‘I don’t know why we still canvass this lot. They’re rotten, worse than …’
The man holds up his finger. ‘Hang on, Doll, count your words. These people are the voting public. Every NP vote is worth its weight in gold.’
‘Yes, but not the votes of backvelders like this lot. What are they good for, anyway?’
‘You must try to think strategically, my angel. We don’t have time for emotions or for whims and fancies. The main issue is to keep having a say in what happens, and if we can do that with the votes of this lot, then it’s a say no less. You heard what the chief whip said. The issue is language and culture. No more and no less.’
‘Ja, but what kind of culture will you find on this property? All I see here is brandy and Coke and crock cars.’
‘Ag no, come now, Doll, try to think less emotionally. Think laterally, as Prof. Joubert says. What will become of us if there’s no longer an Afrikaans-medium university in this country? You and I want to become academics one day, right? So we can fight for Afrikaans in the courts and everything. This is one of the few chances we still have left.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘No more buts, you must keep a sense of perspective here. These people are our foot-soldiers in the election. They’re right at the bottom of the ladder and they feel threatened. They’ll buy anything we tell them.’
‘Yes, but they’re the kind who’ll vote for the far right. That’s if they bother to vote at all. That idiot with the high backside, you want to tell me he can read and write?’
‘You’ll be surprised. Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ the chappy says. Mol smiles. They’ll be very surprised, both of them will be very, very surprised.
‘And the far right’s looking for militants. They can’t afford a bunch of inbred drunks. They want war. And we want peace, don’t we, peace and a say in how we’re governed?’
‘It doesn’t sound right to me, Jannie. It’s not honest, man. Let’s rather leave them alone. Let them work out their own destiny.’
‘Ag no, Annemarietjie, what’s wrong with you now? You heard what FW said. Election politics is not for sissies. Get a grip on yourself. There’s always a light at the end of the wagon-trek, remember.’
The man doesn’t really look like he’s ready for wagons. He looks like he wants to fuck. He pouts at the girl. They start smooching again.
There’s a knock at the front door. Slowly, someone pushes open the door. The NPs are so busy kissing they don’t even see. Only she sees.
She sees an astronaut in a white costume with a high, white screen on his head. He’s wearing thick gloves and white rubber boots with thick soles. The astronaut comes towards her with wide-open legs. There’s too much stuffing in his pants. ‘Rickatick’ go the blocks under his feet.
‘Dear Lord!’ She almost drops Gerty.
The astronaut signals to her she mustn’t be afraid. He talks in a dull voice behind his helmet. He says his name is Van Zyl. He’s come to fetch the bees and he needs a bucket. Maybe there’s honey. He relocates bees, he says. He lives just around the corner, in Meyer Street. Works with Pest Control. But, he says, for him bees are not pests, they’re a source of extra income. He says he’s sorry if he’s inconveniencing her. He calls her madam. Does she have a plastic bucket or something like that for him? Then he says good evening to the NPs in the lounge. They’re standing around now, looking all embarrassed. ‘Good evening, madam,’ they say to her.
‘Good evening, yourself,’ she says. To the bee-catcher, she says, no, fine, she’ll go fetch a bucket. She addresses him as sir, but she looks down her nose at the NPs.
Mol fetches a bucket in the kitchen. She takes it round the back for Van Zyl. ‘Thank you very much,’ he says. There’s a big, white hive next to the hole in the wall. She puts Gerty down at her feet. Then she takes Pop’s glass out of his hand and swallows it in one gulp. He must fill the glass again, she says. Pop gives her a funny look. Fill up, she says. She’s on the warpath. The NPs have come round the front.
She looks hard at the NP chappy. She looks at him so hard he starts talking about the weather.
‘Not a cloud in the sky,’ he says, looking up. Little twat thinks he can act like an angel here in front of her. But Treppie’s there, in a flash. She doesn’t even have to say anything.
‘Good weather for bees,’ says Treppie. ‘You must watch out, those are New South Africa bees in that hole.’
‘Foot-soldiers,’ says Mol. She sees the girly shoot a look at the man. Ja, a bit of their own medicine.
The man keeps a straight face. ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘Do you know much about the, er, social habits of bees?’
Treppie laughs. ‘Well, they don’t have a president.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘they get quite dizzy from the smoke, the scum, then they relax completely and pull in their stings. Like aerials, bzzt, just from a little smoke.’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Treppie. He puts his arm around her. ‘My sister is the queen bee around here. She should know, she thinks FW smokes too much. Ask my nephew, and his mother, both of them are bee specialists.’
‘Befucked,’ she says, ‘but not brain-dead. We can still read and write and all.’
Lambert laughs.
‘Mol!’ says Pop. He takes back his glass. He signals her to go slowly now. She signals back he must leave her alone. She knows what she’s doing here. ‘Just the little dog, she’s suffering the most, but it’s from the Doom.’
‘Doom?’ The girly looks frightened.
Treppie rubs it in. ‘Yes, Miss. Doomsday blues. We’ve all got it, but the dog’s got it the worst. Coughs terribly all night.’
She holds Gerty up so everyone can see. ‘Yes, shame. Yes, this is my poor little dog, and I say to you, the great day of the Lord is near, and hasteth greatly. The mighty man shall cry there bitterly. Definitely not for sissies.’
‘Jeez, Ma. Are you drunk or something?’ Lambert can’t believe his ears. Pop looks the other way. Treppie wants to kill himself laughing. He’s playing along nicely now. He takes Pop’s glass and pours her another shot.
Ja, he says, he doesn’t know about the NP, but the Benades will enter the portals of heaven with the name of God written on their foreheads. Sorry, he means spray-painted, it’s more resistant to the thin air in heaven.
‘And without any frowns,’ she says, ‘just like FW’s wife, she’s the one who says you can’t fight for peace with a frown on your face.’
‘That’s it, Mol, give it to them. Give it to them!’
Right. Then she’ll let them have it.
‘Otherwise we won’t be suitable for the New South Africa, or for heaven. No culture on this property, just waste material.’
She draws deeply on her cigarette. She feels full of words. Full of mischief. ‘We just want peace, peace and quiet and a say in what happens in the country. And free smoke.’ She blows a mouthful of smoke right into the chappy’s face. He takes a step back. He looks at the girly.
Now Lambert also smells blood. Let him. These two want to go and say ugly things about him.
‘You two,’ Lambert says, ‘are you two also easy targets? For the bees, um, and the birds?’ He winks.
‘Lambert!’ says Pop.
‘Never mind, Pop,’ she says. ‘He means are they going to target the Union Buildings in a hurry, or the university. Those kind of people know lots about the birds and the bees, but after two hundred stings their brains sink like balls of lead. Then they think they can talk any old shit and people will buy anything they say.’
‘Come now, you lot!’ Pop nudges them. He says they must all go inside and pour another drink, so they can hear what the NPs have to say. The NPs also have a job to do, and it’s getting late now.