‘Shuddup, you!’ Lambert shouts at Treppie. Now he’s talking to her and Pop. It sounds like he’s begging.
‘There’s no more apartheid, so she could easily come with us and everything. I told her we don’t mind smart Coloureds like her.’
‘Try for white, I see!’ says Treppie. ‘And then I suppose she went and powdered her nose?’
Now he makes as if he’s in the bathroom, pretending to powder his nose.
‘Mary, Mary on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?’
he asks a make-believe mirror here in front of him.
‘And then she saw, oh Lord, but I’m not a blonde mermaid on the roof-rack of a Volkswagen. And then that mirror cracked into little pieces, all over the bath!’
Or can Lambert tell them how the mirror got into the bath? Did they do it on top of the mirror, inside the bath, under the water? Hell, that takes his mind very far back, he says. Can she, Mol, still remember those naughty days?
No, Treppie. She shakes her head. He must really stop now.
‘Well,’ Treppie says to Lambert, ‘maybe I’m the only one, but I remember well, your mother was still very young, and she used to take her older brother in hand too, in the bath. Those days her little brother was still very small, smaller than her, but when his sister got tired, then kid brother just had to take over. And you wouldn’t say it today about your mother’s older brother, would you, but in his young days he just couldn’t get enough. There was no satisfying him!’
She can feel Pop looking at her, but she’d rather not look back right now. She looks at Lambert. Thank God in heaven, it doesn’t look like he’s clicking. He just looks upset. Thank God he’s got other things eating him today — a broken shoe and a headful of hair. A hangover on top of a night that went soft on him. He won’t be making any missing connections today.
‘Ag, you’re just talking shit, Treppie. Just shuddup!’ he says.
‘Yes, Lambert, he’s just talking shit!’ Her voice comes out louder than she means it to.
‘Now listen to me carefully, both of you. It’s not a shit-story, it’s the story about how everything began. And if there’s one thing about a good story it’s that it has to have a beginning. The second thing that makes a story good is that it must be true. Now this story is a true story, as true as true can be. And the third thing about a good story is that no one must ever have heard it before. Okay, granted, the only one here who hasn’t heard it is Lambert, but where will you find a better audience than Lambert? Like a lamb to the slaughter. Innocent! Those who don’t know won’t be punished. So it is written. And I, for my part, don’t take punishment for other people. So Lambert must hear the story. He’s grown up now. He can hold his own. We know that. He can fix fridges, he can drive a car, he can shoot, he’s been recruited and he’s just been serviced, so why can’t he know where he comes from? It’s his right, isn’t it? Or what do you two say?’
Treppie looks at them and then he looks at Lambert. Treppie’s face looks like he’s making ordinary conversation on an ordinary day. He takes out his pocket-knife and begins to clean his nails with long, fancy strokes. ‘Grrtt-grrtt!’ goes the knife under his nails. He holds them out for inspection. He’s not happy with them.
He’s talking to Lambert, glancing at him sideways as he scrapes.
‘You’re a person who knows your rights, hey. You must stand up for your rights. That’s what I say. And this right is a basic one. It’s your birthright, and that’s a human right. To know about your, er, origins.’
Treppie stops talking. He holds both hands out in front of him. Now he’s satisfied. ‘Click’ goes the pocket-knife as he closes it again. He puts it back into his pocket.
‘Anyhow,’ he says, ‘everything in good time, right? Where were we now? Oh yes, the mirror in the bath. And what else? The postbox. Just imagine. After all this time, that postbox is still an invariable in this story of ours. You weld it, you paint it, but when you look again, it’s fucked up and it’s lying in a whole new place. But this time, Lambert, the angle of displacement is a little too wide. On the lounge floor! Via the window! A spot of wet peace in the heart of Jo’burg.’
Via.
‘Ja, Mol, via, Via Dolorosa. But let me finish questioning Lambert here. Come, Lambert, explain a little now. When you and Mary came back from wherever, you were so, er, hard-up, that you rather went for the postbox instead, hey? But that hole in the front is too small, if you ask me. And its sides, wow man, they’re a bit on the sharp side, not exactly what I’d call, er, nesting material, er, for a pecker, er, I mean, even if it was a Sacred Ibis or, er, a pelican or something like that! But that’s the only way I can figure out how it came flying through the front window. Some or other monster of a pecker. Shot clean off its pole. Maybe it was a freedom dove!’
Lambert’s sitting with his head down. He’s twirling his thumbs around each other. His whole body heaves as he breathes.
‘Now, Lambert, I don’t know how things are on your side of the Speedo, but that postbox, er, saw its arse. And notwithstanding that …’
Why’s he stopped talking now? He looks at her, then he shuts his eyes tight as if she’s about to throw something at him.
‘Notwithstanding,’ she says.
Treppie jerks his head as if something just hit him.
‘Right!’ he says. ‘Now we can carry on. Thank you, Little Miss Echo! And notwithstanding that, the postbox now has a whole new look about it. It’s back on the gate, I put it back, but it’s taken quite a blow. Now it’s a postbox with an attitude. And I’d say it’s rather an artistic attitude, an attitude that holds promise and one that, er, radiates expectation. Now it looks like it’s stretching its neck to look up Martha Street. To see which way Mary’s coming. Oh, dear little Mary with her one shoe!’
Treppie’s got that little shoe in his hands again. He throws it into her lap.
‘Try it on quickly, dear sister, maybe the two of you wear the same size. Wonders never cease!’
Now Treppie’s on fast-forward again. He’s at the Tedelex. Open goes the door. Out comes the little white box.
‘So, my old hotshot,’ he says to Lambert, ‘do you also feel like a piece of birthday cake, old boy? People who swing from pelmets like Tarzan the apeman also need something sweet in their lives, don’t they? Me Tarzan, you Mary, low white, high brown!’
‘Chomp!’ goes Treppie as he bites into the side of the Swiss roll. He passes it on to Lambert in the same way he passed Lambert the gun — with the thick side to the front.
‘Hmmm, hmmm,’ he goes, his cheeks full. Now he’s a monkey, scratching the underside of his armpit with his loose hand.
Lambert’s white in the face. Out, she signals to Pop. When Lambert looks like this, there’s a fit coming. She feels in her housecoat’s pocket. No peg.
Lambert takes the Swiss roll, but he doesn’t eat. He just puts it down on the bed without taking his eyes off Treppie. Jam drips from the one side of the Swiss roll. Toby’s wondering who the Swiss roll belongs to. He puts his front paws on to the bed and takes a bite.
Stupid dog. Sis! Off!
‘Yes, off!’ says Treppie. ‘That’s not your cake.’
Treppie waves at them, as if he’s enjoyed his visit and he’ll come and see them again some time.
‘Well, then, cheers, I’m going now. All’s well that ends well, as they say in the classics, or, further west down the road of suffering, as ye sow, so shall ye reap, even when the harvest is in Martha Street.’
‘Biff!’ he hits Lambert on the back. Thanks for that nice piece of cake. Lambert must eat it now before it gets stale. Lambert says nothing. He’s looking straight in front of him.