Pop sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out all the money. ‘Seventyfour rand!’ he says.
‘Jeez,’ says Lambert.
‘Good Lord,’ says Treppie.
‘Hmph,’ says Mol.
‘Yes,’ says Pop. ‘It was my lucky day: a mango, a blind man, and a one-legged kaffir. And then I played scratch-cards and I won. Seventyfour rand.’
Pop opens his door. ‘So, what’ll it be, my friends? Lambert?’ he asks.
‘No, hell, Pop. Wait, we’re coming with,’ says Lambert.
They all pour out of the Volksie and run to the other side of the road with their heads down, out of the rain and into the warm, oily air of the shop. They stand there, trying to make up their minds. What’ll it be?
‘Four packets of chips, for a start,’ says Lambert.
‘Three’s enough,’ says Mol.
‘No, four, five, even six if you want,’ says Pop.
‘And a piece of fish for me,’ says Lambert.
‘Me too,’ says Mol.
‘Steak roll,’ says Treppie.
‘And a boerewors roll for me,’ says Pop.
Pop smiles at the black woman behind the glass counter. She must fix up their food nicely.
While they wait, they look around Ponta do Sol as if for the first time.
Lambert picks up a See, puts it down again and then picks up a Getaway. He pages through the magazine, showing Treppie a ‘full frontal of a bushveld baboon’. The baboon’s yawning.
‘Look at his teeth,’ Treppie says to Mol.
‘Look at his you-know-what,’ says Mol.
When their food’s ready, Pop stands at the counter to pay. Lambert brings four Cokes.
‘What about cigarettes?’ asks Pop. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but buys everyone a pack of twenties. John Rolfes for Treppie and Paul Revere for Lambert and Satin Leaf for Mol. He’s been telling her for a long time now Lucky Strikes are too strong. For himself he buys Consulates, in a tin, instead of his usual Van Rhijn. And why not? He feels like a new person. They all feel new. Good evening, they nod at other people, and then they smile when the people nod back.
Halfway out of the shop Lambert turns back. ‘More salt!’ he says as he catches up with them again, holding up a bulging serviette. ‘They always put too little on the chips.’
Pop takes a different route through the rain, over the Westdene Dam and towards the city.
‘Where you going now?’ asks Mol.
‘Wait and see,’ says Pop.
He turns right into Kingsway, past the SABC and then up the steep hill.
‘Just look how they’ve gone and built here,’ says Treppie. There’s a big white building on top of the koppie, with its bottom sitting in a dam full of fountains.
‘Ja,’ says Pop, ‘there used to be nothing but koppie here. But you can still see the view from the top.’
He parks the car in the small open space across the road from the tower, with its nose pointing north so they can see the whole city — from Northcliff on the left, across Emmarentia, right up to the other tower in Hillbrow. Big bolts of lightning flash across the sky.
‘So,’ says Pop, ‘now we can see nicely.’
‘Just like bioscope,’ says Mol.
‘Silent movies,’ says Treppie. ‘We have to say what’s happening.’
‘Psssht’ goes Lambert’s Coke as he opens it. ‘How’s that for sound-effects?’
‘Sweet heavenly Co-o-ke!’ Treppie sings.
‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘get that food out. I’m feeling peckish now.’
Mol hands out the packets. She feels each one to find out which is which.
‘Don’t squeeze my fish like that,’ says Lambert.
‘It’s not your fish, it’s Pop’s boerewors,’ says Treppie, laughing. ‘What will become of the Benades if they can’t squeeze each other a bit,’ he says.
‘Go squeeze yourself, man!’ says Lambert.
‘Hey!’ says Pop. ‘Give it a rest.’
They eat in silence.
Lambert takes out his salt serviette and offers it around.
‘How’s that taste?’ asks Pop after the first few bites. The car reeks of take-away.
‘Tastes good,’ says Mol.
‘Nice, nice,’ say Lambert and Treppie.
‘You smiling yet?’ Pop asks Mol, looking her way. He’s feeling happy. She doesn’t say anything.
‘She’s smiling, she’s smiling,’ says Treppie.
‘Now, Pop, tell us more about those scratch-cards, man. You ate the mango; twice you gave twenty cents for charity; then what?’
‘Well, then it was my turn.’
‘What gave you the idea?’
‘Just a feeling. Just a feeling like it was going to be a good day. Suddenly the booth was right in front of me and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what kind of luck Pop Benade’s got today. And then I won. Three times in a row.’
‘You don’t say,’ says Lambert. ‘And I’ve been buying them for two years at the Post Office without ever winning a cent.’
‘You just have to choose the right day, that’s all,’ says Pop. ‘You get good days and you get bad days.’
‘What’s a good day feel like? When is it ever the right day? What cock and bull story are you cooking up again?’ says Treppie, his mouth full of steak roll.
‘You feel it in your shoulders when you wake up in the morning and put your braces on,’ says Pop. He’s talking softly. He doesn’t want to wake sleeping dogs.
‘Ag bullshit,’ says Lambert. ‘And if you don’t wear braces? Then I suppose you can’t ever have a good day, or what?’
‘You just feel it in your shoulders, that’s all,’ says Pop. He should never have opened his mouth.
‘How?’ asks Treppie.
‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘eat your chips.’ Gerty sits at her feet. Mol feeds her little pieces of fish and chips. The dog is all attention — her ears stand up and her eyes are big and shiny.
‘Hell, it’s only pouring now, hey,’ says Lambert.
The rain’s coming down harder all the time. Pop switches on the wipers. Lightning flashes all around them, breaking in strips and spots and glows. And there’s no end to the thunder — quick, close slashes, and then hard, tearing sounds.
‘Flash!’ says Lambert.
‘Well, naturally,’ says Treppie.
‘No, man, I meant it looked just like Flash Gordon was here.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie. ‘It looks more like the Lost City to me. Opening night.’
‘Guy Fawkes,’ says Mol. ‘Fireworks.
‘Peking Ducks,’ she says, raising her voice on purpose.
‘Is Ma going to start with all that again?’ asks Lambert.
‘Never mind,’ says Pop. He points to Hillbrow. ‘On this side it looks like a creeper with shoots. Shoots of morning glory or something. Every time it flashes you see more flowers on the shoots, blue ones with white in the middle.’
‘No, fuck, Pop,’ says Lambert, ‘your food’s nice, but when you talk shit you talk shit!’ He slurps down his Coke and then he burps. He’s having a good time. ‘If you ask me, it looks more like a couple of okes sitting behind a dirty window, welding a helluva long silencer on to a Mobil lorry or something,’ he says.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ says Mol, ‘have another look … there it is!’
‘Morning glory, that’s what it is,’ says Pop. ‘Grandfather’s Hat, as the old people used to say.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie, ‘it’s all in the mind. Welding flames, morning glories, grandfather’s glory, it’s all in the mind.’