‘Pop, tell Treppie he must fuck off from here, or there’s going to be trouble.’ Pop lifts up his hand, but then he drops it again. He opens his mouth, but then he closes it again.
‘Ai,’ he says. ‘Ai, God help us.’
‘Don’t worry, Pop,’ Treppie says. ‘Everything’s okay. I’m just having a bit of fun with old Lambert. Come,’ he says, ‘be a sport. Come and join us.’
He grabs Pop by the shirt and quickly pulls him in through the den’s door. But Pop’s foot catches and he stumbles. Treppie grabs him from behind, by his belt, and quickly pulls him up again.
‘Oh boy,’ Treppie says. ‘Not so steady any more, or what am I saying, hey, Pop?’
When Treppie gets like this, it’s like he’s changing gear. All you hear are the revs, getting higher and higher by the second.
Treppie pulls up two crates. They’re both full of empty one-litre Coke bottles. Then he turns the crates over with one hand, crashing the bottles on to the den’s cement floor. Lambert can’t see how many bottles are broken.
‘Those are my Coke bottles, Treppie. Ninety-one cents each,’ he says, but not too loud.
He pushes himself up straight, sitting against the wall. He checks to see where his shoes are, in case he has to make a run for it over the broken glass.
‘So, Lambert,’ Treppie says, seating himself on one of the crates. He pulls Pop by his sleeve. Pop sinks slowly on to the other crate, wiping his nose with his sleeve as he sits down.
‘So, what are the issues supposed to be now, old boy? What’s this election all about, anyway? Come, explain to us a little now.’
‘Ag no, man,’ Lambert says. He says it carefully and softly. He still doesn’t feel right. He’s just going to have to kick Treppie’s questions right out of touch. Carefully he says: ‘Here. Read for yourself.’ He passes Treppie a bunch of pamphlets. Treppie knocks them out of his hand. They fall on to the floor.
‘Ag, sorry about that, man, didn’t mean it,’ Treppie says. ‘Just a little accident.’ He kicks the pamphlets away with his feet. Pop bends over and picks them up. Then he puts them down on the bottom end of Lambert’s mattress, where Treppie can’t reach.
‘Come, what can you tell us, Lambert? Things are looking a bit mixed up, aren’t they?’
Treppie looks around the den, first at the floor, which is full of Flossie’s engine parts — loose spanners, hubcaps, pieces of old silencer and rusted exhaust pipe. Then he looks up at the things hanging from the ceiling. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six,’ he counts, looking at the strips of flypaper. ‘Such a bother, these flies, hey,’ he says. ‘Looks like they just love messy places like this.’
Now he’s looking at the roll of second-hand razor-wire. ‘It will stop the burglar, but it won’t keep the fits out,’ he says.
And then he says, ‘Tsk-tsk-tsk, shame,’ as he sees the old Austin’s radiator-grid. The one Pop gave Lambert to hang up in his den, for old time’s sake.
Treppie’s full of sights. Now he’s looking at the Tuxedo Tyres calendars, the ones they go fetch every year on Ontdekkers. For the pin-ups. They’re lined up next to each other on the walls of the den, just under the ceiling, so that he, Lambert, can pick and choose when he’s lying down on the bed. They’re all there, from 1971 onwards.
But Treppie doesn’t want to pick and choose, he wants to fuck around. He stiffens his neck and he turns his head, inch by inch, making little click-sounds, just like the fan’s head when it gets stuck. ‘Click-click,’ he says, as he looks at the calendars, one by one.
All the calendars are the same. There’s a fat lorry tyre on top of each of them, with TUXEDO stencilled on its grip. A girl in a bikini sits under all the tyres. The only part of her body you can see is from her head to her stomach, straight from the front, against a bright blue background. The girls all look the same, except for the hair and the colour of their bikinis.
‘Tits and tyres, tits and tyres, the chickens are back in the coop and they’re all a bunch of liars,’ Treppie says, shaking loose his neck.
Pop wants to stand up, but Treppie stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Pop says nothing. He stays on his seat. There’s that drop hanging from the tip of his nose again.
Treppie looks at the Fuchs and the Tedelex standing open at the back of the room. Boxes and magazines are stacked on top of them, right up to the roof. They’re full of black fingermarks on the inside, and their seals are rotten. Lambert’s half-loaf of white and a tub of margarine lie at the bottom of the one, and there’s a half-full bottle of Coke in the other one’s door.
Treppie shifts his crate and leans forward. He’s looking at the paintings on the wall. Lambert follows Treppie’s eyes, looking everywhere he looks. When Treppie looks at his den like this, it feels like a strange place. Treppie must stop this now.
But Treppie looks like he’s seeing everything for the first time. South Africa’s outline, almost completely faded by now. Koki’s fade like that. Their house, with the postbox in front, the carport with the Volksie underneath; the dotted line going upwards; all the things on the lawn and in the sky. Treppie frowns, shaking his head.
‘Fucken mix-up! What’s that?’ He points to the wall. It’s a drawing with writing and arrows.
‘It’s been there for a long time,’ Lambert says. ‘It’s how a fridge works.’ He clears his throat. It’s hurting from trying to keep his voice even. ‘You drew it there yourself, when we started working here in the yard.’
‘So you know how a fridge works, hey, Lambert?’ says Treppie. ‘Then you should also know how the NP works. Compressor: warm. Evaporator: cold. Thick gas, thin gas, round and round: prrrr, choory-choory-chip: off.’ He smacks both his hands on his legs, looking serious now.
‘Come now, Lambert, we don’t have all morning. What are the vital issues in this election?’
‘Well,’ Lambert says, ‘it’s the constitution, it’s the people who’re going to write the new constitution. We have to vote for them.’
‘And?’ Treppie’s eyes are glittering.
‘Well, um,’ Lambert looks at Pop. Pop must help him now. ‘We’ve always stuck with the NP—’
‘Oh yes?’ Treppie says quickly. He waves at the flies. ‘We’ve also stuck with Sunlight. That’s how you keep the flies out, you wash yourself with Sunlight soap. Your arse and your head and your floor and your bed, the whole lot, whiter than snow.’
Lambert tries to straighten up. This is going too far now. If Treppie wants him, then he’s going to get him. But his head’s zinging. Pop signals: stop it now. He says please. Lambert shuts his eyes. Maybe that’ll help his head a bit. Pop’s voice is so soft, all Lambert hears is ‘ease’. Then it’s Treppie again. He’s talking to Pop. Treppie sounds like a preacher.
‘If you ask me, Pop, the National Party are a filthy lot. What’s more, they’re also confused and they’re getting more confused by the day. One great fucken scrapyard, if you ask me. Now they say they’re going to get their house in order, again. How, I ask you? How? Where will they begin? They must first get their fingers out of their backsides. That’s what, and then wash them with Sunlight. That’s all I can say, Pop. That’s the hard reality. Old Lambert here, he knows very well what I’m talking about. He reads those pamphlets. And he’s not stupid, not by a long shot.’
Lambert opens his eyes. The only thing you can do here is play along. ‘At least they’ve stuck to one thing from beginning to end. It’s like a golden thread,’ he says.
‘Oh yes?’ Treppie says. ‘Now that sounds better. What golden thread?’
Lambert leans forward so he can get his pamphlets. Pop helps him, pushing them closer.
‘Wait, let me read it.’ He looks through the pamphlets till he finds the right one. Then he looks up. Pop stares down at the floor. Treppie looks him straight in the face. He reads.