So she said it was nice of him to smile for a change.
Ja, said Pop, he could go ahead and smile, it wouldn’t kill him.
But then she looked at Pop and saw that he was looking straight ahead of him. He wasn’t smiling at all. Suddenly he looked like the whole world was pressing down on his shoulders.
She had to nudge him three times and tell him it wouldn’t kill him to smile either. And only then did he smile for her. He opened his eyes wide and gave her a look that said, everything’s okay, she mustn’t worry.
Well, by then they’d outstayed their welcome on that koppie. They’d had enough looking at lights and listening to sermons and drinking Klipdrift. And they were hungry. So they drove to the all-night café in Brixton and bought some take-aways. Nice sloppy hamburgers. Between the bites Treppie said he reckoned Lambert was doing an epileptic striptease for that floozy in his den right now. But neither she nor Pop thought it was funny and Treppie didn’t say anything more on the subject.
Then they went for a joy-ride, all over the place. She thought now she was finally going to see the end of Jo’burg, but the lights just carried on and on, forever.
Where did they stop? she kept asking. Treppie said she should understand, a city like Jo’burg was like a human heart. It was boundless. There were as many lights in a city, he said, as there were hopes and plans in the human heart. Then Pop said, ai, that was now really nice and philosophical, Treppie should write it down sometime.
And then they were allowed to switch on the radio again. First it was speeches by that Eugene-man, explaining how Paardekraal was a beacon in the nation’s history, and how the Waterberg was the place where the soldiers of Jesus were being trained to defend God’s chosen people on earth against the black heathen hordes. It turned out to be Radio Pretoria, broadcasting from Blackangle. Another city.
Treppie said that lot were sitting in more dark corners than they realised. Then he started singing ‘Jesus bids us shine with a pure, pure light’ before switching to another station. Highveld Stereo. Just love songs, one after another. But Treppie was on form again, and he made them laugh by changing the words of all those love songs. Like the words for ‘Distant Drums’. Treppie made up his own ballad to that tune, about Eugene Terre’Blanche and all the different colours of his underpants, with bits of speeches inbetween about how the mummies and the daddies and the grandmas and the grandpas and the dogs and the cats and everyone must learn to shoot with stolen guns, ‘boom! boom! boom!’ It was very funny.
And they even stopped to buy soft-serves before going to Zoo Lake. To rest a bit, Pop said, but they all fell asleep very quickly.
Mol turns around and makes big eyes at Toby. ‘Whoof!’ says Toby. Oh God, she didn’t mean to make him bark now. Toby jumps out of the dicky, over Treppie and into the front. He’s tired of sitting in a car. He wants out. Mol opens for Toby so he can go for a walk. Her too, she also wants to stretch her legs a bit. She walks around the back of the car. Raindrops glisten on the car’s roof. She looks out, first to one side, then to the other. Her neck is stiff from sitting. She sees the sky’s getting paler on the one side.
‘Come, Mol, we’re going now.’ It’s Pop, he’s awake.
‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Ja, fine,’ says Pop. ‘Just not enough.’
They drive home through the grey morning and smoke a last cigarette for the night. Treppie says right now a cup of coffee would hit the spot. She asks Pop if he thinks everything at the house is okay. Pop says he can feel in his bones everything’s just fine.
‘All quiet on the western front,’ says Treppie. They take the top route, along Jan Smuts Avenue. The big lorries are on the road already, splashing water on to the Volksie’s windscreen as they pass. Pop switches on the wipers. In Empire he turns down his window for some fresh air. Deep in the hearts of the trees, she hears the sparrows starting to chirp.
LAMBERTUS AND CLEOPATRA 
It’s a quarter past eleven.
There’s a soft knock on Lambert’s outside door. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat-tat’. He knows that knock well. It’s Treppie’s ‘look who’s here’ knock.
Take a deep breath. Stand up. Stomach in. Back straight. Now, slowly to the door, just like he practised it, with footsteps like those in the movies when you see someone’s feet walking in the underground parking but you don’t know who it is, and you figure it’s the unknown hero.
Let him first check if everything’s ready: rose, sheets, lounge chairs, fridges, service counter, all glowing in the red light. It looks full and empty at the same time. A carpet, he could at least have got a piece of carpet somewhere for the cement floor in front of the chairs. Or in front of the bed. There’s a stabbing feeling in his tail-end.
The doorhandle feels cold in his hand.
‘Ta-te-ra-a-a-a-a!’
It’s Treppie. He’s blowing through his fist like a trumpet. Pissed again.
‘Triomf, Triomf, the time is ripe and here comes the stag over the hills!’
Treppie shows with his one hand how the stag approaches, but it looks like the stag’s doing something else. Christ, can’t he fucken behave himself just once? With his other hand Treppie pulls someone into the light.
‘Straight from Cleopatra’s Classy Creole Queens! Meet Mary, the Creolest of them all!’
Mary. She looks at him. She looks like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Well, neither can he.
‘Lambert,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Lambert Benade.’ Now he must greet her nicely. A firm handshake, but not too firm, like Treppie said. The way he tried it out with his mother.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says, just the way he practised it, over and over again.
‘Hi,’ is all she says. ‘Mary.’ She doesn’t take his hand. She looks over his shoulder, into the den. She’s standing right here in front of him.
Her whole head’s full of shiny little curls. Her face is thin. It looks tanned, with lots of make-up. And her mouth seems a bit too big. But her lips are shiny and she’s not sucking them in like his mother does. Red, her lips are red. Her shoulders are high, like she’s pulling them up to say she can’t help it, or sorry, she doesn’t know what to do. She needn’t worry. He’ll show her everything. He’ll show her everything very nicely. A bag hangs from one shoulder on a long, thin strap. She’s got tiny, shaky little hands and she’s holding one hand inside the other, in front of her bust.
‘Well, I leave him in your capable hands, Mary, my dear! I hope you have a Creole of a time!’ Treppie squeezes Mary’s shoulder as if he’s known her for a long time. Is she maybe his piece or something? No, he doesn’t even want to think about that. She doesn’t look Chinese, anyway.
Treppie winks at him. For fuck’s sake, this isn’t the time for winking!
Now he must stand aside so she can come in. He wants to take her softly by the arm and welcome her into his den. Help her up the step. Show her that he knows his manners at all times and in all places, whether she’s Chinese or Creole or whatever.
But his hand comes up too fast and he grabs her too high. She feels soft and slippery. He can see she’s upset about his hand touching her like that. Maybe she noticed his buggered fingertips. But that’s nothing. Apart from his fingers he’s okay. She’ll still see. Completely okay.
‘Steady, old boy,’ he hears Treppie say. ‘Don’t grab, it’s bad manners.’
Treppie must shut his mouth now. Fast. Couldn’t he see it was an accident, that high tackle?
‘Don’t worry, Mary, old Lambert here is fully domesticated. Our local hero with a heart of gold. Meek as a lamb!’