‘Pop’s mind is a bit soft today,’ says Lambert.
‘Well,’ says Pop.
‘Pop’s fine,’ says Mol, ‘leave him alone.’ They’ve all finished eating now and they’re folding up their greasy papers. Mol gathers the left-overs together. For Toby, when they get home. Only Gerty’s allowed to eat in the car. She doesn’t mess. She’s a dainty little dog.
They all open their new cigarettes and light up. The smoke makes Mol cough. ‘Open the windows a bit, it’s stuffy in here.’
The side windows at the front and back are opened just a little. ‘Don’t let it rain into the car,’ says Pop.
Mol draws deeply on her cigarette. She’s feeling strong again. ‘Now let me tell you what I see,’ she says.
When Mol starts like this, it’s always about the old days. Peking Ducks in the old days. Pop puts his hand on her leg, to remind her she must go easy, this is dangerous territory; and to comfort her, ’cause it’s in the past. The lightning flashes deep yellow tufts in the sky in front of them, lighting up the inside of the car. Pop sees the faces of his people in the strange light. They look yellowish, but they’re happy. Especially Mol. She smiles an ancient little smile.
‘Here, right in front of us, I can see roses. Big bunches with lots of roses, or a single open rose with thick petals; it just depends how you look.’
‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie.
‘Whisky Macs. Whisky Macs in full bloom. Almost ready to throw away.’
‘Fuck, Mol, are you sure you didn’t add something to your Coke there in front?’ says Treppie. ‘It’s not nice to drink on your own, you know.’
Pop signals with his head for Treppie to shuddup.
‘Just watch,’ says Mol, and everyone waits, watching for the next flash. Then it comes. A big, round ball of yellow light, with darker, orange circles arranged more densely towards the middle. The lightning flashes from inside a cloud. Its edges and layers bubble outwards, and the whole thing really does look like a rose.
‘Whisky Mac!’ says Mol, slapping her legs with both her hands. Then her voice disappears in a tremendous smack of thunder.
‘I see it too, Ma,’ says Lambert, suddenly all polite.
‘Oh my goodness,’ says Treppie. ‘When it comes again, you lot must watch carefully. It looks like a rotten old arsehole, man.’
‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘you see arseholes wherever you look,’ and then, on a sudden impulse, she adds: ‘It’s ’cause you give everyone such a huge pain in the arse!’
‘Jeez, Ma!’ laughs Lambert, like he can’t believe what he just heard.
Pop also laughs a little.
‘Well now, Mol, Klipdrift or not, from where I sit you’re on top form tonight,’ Treppie says, laughing a crooked little laugh.
’Our old Molletjie,’ Pop says softly.
‘Now, if you look this side,’ says Mol, pointing to Northcliff, ‘then you’ll see something else: closed ones, closed buds. On their stems.’
Pop looks. Good for you, old Molletjie, now you’re back with us. Everyone waits and watches. The rain has quietened down a bit, falling softly on to the car’s roof. The city’s lights seem small and remote to Pop after the spectacles of light in the sky they just saw. His heart feels warm. The day’s holding out. His hip hurts a little from the weather, as always, but that’s nothing. Then, just above Northcliff, lighting up the whole ridge, they see it, one, two, three, a whole row of flashes, each one with a pinkish, closed bud on its tip. On the stem they see flat, silver leaves trembling as if in a stream of warm air.
‘There they are!’ shouts Mol. ‘Prima Ballerinas, all in a row, on their toes, with pretty little ballet dresses!’
Pop claps his hands. The dogs start barking.
‘Let’s go now,’ says Treppie.
‘That was very nice,’ says Lambert.
Pop starts the car. The wipers go slowly back and forth, back and forth.
‘Who’s for pudding?’ asks Pop.
‘The last of the big spenders,’ says Treppie.
‘Me,’ says Mol, throwing her cigarette butt out the little side window. The roses were there for everyone to see — now no one can tell her she’s talking rubbish.
‘Me too,’ says Lambert.
‘As long as it’s not take-aways. I don’t eat take-away pudding,’ says Treppie. ‘It melts and drips all over the place.’
‘No,’ says Pop, ‘we’re going to the Spur.’ Everyone’s quiet.
‘Which Spur?’ asks Lambert.
‘Wait and see,’ says Pop. He coaxes Molletjie down the steep hill, past the SABC. At the bottom he turns left into Empire and then right again into Melville’s main street. He stops in front of the new Spur. They wait for a CitiGolf to pull out and then park in the same spot. Between a Honda Ballade and a Ford Capri.
‘Comanche Spur, I say,’ says Lambert.
‘Look, it’s their birthday. Look at the banners,’ says Treppie, pointing.
Pop sees a banner on top of the building: ONE YEAR COMANCHE SPUR. COME AND JOIN OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS.
‘You got enough money?’ asks Mol. She sounds nervous.
‘About fifty rand,’ says Pop. ‘Is that enough?’ he says, looking at everyone with a big smile on his face. Then he switches off the car.
They go in at the bottom. A few young men who look like students brush past them in the doorway. They stare at Lambert, who stands there in his bare feet.
‘You could at least have put some shoes on,’ says Treppie.
‘Fuck shoes,’ says Lambert.
‘Or your smart pants,’ says Treppie.
‘Fuck pants and fuck you too. Look at you, you haven’t even shaved, and you’ve still got Elastoplast on your head!’ says Lambert.
‘Treppie!’ says Pop. Treppie mustn’t start now.
‘Hey! Behave yourselves,’ says Mol.
Pop looks at his people. They don’t look so good under the Spur’s stairway lights. He wonders how he and Mol look. Ag, what the hell. They are what they are. He looks up at the steps. Can’t see where they end. He hadn’t thought of steps.
‘You two carry on,’ he says to Lambert and Treppie. ‘Go ahead and get us a table. I’ll be there in a minute. My leg’s sore.’
‘Let me help,’ says Mol, taking him under the arm. ‘One at a time,’ she says, ‘then we’ll be up in a jiffy.’
It hurts, but Pop climbs. One at a time. First the good leg, then he stands on his toes a bit and pulls the bad leg up behind him. After every few steps, they rest. They struggle like this all the way up the first lot of stairs.
‘If people come walking past now,’ says Pop, ‘then we must stand to one side.’
‘They can wait,’ says Mol, ‘we’re also people.’
Wooden eagles and big Indian heads look down on them from the stairwell walls.
‘What are these?’ asks Mol, touching a green plant in a pot against the wall.
‘Cactuses. Be careful, they’ve got thorns,’ says Pop.
‘They haven’t. Feel,’ says Mol.
‘They’re not real.’
‘Cactuses,’ says Mol, ‘hmph!’
Now they’re on the landing. One more set of steps.
‘Come, let’s first sit for a while,’ says Mol. ‘First rest a bit. Does it hurt?’ she asks.
Pop nods. They go sit on the landing’s little bench. More people come walking up. Out of the corner of his eye Pop sees Mol ironing down the flaps of her housecoat to make sure they cover her legs and knees. She puts her feet together neatly and folds her hands on her lap. The people stare at them as they pass by. Pop covers Mol’s hands with his own and gives her a little squeeze. He winks at her. She touches her hair at the back.
‘Come,’ she says when the people have passed. She takes him by the hand and leads him slowly up to the top. It’s almost dark upstairs.