‘And did Flossie at least behave herself, Lambert? She’s not really used to, er, joy-rides, you know!’
Lambert throws down the piece of iron. He turns around. All you see is his fat back. His lifts up his head and looks at his paintings, like he wants to start praying or something.
But here comes Treppie, the mosquito-man.
‘Er, tell us a little, old boy, was the joy-ride before or after?’
He doesn’t say what came inbetween, but she can imagine.
‘I mean, did you take her home, old boy? Did you put her back nicely in her show-case, like the little doll that she is, end of story? Hey, Lambert? Tell us, man, or where did you go driving around?’
Lambert’s in a corner now, she can see. They all know he’s not allowed to drive, ’cause of the fits, and he hasn’t got a licence. They’d catch him very quickly among the grand cars in that crock of his without its shell.
Treppie acts like he knows what Lambert’s busy thinking, and that those thoughts are very impressive. Very quick on the ball. He does it with all of them. He gives them ‘perspectives’ and things so-called to save their backsides, but then he cancels them again, laughing at the lot of them for even falling for any of it in the first place.
‘Aha, you naughty boy!’ says Treppie. ‘So then you took your girl for a ride around the block for a smoke break, ’cause that barrel of yours was hot, hey! Martha, Toby, Gerty, and then, when you’d finished the holy trinity, you came back for more, right?’
Wink, wink at Lambert, wink at her, wink at Pop.
Lambert tries to wink back, but his eyes are too wide open. All he does is shut them.
‘Yes, first we went and patrolled around Triomf a bit, but then she wanted to see my paintings again. She said she’s seen lots of paintings in her life, but not, um, as you say, frescoes like these.’
She must remember to go look inside that Frisco coffee tin in the kitchen. Doesn’t taste like paint to her, but then again her sense of taste isn’t so good any more. The other day she poured Vim scrubbing powder over the eggs and everyone except her tasted the difference. Treppie asked her if she was playing Daisy de Melker. He wouldn’t hold it against her, he said, but she’d have to increase the dosage. Then, luckily, she found the salt under the sink. No need to swing by the neck for nothing.
‘Where did you get that thing?’
It’s Pop who’s suddenly talking now, here next to her. He sounds like he’s trying to scold Lambert, with his last breath.
He points to the gun on the bed. Look how his hand’s shaking! Let her take his hand and put it back on his lap. It makes her feel eerie, hands shaking like that.
‘I bought it from a kaffir at the dumps for fifty rand. Pop. It’s for our protection, for when the shit hits the fan.’
Pop looks at Treppie as if to say, look where all your talking’s got us now! But Treppie pretends he doesn’t see Pop.
‘Yes and no,’ says Treppie. ‘It’s for the shit when the shit hits the fan, but it’s actually for shooting the fan when the fan doesn’t work.’ He sticks his index finger in his mouth and pretends he’s pulling a trigger. ‘Boom!’
‘Give it here!’ It’s Pop again, with that shaking hand of his.
‘Not a damn will I give it to you,’ says Lambert. ‘It’s my gun and only I can touch it!’
‘Give it to Pop, he just wants to look at it. It’s true, isn’t it, Pop, you just want to look, don’t you?’
She wishes Pop would say ‘just want to look’, but he says nothing. He keeps that trembling hand of his held out. It’s shaking all the way up to where the arm connects with the body.
‘I said, give it here!’
‘Not a fuck am I going to give you my gun, Pop!’ says Lambert. ‘The AWB has already recruited me to help shoot when the, um, when the …’
‘When the what?’ asks Treppie. He looks like he’s conducting exams again.
‘When the fan breaks. Fuck!’ Lambert looks like he wants to cry. Treppie claps his hands. Now, he says, Lambert has demonstrated an insight into a particular mentality. And Pop must leave him alone, too. One thing at a time. Treppie says, he first wants to test that insight a little.
Whoosh! Treppie grabs the gun out of Lambert’s hand.
He walks up and down with his hand under his chin. He pretends he’s thinking so hard that he’s kicking little stones, but he’s actually kicking tins and newspapers and the insides of radios. Then, suddenly, he gets a brainwave. He goes ‘snap!’ with his fingers in the air.
Jeez, he says, he hadn’t thought of it before, but maybe Lambert will land up on Robben Island. He mustn’t worry, though, they’ll send him polony so he won’t have to eat that watery porridge they give people there. And then, he says, Lambert can write a nice letter to Mandela, asking him if he can paint on the walls, but he’ll have to promise nothing but the New South Africa — just doves and AKs, doves and AKs, from the Cape right up to the North, on top.
Should she go make some tea? she wonders, to bring some relief here.
‘Detention without trial!’ says Treppie. ‘Article Twenty-nine! Mind you, there’s a new rumour doing the rounds. Want to hear?’
Yes, they want to hear, Pop nods.
‘They say Robben Island’s not going to be a prison any more in the New South Africa. It’s going to be a museum. But that makes no difference. They’ll still need Lambert there. He’ll be indispensable. Behind glass. Instead of Bushmen and Hottentots. Then he’ll be able to demonstrate nicely, hey?’
‘Give back my fucken gun!’
‘Aren’t you tired of your own voice yet, Treppie?’ asks Pop. ‘Don’t you think you’ve showed off enough for one day?’
‘Yes, ask the fucker, ask him!’ says Lambert. He lunges for his gun, but it’s not necessary. Treppie gives it to him nice and neatly, with the grip facing forward. Lambert puts the gun under his pillow. Then he sits down on top of the pillow, on top of the gun.
No, Pop needn’t worry, says Treppie. Everything’s okay. He’s finished playing games. Now he’s coming to the serious business.
What serious business? In that case, she’d rather play games.
‘You want to know what it is, hey, Mol?’ Treppie says.
Treppie can see right into her head, that’s for sure. Never mind, he says, she must strap on her life-jacket, so long, and Pop must throw the goat overboard and then comb the horizon, ’cause this leaky boat of theirs is heading for the rocks, fast.
She sees Pop looking at Treppie and wondering, what now? She also wonders, but Treppie’s on the move again.
‘Now, where were we?’ he asks Lambert.
‘Oh, yes, you came back from Triumph by night and you looked at all the paintings, from Genesis right through to Revelation. But wasn’t your time up by then, Lambert? Hell, man, we had to drive a hard bargain for that slut, my man. And in the end she wanted two hundred rand just for one hour. Look, you have to realise, she wasn’t exactly on a special offer, unless she was on top of you, old boy.’
‘She didn’t say anything about time,’ Lambert mumbles. He doesn’t look Treppie in the eye. He’s looking at the wall.
‘She visited nicely here with me, and I’d watch out if I were you, ’cause she said she’s coming again next week. I told her she’s welcome, we’ve got plans for when the shit starts flying.’
Treppie holds up his hand. What did Lambert say, there?
‘For when the shit starts flying, Treppie, and you can take that stupid joke of yours about the broken fan and shove it right up your arse!’
‘In it goes!’ says Treppie, pretending to stick something up.
‘I hope it does something for my constipation. Then at least there’ll be one thing left in working condition in Triomf after the election, even if it’s only a working stomach!’