‘“The National Party of today is no longer the National Party of yesterday, but—”’
‘Fuck but!’ Treppie says, shooting up like a jack-in-the-box and grabbing the pamphlet out of his hands. ‘It’s not even the same party you voted Yes for that last time. Remember, when you could still fit into your smart clothes, your black charcoal pants with the shiny leather belt, and those boots with no laces. What did it say again on the label of those pants? Smart pants, those!’
Treppie gets up and walks carefully over the broken glass to the steel cabinet against the wall. He tries to shake open the doors, but they’re locked. ‘Quickly, give me the keys so I can see what that label says.’
‘Boom!’ Treppie slams his hand against the steel door. Pop jumps.
‘Man About Town! That’s it. Now I remember. Man About Town! That’s what it says on the label. I still remember. The coolie at the Plaza showed us the label, at the back, on the inside.’
‘Can I carry on now?’ Lambert asks. Talking politics is bad, but not as bad as talking about his pants. It’s not his fault he got so fat. It’s the pills.
‘“But …”’ Lambert reads, ‘“there’s a golden thread that runs from the early years of the National Party right through until today.”’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Treppie says. He sits on his crate again.
‘“Our first priority remains our own, our own minority, our own language and culture, and our own Christian faith.”’ He reads in stops and starts, the words swimming in front of his eyes.
‘And our own postbox!’ Treppie shouts.
Lambert raises his hand for silence. He reads: ‘“That’s what we call the protection of minority rights. All minorities. So that there can be no domination by a black majority …”’
‘So, do you buy that story, Lambert?’ Treppie asks.
‘Well, um, to an extent,’ Lambert says.
‘To an extent! You sound just like that pamphlet, old boy.’
‘Well, if things don’t work out then we’ve at least got a plan!’ Lambert says. ‘Remember what you said, then we take Molletjie and we load the petrol into the front, and on the roof-rack, and in the dicky, and then we go, due north. All of us, even Gerty and Toby. To Zimbabwe or Kenya. Where you can still live like a white man. With lots of kaffirboys and-girls to order around, just as we please! They’re cheaper there!’
Treppie looks at him. He looks at Treppie. Why’s Treppie looking at him like this now?
Treppie was after all the one who thought up the plan, one day when he, Lambert, was lying here at the back, when he couldn’t pull himself together after a fit, and all he could do was pull his wire, but even that didn’t want to work any more. When his mother was sick in the hospital. From asthma. At least that’s what he thought. But then Treppie said it was a nervous breakdown ’cause he had fits all the time, ’cause there was nothing for him to do and he was wearing his mother out. And then Treppie came and sat here on a crate and said he’d found just the thing to keep him busy: the Great North Plan for when the emergency came. Yes, they must start storing up petrol, Treppie said, ’cause you never knew. He, Lambert, must dig a cellar under his den to store up petrol, ’cause petrol couldn’t be stored above ground, at least not here at the Benades’; there were too many sparks flying around when they started welding. Treppie said the silver bags inside wine boxes were the best for storing petrol. They took up the least space, and you could fold them up when you were finished, and then fill them up again later. He remembers thinking it was a real stroke of genius. Treppie’s got a lot of plans. But that’s not all he’s got a lot of and he mustn’t come and be a nuisance now. He, Lambert, didn’t go scratching around rubbish dumps just for nothing. On Monday nights, when people put out their rubbish, he walked up and down the streets so he could check those rubbish bags for wine boxes. Then he’d pull out the silver bags and throw back the boxes. By the time he got home he was stinking of wine and old rubbish. Sometimes people heard the scratching at their gates, and a few times they even came out with their sjamboks and their catties, ’cause they thought it was dogs eating their rubbish. Then they’d start shooting without even taking a good look to see who it was. One night a man with a pellet gun hit him a shot in the backside as he stood there scratching around. He hadn’t even seen the man. And he didn’t go looking for him, either, ’cause then he’d have to please explain what he was doing there in the rubbish. He couldn’t very well go and tell other people about their plan, ’cause then they’d also start doing it, and then the petrol would run out too quickly. It’s true what Treppie says, when there’s trouble in the country it’s always petrol that runs out first. Treppie said he, Lambert, could learn from the NP government — every time they got the country into trouble, they just stashed away more petrol. Treppie’s like that when he talks politics. Actually when he talks anything. You never know if he means something’s good or bad. And if you ask him, he says he’s not interested in those two words, things are what they are and that’s all there is to it.
Treppie wasn’t even sorry for him when he got that pellet in his backside. He just stood there and laughed, holding the torch so his mother and Pop could get the little bullet out with a tweezer and a needle. Fuck, that was sore! He must have drunk a whole bottle of Klipdrift, lying there in the lounge on the loose blocks, with his backside up in the air.
‘Lambert,’ says Treppie, shifting a little closer. ‘What if she wants to come with us …’
‘Who you talking about?’ Lambert asks. Pop looks down at the floor. Like he knows what’s coming. Well, Lambert thinks, then Pop must know more than he does.
‘Your girl, of course. The one we’ve ordered for your birthday.’
‘You must be joking,’ Lambert says, but he actually likes the idea. The thought never crossed his mind that she might want to come too.
‘Yes, man, maybe she’ll like you so much she’ll want to come with us. Just after the election, when the shit starts flying.’
‘But, um, Molletjie … there won’t be enough space.’
‘She can sit on your lap, man. And when you get tired …’ wink-wink, ‘then she can sit in front for a while, then we put Pop on her lap. Look at him, he’s like a feather, man, he’s ready for take-off.’ Treppie lifts one of Pop’s thin little arms and then drops it again.
‘Hell’s bells, that’ll be something, hey,’ Lambert says. He sits a little more upright on his mattress.
‘Yes, man, it’ll be fun. Just there after Beit Bridge, after we cross the border, we can buy a Coke and chuck some Klipdrift in and chill out a bit. Then you and her can go take a walk in the bushes.’ Wink-wink.
Pop shakes his head. ‘Treppie,’ he says. ‘Treppie.’
‘Ja, Pop, man, I think she will. What do you think? You also saw her, man!’ He pumps Pop in the ribs. ‘Come, Pop, let’s show Lambert how that girl danced in the disco there in Smit Street. You see, Lambert, it’s like a display cabinet where all the girls stand and do their thing on a little dance floor, with a strobe-light and nice sexy music.’
Treppie gets up. He pulls Pop up too. He pushes out his hips and wiggles his shoulders.
‘Come now, Pop, dance a little so Lambert can get the idea!’
Pop sways, first this way, then that. As if he wants to turn away from something. He stares at Lambert with a dull look. Like he’s trying to look in somewhere where it’s closed and dark.
‘You see, we went to check them out a bit. You could say we went window shopping, me and Pop, when we went to look for her. Hey, Pop? So she can prepare herself for you!’