It’s hot outside. The sun’s sitting right on top of the sky. He stands under the little carport, next to Molletjie, with his hands at his sides. A cloud’s building up on the one side. Which way? He wanted to go to the dumps in Bosmont, but that’s too far in this heat. And the fucken Hotnots always stare at him, like he’s a fucken kaffir or something. Hotnots don’t like kaffirs, that’s something he knows for a fact. Still, he doesn’t know what their case is, and why they shout at him like that: What you looking for over here, hey, whitey? Not that they can talk. One Saturday he was in Bosmont’s Main Street, on his way home with his wine bags, when he suddenly saw these bouncy bunches of Hotnot-majorettes come marching past him, “boompity-boompity-boom”. They were jamming the whole street with their bands and everything, young Coloured girls, all of them in shiny dresses. Some of them were real white, a proper inside-bum white, but they’re still Coloured, you can see it. You can see it by their hair and those missing front teeth. He couldn’t get across the street, so then he had to stand there and watch the parade with all those Hotnots. They were jostling him from all sides, and then one of them said: ‘Ooh, watch out, this hillbilly’s getting a hard-on for our girls here!’
At the time, he pretended he didn’t hear, but afterwards he asked Treppie what a hillbilly was. Treppie said it was English for Ampie, and then he asked Treppie who Ampie was. Treppie said Ampie was a dirty oke with a rag-hat, stretched braces, rawhide shoes and khaki pants that were too short for him. He was a bit slow in his top-storey and he spent his time sitting in a ditch, eating a tin of sardines and a tin of condensed milk while conversing with a donkey. And somehow, this oke was still a big hero.
Sometimes Treppie can talk the biggest lot of crap. He told Treppie, rubbish, man. He, Lambert, didn’t eat bread with sardines or condensed milk, so how could he be like Ampie or a hillbilly? Sis, how was that supposed to taste anyway! But Treppie said bread with polony and golden syrup would qualify just fine. In the nineties, he said, an outsize dick hanging from fucked-up boxer shorts were the same as stretched braces and khaki pants that were too short. And what’s more, Treppie said, he should figure out for himself what he thought of an oke who looked for empty wine boxes on rubbish dumps, an oke who screwed his own mother till she hopped instead of talking to donkeys, and, to top it all, who lived in a place called Triomf with a big smile on his dial. Treppie was drunk as a lord when he said that, otherwise he would’ve finally smashed him to a pulp. Who the fuck does Treppie actually think he is? What makes him think he can talk, anyway? He also lives in Triomf. He boozes with the Chinese, and they’re not even white. As for the Hotnots, it’s true they’re getting whiter by the day, but they must just understand, once a Hotnot, always a Hotnot. They must keep their mouths shut about him and his private life. He has his pride. He knows his rights, even if he is a minority. He’ll vote for his own protection. And they will look after him, ’cause he’s not the only one.
He decides not to go to Bosmont. He’ll just go here, at the back, to the Martindale dump. The one behind the old jail in Long Street. They turned the jail into flats, but he reckons that anyone who lives there now must feel like a jailbird behind those tiny windows. All they did was take away the bars. He’ll go see what’s inside those containers today. Maybe his luck’s in. Sometimes the wine boxes get mixed up with plastic in the recycling bin.
He walks up Martha Street, across Victoria and into Thornton. Then he turns left and walks past Triomf Garage. Volkswagen experts. But the Benades prefer getting their parts from the Chop Shop in Ontdekkers. It’s cheaper that way. Anyway, they don’t need experts — he’s already one, for Molletjie and Flossie. There’s nothing anyone can tell him about those cars that he doesn’t already know. If only those two dykes across the road knew how completely daft they are for not letting him look at their Volla. But they’ll be sorry, they must just wait. They’re still going to be very sorry.
He walks past the entrance to Triomf Shopping Centre. On a blackboard next to the entrance he reads the advert for Roodt Brothers Forty Years Meat Tradition: YOUNG OX: R9 A KILO STEWING MEAT.
Sis, ox-meat for stewing. Sounds a bit off to him. Beef-braaivleis, now that’s what he wants. A nice thick T-bone or two, like next door had the last time. Haven’t had another braai since then. Maybe ice-cream sellers can’t afford braaivleis every other day.
He’s almost beyond the parking area when he hears someone calling out to him.
‘Hey, excuse me! Hey, sir!’ He feels wind blowing on to his face from all the shiny cars as they rush past him. They must wait, they’re all still going to run out of petrol when the shit starts flying in this place. Pride comes before a fall, he remembers from his schoolbooks.
He turns to see who’s ‘sir-ing’ him now. He’s not just anyone’s ‘sir’. People must be very careful before they start calling him things like that. Maybe it’s not even for him.
Across the road, two men stand next to a caravan. They’re wearing khaki pants and maroon berets. Must be selling hot dogs. But no, there’s a little table with papers, under a red and white umbrella. And a bottle of Oros with glasses and a jug of water. Must be traffic cops. He wants to carry on walking. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s not even driving and he wants nothing to do with papers. But the men call after him again: ‘Hey, sir!’ and then they smile big friendly smiles at him. Smiles like he’s never seen on the faces of traffic cops or policemen. Maybe it’s hot dogs after all. Surplus army hot dogs or something. But there aren’t any other people in the area. So what’s their case?
‘Hey, good morning, I mean good afternoon, sir. Come see here please, maybe you’re interested,’ the one shouts, and the other motions with his arm: Come! The sun’s burning his head. It’s fucken hot. The whole street smells of tar and tyres. He’s not used to walking like this. And his one ankle’s starting to hurt already.
He looks up and down the road, left-right-left, before crossing over. Let him go and have a look, then. But he sees quickly it’s not him who’s doing the looking. It’s them. They’re looking at him. They look him up and down.
‘Howzit, China,’ the one says.
Now he’s a Chinaman. First he was ‘sir’ and now suddenly he’s a fucken Chinaman. These okes must watch out, he’s not feeling so cool today. Pop always tells him he mustn’t talk to strangers and he mustn’t trust them, ’cause they just use you for their own purposes. But he wasn’t born yesterday, he won’t let anyone just use him. And he’ll first ask them what they want. Both of them carry guns in holsters.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘How can I help you? Lambert Benade.’ He offers the one man his hand.
‘Du Pisanie,’ the man says.
‘A pleasure,’ he says. The man laughs and signals to his friend he must also shake Lambert’s hand. The other one’s smoking. He puts his cigarette in his mouth and sticks out his hand.
‘Van der Walt,’ he says, squinting. He shakes Lambert’s hand just very briefly and then takes the cigarette out of his mouth again.
‘Glad to meet you,’ says Van der Walt, blowing out smoke. The men look at each other and smile. He wonders what they think is so funny. Didn’t they specially call him over? Why are they smiling so much, in that case?
‘Gentlemen, may I ask what you wish to achieve by talking to me?’ he asks.
Du Pisanie goes and sits at the table. He sticks his head into the papers. Van der Walt suddenly starts coughing from his cigarette. He turns round and finishes his coughing. Then he turns back again. His eyes are full of tears from all the coughing.