the bed. Toby thinks it’s for him to go fetch. All you see is his tail wagging as he dives under the bed, chasing after the radio.
Does Lambert remember what song it was? Treppie wants to know. The song they were shuffling to.
No, says Lambert, he can’t remember so clearly now, but it was a Jim Reeves song. A Golden Oldie. Oh yes, she can see a thing coming now, now Treppie’s head’s working like a clock.
‘Soft guava!’ he shouts. Doesn’t she and Pop also think this calls for a demonstration? There he goes again. No stopping him. Pop sinks deeper into his chair here next to her.
‘Mary, marry me,’ Treppie sings. He makes his voice deep and smooth, like Jim Reeves. Too many voices in there for one voice box, she always says.
Now Lambert is moving. He unsticks himself from the wall, bends down and grabs that broken leg, swinging it at Treppie.