She told them they must sit very still now, ’cause she remembered what Lambert had read in Beeld about the mad bees in Pretoria. Nowadays Lambert also wants to read newspapers like Treppie, but he says he doesn’t read old news or Jew’s news. There in Pretoria, he read, the bees swarmed under the foundations at the Union Buildings. The only time they came out was to sting people. Lambert said those bees could kill you with their stings. After fifty stings, your throat began to close. After seventy your heart went lame. And if you got two hundred stings, you were brain-dead. Nothing to be done about it but be a vegetable for the rest of your life. The whole Union Buildings were apparently full of brain-dead people. On every floor. Ministers, deputy ministers, typists, tea boys, the lot. Treppie said Beeld was talking crap. Lambert liked reading Beeld but Treppie said Beeld was a fucken joke. Still, the next day Treppie read them the same story in the Star. Only this time the ministers didn’t go brain-dead when they were stung, they got like that the day they were sworn in. Yes, said Treppie, that wasn’t such a bad insight for a paper like the Star. Just look at how Pik Botha’s head was sunk into his shoulders. That’s ’cause his brain was dead. A dead brain, said Treppie, was heavy. Like a ball of lead. That’s why Pik Botha’s head looked the way it did. The same went for old Magnus Mauser. His lower jaw bulged out so much ’cause his brain had collapsed, pressing everything else down as well. No wonder he became minister of bushes. And now he was minister of nothing.
Pop told Treppie he had no respect for the government, no matter whether they were dead or alive or brain-dead.
But now she realised they must make smoke under the bees. Lambert had read something about smoking out bees. They’d called the fire brigade to come make smoke at the Union Buildings. Smoke calms bees down.
She took Treppie’s John Rolfes and his matches out from under the little flap of his pocket, sticking three cigarettes into her mouth. Then she lit them with one match and handed them out.
And there they sat, smoking like crazy under her housecoat.
That’s why FW de Klerk smoked like a chimney, she said, trying to calm them down. Also John Rolfes. It kept the bees in the Union Buildings away from his bald head. Treppie and Lambert were sitting still, but they screamed like pigs every time a bee stung them. She was the only strong one. She must say, she really had the whip-hand that day. Thank God she remembered everything Lambert had read from the paper. About FW who smoked so much and his wife’s face-lift, to take away the frown between her eyes.
Marike was the one who said, at the garden tea-party after her operation, that no woman could be a campaigner for peace with a frown on her face. Lambert showed her the pictures of Marike. She couldn’t see any scars. There was a big water fountain in the middle of the garden with pink ice-cubes and watermelon slices. In trays that looked like shells.
The Jehovahs say it too. They say the end is near and we should approach it with the name of God sealed in our foreheads. Then there’s no space left for a frown.
Sitting still and smoking like that made the bees nice and calm again.
Then she said they must get up slowly with the housecoat still over their heads, walk carefully up to the front door, and shout to Pop that he must have the Doom ready.
But Pop opened the door even before they began to shout. He sprayed Doom straight at their heads, especially Gerty, who was crawling with bees.
Mol looks at Gerty on her lap. Shame, the poor thing. It’s a wonder the stings didn’t kill her. Can’t see a thing. And breathing so heavily. Mol can’t bear to look at her. She looks out of the window instead.
Two bakkies from the municipality and a white lorry stop outside the house. She points. Everyone comes to look. They watch as the pestremovers unload their equipment. They’ve got silver rods with funnels in front. It’s a smoke machine, says Pop. He says they should take their drinks and go see what the people are doing outside. But she says the rest of them should go, she’s not feeling so well. She’s had quite enough of bees, thank you. First go lie down a little. With Gerty.
Mol wakes up. There’s a knocking noise against the wall, right next to her head. She gets up with Gerty in her arms to look out the window. No wonder. They’re busy knocking a hole in the foundation. As soon as they finish knocking a little, they stand back, pick up the shiny thing with the funnel and stick it into the hole. The air’s full of foul smoke. She closes the window. No wait, she may as well go look outside. She sees Pop and them through the smoke. Pop’s looking tired. Treppie’s standing on one leg. He’s leaning on Pop’s shoulder. Lord, just look at that Lambert. His face is so swollen he can hardly see out of his eyes. But he’s talking and making big waving movements with his hands. Lambert loves gadgets and things, and he fancies the people who work with them too. He also likes drinking Klipdrift with everyone. The three of them stand there with glasses in their hands. She sees the half-tray with the bottle and the Coke on the grass. Not such a bad idea.
She walks towards the lounge. She’s almost at the end of the passage when the sound of people talking stops her in her tracks. Just in time, too. Who’s this inside their house now? She steals a look around the corner. One is sitting in her chair, and the other’s in Pop’s chair. They’re shuffling their papers. Piles of pamphlets lie on the floor in front of them. It’s the NPs.
‘How much longer must we sit and wait here like this, Jannie?’ It’s the girly. She’s wearing one of her dresses again, but this time there aren’t any straps. The dress is cut low in front. It looks like it’s about to fall off her shoulders. Why’re they sitting there now? And how’s she supposed to get past them? Those two make her feel funny.
The man looks at his watch. ‘They said they were coming just now. Give them ten minutes or so,’ he says.
‘The people in this house are scum. They make me sick in my stomach,’ she says.
Maybe she should go out through the kitchen. But what was that about sick in the stomach? She goes back. She knows you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. But she didn’t invite these two into her house. And what right do they have to sit in her and Pop’s chairs, saying things about them?
‘Where do you think the old bag is today, Jannie?’ the girl asks.
‘God only knows, Annemarie. Must be lying in the back here somewhere. Befucked. Bee-fucked!’ He laughs.
‘Sis, Jannie! You shouldn’t make fun of illness.’
She slaps him playfully on the knee. He catches her hand and pulls her towards him. They kiss. Can you believe it? The girl pulls away.
‘Hey, behave yourself, man! This place gives me the creeps.’ She pulls her dress straight, looking around her with a fed-up expression.
Mol leans back against the passage wall. She feels funny. She wishes she had something to throw. Sit and smooch here in their lounge! Let her just get out of here and tell Treppie what they’ve been saying. Scum! Hmph. He’ll fix them up. In no time at all. She can’t believe it, but the thought of Treppie gives her courage. She must listen carefully what these two buggers say about them. Nobody can insult people better than Treppie. And this time she’ll help him. ’Strue’s God. Old bag, hmph! Befucked! Their bladdy arses!