‘Let’s just go home now.’
‘Okay, but let’s just check first.’ Treppie takes the binoculars.
‘Check what?’
‘The moon.’ Treppie turns around in circles with his arms open. ‘They say there’s a man in the moon. But I’ve heard a different story.’
‘Ag don’t talk rubbish, Treppie!’
Now he’s not sure any more which way Treppie’s going. He’s got that twisted smile on his face, only now it’s even more twisted than usual from all the Klipdrift.
‘I heard there’s a cart up there, with two horses in front and two people in the carriage.’
‘Rubbish, Treppie, you’re fucken drunk, man!’
Lambert looks around to see if anyone’s coming. He doesn’t want any trouble now. Suddenly it feels like they’re very far from home.
‘You’re pissed, man.’
‘Not pissed, and not drunk, just tickled. That’s what my grandma always used to tell us. Your prehistoric great grandmother, the one you never met. She said there was a cart on the moon, with a bride and a groom, and two bay horses pulling the cart. On honeymoon.’
‘Bay horses, hmph!’
Treppie stands up straight. He shows Lambert he must get up too. He gets up. He and Treppie cast short little shadows on the stones. They look up into the sky. Thick balls of cloud glide through the open sky. The clouds are black underneath. Their heads look like white stones in the bluish light from above.
‘Check!’ says Treppie.
‘Check what?’
‘The bridal cart, man. Look if you can see the bridal carriage!’
Lambert lifts the binoculars to his eyes. Now he must just be cool here, that’s the best. Maybe it’ll pass.
‘Got it yet?’
‘I’m still looking!’
Lambert finds the moon between balls of cloud. He focuses nearer and further till he gets it nice and sharp. There’s a pale circle around the moon. Pinkish on the inside.
‘Now look,’ says Treppie. ‘That’s Koos Krismis and Laventeltjie, his wife. They’re on honeymoon, there above Klipfontein’s stars.’
Lambert looks. All he sees is the rough surface of the moon.
‘And there, next to the cart, is a wedding guest who wants a lift.’
Treppie’s voice sounds funny. Lambert looks for the guest. All he sees are patches and grey specks. The moon looks grated and chipped.
‘And the groom’s got a knapsack with a guinea-fowl inside. It’s for the pot, for tonight. The guinea-fowl’s head and its blue wattles are hanging out, and there’s blood dripping on to the dirt road.’
No, Jesus! He looks at Treppie. He wants to tell him he’s talking crap again. It must fucken stop now. Wallpaper, he wants to say. But tears are running down Treppie’s face, down into the wrinkles around his mouth. Strange birds call in the dark. High up in the flats, somewhere, doors slam and people shout.
‘There’s a dog running next to the front wheel, with his tongue hanging out.’
‘You’re drunk, man, that’s your problem.’ This is all he can think of saying. Now he just wants to get the fucken hell out of here.
‘Horries,’ he shouts. It makes him uncomfortable when Treppie cries like this, here among the old stones and stuff.
‘She’s wearing a little hat with lace netting, and behind the lace her eyes shine like dew on a spider’s web.’
Treppie swallows a sob. Then he sings:
‘Oh the dog is broken winded
His tongue is hanging out
Oh the dog is spent and footsore
From running at a trot,
From shadowing the bonny bride
From shadowing the groom
’Neath the waxing and the waning
Of the unrelenting moon.’
‘Stop your rubbish now, Treppie, shit and rubbish! The moon’s in the sky and it’s full of holes. Let’s just fuck off from here now.’
Lambert grabs Treppie, but Treppie resists. He steps backwards, letting his unsteady body lean even further back.
‘Maybe it’s rubbish, Lambert, but who’s going to open your eyes for you? Fuck those binoculars of yours, man, fuck them! It’s all in the mind. And what’s in a name? The moon is a sickle, a coin or a pickle, teaching is cheating, God is a dog, just Eve is all side same side. Anything you say. Triomf or Doris Day, we’re here to stay!’
And now, why’s Treppie grabbing his balls? No decency. No, it’s not his balls. Treppie wants his gun! He grabs the gun out of Lambert’s belt and pushes him so hard on the chest that he almost falls into his glory down the pile of stones.
‘Give my fucken gun back!’
Treppie motions from above, he mustn’t worry, he’s just looking at the gun here a bit. He puts the thing against his head, and then into his mouth. Oh shit, here comes trouble! Lambert scrambles back up the pile of stones.
‘That fucken thing’s loaded, man, don’t start fooling around with it now!’ He should have known. That business of taking the gun with them. Another one of Treppie’s plans.
‘Six of the best!’ Treppie holds the gun up high, away from himself. Lambert can’t get to it. Jesus, help! What if Treppie shoots himself here tonight? What’ll he say to Pop? He lunges for Treppie’s arm, but he misses. Suddenly Treppie turns towards the flats.
‘And this one’s for you!’ he shouts. ‘Boom!’ He shoots.
Somewhere in the distance, glass breaks. Oh Christ! Now they’re in big shit here.
‘Boom!’ Treppie shoots another shot at the flats. ‘Zing!’ the bullet comes back. Lambert ducks. No, fuck, how’s he going to stop Treppie now? Without getting a bullet in the head first? Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? He grabs for the gun. He misses, again. Treppie just swings his gun-hand away from him all the time.
‘One for the dog in the moon!’ he shouts.
‘Boom!’ he shoots up at the moon. With his other hand he throws the empty Klipdrift bottle and it breaks into pieces on the rocks. Then the gun falls out of his hand, clanging down. Lambert sees it lying there.
Are you fucken mad or something? he wants to shout, but his throat’s too dry. He hears the sound of people talking, windows opening and closing. Now they must get the hell out of here, fast. So-called fucken outing! He fetches his gun from between two stones. Then he slips his binoculars around his neck. He grabs Treppie and drags him down the heap. Treppie doesn’t want to get up or walk on his own. He’s lying on the ground with a big piece of white headstone in his arms. He wants to take it home for Gerty, he says. Lambert will have to drag him away on his backside, he says, with granite in his arms.
He kicks Treppie to make him get up. But Treppie won’t get up. He falls flat on to his back again, with the slab of stone still in his arms.
‘Chip off the old block, chip off the old moon,’ he cries, with his face on the stone. Tears roll down his cheeks.
Lambert drags him, stone and all. He can’t just leave him here like this. He’d never hear the end of it.
‘Evening, my masters,’ the old kaffir says as they pass. He lifts his hat.
Stupid fucken kaffir, why doesn’t he come and help instead. Can’t he see they’re struggling here? The gun sticks into his belly and the binoculars swing on his neck. Treppie’s so heavy he leaves a trail like a fat python in the rubbish. Only at the entrance does he let go of the stone. Lambert manages to get him over the gate. He’s completely limp. There go his pants too. ‘Grrrr!’
Lambert has to drive. Treppie keeps falling against him in the car. Oh shit, what’s that blue light he can see now in the rear-view mirror? God, is it them they’re after? He changes back to second to get some speed going. The Volksie makes a ‘heeeee’ sound as it goes into third. Now he must just turn into Gerty. Get the police off their back. He checks in the mirror. It’s a van, driving like hell, but it carries on down Thornton. Right. Now Lambert feels sharp. He’s Treppie’s guardian angel. At the bottom of Gerty he takes the turn without even slacking down, and then he goes up into Martha. Here’s their gate. The moon shines bright into their yard. He drags Treppie out of the car and around the back of the house.