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‘Me too,’ says Mol.

  ‘Steak roll,’ says Treppie.

  ‘And a boerewors roll for me,’ says Pop.

  Pop smiles at the black woman behind the glass counter. She must fix up their food nicely.

  While they wait, they look around Ponta do Sol as if for the first time.

  Lambert picks up a See, puts it down again and then picks up a Getaway. He pages through the magazine, showing Treppie a ‘full frontal of a bushveld baboon’. The baboon’s yawning.

  ‘Look at his teeth,’ Treppie says to Mol.

  ‘Look at his you-know-what,’ says Mol.

  When their food’s ready, Pop stands at the counter to pay. Lambert brings four Cokes.

  ‘What about cigarettes?’ asks Pop. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but buys everyone a pack of twenties. John Rolfes for Treppie and Paul Revere for Lambert and Satin Leaf for Mol. He’s been telling her for a long time now Lucky Strikes are too strong. For himself he buys Consulates, in a tin, instead of his usual Van Rhijn. And why not? He feels like a new person. They all feel new. Good evening, they nod at other people, and then they smile when the people nod back.

  Halfway out of the shop Lambert turns back. ‘More salt!’ he says as he catches up with them again, holding up a bulging serviette. ‘They always put too little on the chips.’

  Pop takes a different route through the rain, over the Westdene Dam and towards the city.

  ‘Where you going now?’ asks Mol.

  ‘Wait and see,’ says Pop.

  He turns right into Kingsway, past the SABC and then up the steep hill.

  ‘Just look how they’ve gone and built here,’ says Treppie. There’s a big white building on top of the koppie, with its bottom sitting in a dam full of fountains.

  ‘Ja,’ says Pop, ‘there used to be nothing but koppie here. But you can still see the view from the top.’

  He parks the car in the small open space across the road from the tower, with its nose pointing north so they can see the whole city – from Northcliff on the left, across Emmarentia, right up to the other tower in Hillbrow. Big bolts of lightning flash across the sky.

  ‘So,’ says Pop, ‘now we can see nicely.’

  ‘Just like bioscope,’ says Mol.

  ‘Silent movies,’ says Treppie. ‘We have to say what’s happening.’

  ‘Psssht’ goes Lambert’s Coke as he opens it. ‘How’s that for sound-effects?’

  ‘Sweet heavenly Co-o-ke!’ Treppie sings.

  ‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘get that food out. I’m feeling peckish now.’

  Mol hands out the packets. She feels each one to find out which is which.

  ‘Don’t squeeze my fish like that,’ says Lambert.

  ‘It’s not your fish, it’s Pop’s boerewors,’ says Treppie, laughing. ‘What will become of the Benades if they can’t squeeze each other a bit,’ he says.

  ‘Go squeeze yourself, man!’ says Lambert.

  ‘Hey!’ says Pop. ‘Give it a rest.’

  They eat in silence.

  Lambert takes out his salt serviette and offers it around.

  ‘How’s that taste?’ asks Pop after the first few bites. The car reeks of take-away.

  ‘Tastes good,’ says Mol.

  ‘Nice, nice,’ say Lambert and Treppie.

  ‘You smiling yet?’ Pop asks Mol, looking her way. He’s feeling happy. She doesn’t say anything.

  ‘She’s smiling, she’s smiling,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Now, Pop, tell us more about those scratch-cards, man. You ate the mango; twice you gave twenty cents for charity; then what?’

  ‘Well, then it was my turn.’

  ‘What gave you the idea?’

  ‘Just a feeling. Just a feeling like it was going to be a good day. Suddenly the booth was right in front of me and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what kind of luck Pop Benade’s got today. And then I won. Three times in a row.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ says Lambert. ‘And I’ve been buying them for two years at the Post Office without ever winning a cent.’

  ‘You just have to choose the right day, that’s all,’ says Pop. ‘You get good days and you get bad days.’

  ‘What’s a good day feel like? When is it ever the right day? What cock and bull story are you cooking up again?’ says Treppie, his mouth full of steak roll.

  ‘You feel it in your shoulders when you wake up in the morning and put your braces on,’ says Pop. He’s talking softly. He doesn’t want to wake sleeping dogs.

  ‘Ag bullshit,’ says Lambert. ‘And if you don’t wear braces? Then I suppose you can’t ever have a good day, or what?’

  ‘You just feel it in your shoulders, that’s all,’ says Pop. He should never have opened his mouth.

  ‘How?’ asks Treppie.

  ‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘eat your chips.’ Gerty sits at her feet. Mol feeds her little pieces of fish and chips. The dog is all attention – her ears stand up and her eyes are big and shiny.

  ‘Hell, it’s only pouring now, hey,’ says Lambert.

  The rain’s coming down harder all the time. Pop switches on the wipers. Lightning flashes all around them, breaking in strips and spots and glows. And there’s no end to the thunder – quick, close slashes, and then hard, tearing sounds.

  ‘Flash!’ says Lambert.

  ‘Well, naturally,’ says Treppie.

  ‘No, man, I meant it looked just like Flash Gordon was here.’

  ‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie. ‘It looks more like the Lost City to me. Opening night.’

  ‘Guy Fawkes,’ says Mol. ‘Fireworks.

  ‘Peking Ducks,’ she says, raising her voice on purpose.

  ‘Is Ma going to start with all that again?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Pop. He points to Hillbrow. ‘On this side it looks like a creeper with shoots. Shoots of morning glory or something. Every time it flashes you see more flowers on the shoots, blue ones with white in the middle.’

  ‘No, fuck, Pop,’ says Lambert, ‘your food’s nice, but when you talk shit you talk shit!’ He slurps down his Coke and then he burps. He’s having a good time. ‘If you ask me, it looks more like a couple of okes sitting behind a dirty window, welding a helluva long silencer on to a Mobil lorry or something,’ he says.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ says Mol, ‘have another look … there it is!’

  ‘Morning glory, that’s what it is,’ says Pop. ‘Grandfather’s Hat, as the old people used to say.’

  ‘Take your pick,’ says Treppie, ‘it’s all in the mind. Welding flames, morning glories, grandfather’s glory, it’s all in the mind.’

  ‘Pop’s mind is a bit soft today,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Well,’ says Pop.

  ‘Pop’s fine,’ says Mol, ‘leave him alone.’ They’ve all finished eating now and they’re folding up their greasy papers. Mol gathers the left-overs together. For Toby, when they get home. Only Gerty’s allowed to eat in the car. She doesn’t mess. She’s a dainty little dog.

  They all open their new cigarettes and light up. The smoke makes Mol cough. ‘Open the windows a bit, it’s stuffy in here.’

  The side windows at the front and back are opened just a little. ‘Don’t let it rain into the car,’ says Pop.

  Mol draws deeply on her cigarette. She’s feeling strong again. ‘Now let me tell you what I see,’ she says.

  When Mol starts like this, it’s always about the old days. Peking Ducks in the old days. Pop puts his hand on her leg, to remind her she must go easy, this is dangerous territory; and to comfort her, ’cause it’s in the past. The lightning flashes deep yellow tufts in the sky in front of them, lighting up the inside of the car. Pop sees the faces of his people in the strange light. They look yellowish, but they’re happy. Especially Mol. She smiles an ancient little smile.

  ‘Here, right in front of us, I can see roses. Big bunches with lots of roses, or a single open rose with thick petals; it just depends how you look.’

  ‘Take your pick,�
� says Treppie.

  ‘Whisky Macs. Whisky Macs in full bloom. Almost ready to throw away.’

  ‘Fuck, Mol, are you sure you didn’t add something to your Coke there in front?’ says Treppie. ‘It’s not nice to drink on your own, you know.’

  Pop signals with his head for Treppie to shuddup.

  ‘Just watch,’ says Mol, and everyone waits, watching for the next flash. Then it comes. A big, round ball of yellow light, with darker, orange circles arranged more densely towards the middle. The lightning flashes from inside a cloud. Its edges and layers bubble outwards, and the whole thing really does look like a rose.

  ‘Whisky Mac!’ says Mol, slapping her legs with both her hands. Then her voice disappears in a tremendous smack of thunder.

  ‘I see it too, Ma,’ says Lambert, suddenly all polite.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ says Treppie. ‘When it comes again, you lot must watch carefully. It looks like a rotten old arsehole, man.’

  ‘Treppie,’ says Mol, ‘you see arseholes wherever you look,’ and then, on a sudden impulse, she adds: ‘It’s ’cause you give everyone such a huge pain in the arse!’

  ‘Jeez, Ma!’ laughs Lambert, like he can’t believe what he just heard.

  Pop also laughs a little.

  ‘Well now, Mol, Klipdrift or not, from where I sit you’re on top form tonight,’ Treppie says, laughing a crooked little laugh.

  ’Our old Molletjie,’ Pop says softly.

  ‘Now, if you look this side,’ says Mol, pointing to Northcliff, ‘then you’ll see something else: closed ones, closed buds. On their stems.’

  Pop looks. Good for you, old Molletjie, now you’re back with us. Everyone waits and watches. The rain has quietened down a bit, falling softly on to the car’s roof. The city’s lights seem small and remote to Pop after the spectacles of light in the sky they just saw. His heart feels warm. The day’s holding out. His hip hurts a little from the weather, as always, but that’s nothing. Then, just above Northcliff, lighting up the whole ridge, they see it, one, two, three, a whole row of flashes, each one with a pinkish, closed bud on its tip. On the stem they see flat, silver leaves trembling as if in a stream of warm air.

  ‘There they are!’ shouts Mol. ‘Prima Ballerinas, all in a row, on their toes, with pretty little ballet dresses!’

  Pop claps his hands. The dogs start barking.

  ‘Let’s go now,’ says Treppie.

  ‘That was very nice,’ says Lambert.

  Pop starts the car. The wipers go slowly back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Who’s for pudding?’ asks Pop.

  ‘The last of the big spenders,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Me,’ says Mol, throwing her cigarette butt out the little side window. The roses were there for everyone to see – now no one can tell her she’s talking rubbish.

  ‘Me too,’ says Lambert.

  ‘As long as it’s not take-aways. I don’t eat take-away pudding,’ says Treppie. ‘It melts and drips all over the place.’

  ‘No,’ says Pop, ‘we’re going to the Spur.’ Everyone’s quiet.

  ‘Which Spur?’ asks Lambert.

  ‘Wait and see,’ says Pop. He coaxes Molletjie down the steep hill, past the SABC. At the bottom he turns left into Empire and then right again into Melville’s main street. He stops in front of the new Spur. They wait for a CitiGolf to pull out and then park in the same spot. Between a Honda Ballade and a Ford Capri.

  ‘Comanche Spur, I say,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Look, it’s their birthday. Look at the banners,’ says Treppie, pointing.

  Pop sees a banner on top of the building: ONE YEAR COMANCHE SPUR. COME AND JOIN OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS.

  ‘You got enough money?’ asks Mol. She sounds nervous.

  ‘About fifty rand,’ says Pop. ‘Is that enough?’ he says, looking at everyone with a big smile on his face. Then he switches off the car.

  They go in at the bottom. A few young men who look like students brush past them in the doorway. They stare at Lambert, who stands there in his bare feet.

  ‘You could at least have put some shoes on,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Fuck shoes,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Or your smart pants,’ says Treppie.

  ‘Fuck pants and fuck you too. Look at you, you haven’t even shaved, and you’ve still got Elastoplast on your head!’ says Lambert.

  ‘Treppie!’ says Pop. Treppie mustn’t start now.

  ‘Hey! Behave yourselves,’ says Mol.

  Pop looks at his people. They don’t look so good under the Spur’s stairway lights. He wonders how he and Mol look. Ag, what the hell. They are what they are. He looks up at the steps. Can’t see where they end. He hadn’t thought of steps.

  ‘You two carry on,’ he says to Lambert and Treppie. ‘Go ahead and get us a table. I’ll be there in a minute. My leg’s sore.’

  ‘Let me help,’ says Mol, taking him under the arm. ‘One at a time,’ she says, ‘then we’ll be up in a jiffy.’

  It hurts, but Pop climbs. One at a time. First the good leg, then he stands on his toes a bit and pulls the bad leg up behind him. After every few steps, they rest. They struggle like this all the way up the first lot of stairs.

  ‘If people come walking past now,’ says Pop, ‘then we must stand to one side.’

  ‘They can wait,’ says Mol, ‘we’re also people.’

  Wooden eagles and big Indian heads look down on them from the stairwell walls.

  ‘What are these?’ asks Mol, touching a green plant in a pot against the wall.

  ‘Cactuses. Be careful, they’ve got thorns,’ says Pop.

  ‘They haven’t. Feel,’ says Mol.

  ‘They’re not real.’

  ‘Cactuses,’ says Mol, ‘hmph!’

  Now they’re on the landing. One more set of steps.

  ‘Come, let’s first sit for a while,’ says Mol. ‘First rest a bit. Does it hurt?’ she asks.

  Pop nods. They go sit on the landing’s little bench. More people come walking up. Out of the corner of his eye Pop sees Mol ironing down the flaps of her housecoat to make sure they cover her legs and knees. She puts her feet together neatly and folds her hands on her lap. The people stare at them as they pass by. Pop covers Mol’s hands with his own and gives her a little squeeze. He winks at her. She touches her hair at the back.

  ‘Come,’ she says when the people have passed. She takes him by the hand and leads him slowly up to the top. It’s almost dark upstairs.

  ‘Can I help you,’ a man asks.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mol.

  ‘Yes, our people are here already,’ says Pop.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the young man says slowly, ‘I think I know where they’re sitting.’ He leads them down a passageway. Mol’s so nervous she starts giggling.

  ‘Here you are,’ he says.

  Lambert and Treppie sit with their chins in their hands, listening to a waitress telling them the specials, all in a row: ‘… and our other special is the Spur Birthday Hamburger, which is two hundred and forty gram pure beef patties with the sauce of your choice in a bun sliced three ways. Then there’s the Special Spur Birthday Spare Ribs, which are—’

  ‘No thank you,’ says Pop.

  ‘Just pudding,’ says Mol.

  ‘Sweets,’ says Pop.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ says the girl, giving them a funny look.

  ‘It’s okay just to eat just pudding, isn’t it?’ asks Mol.

  ‘Of course,’ says Pop.

  ‘Then why’s she looking at us like that?’

  ‘Her arse,’ says Lambert, pulling the plastic card with pudding pictures out of its plastic holder.

  ‘Why did you let her start with her long story, then?’ asks Mol.

  ‘’Cause Lambert’s never heard it before,’ says Treppie.

  ‘We never get to hear it,’ says Lambert. He’s too busy looking at the pictures to see Treppie’s making fun of him. ‘And it sounds good: two hundred and forty gram pure beef patties with the sauce of
your choice …’

  ‘That’s fuck-all too,’ says Treppie, showing with his hands how big the patties are. ‘These places are a rip-off.’

  ‘Are you two going to order?’ asks Pop. He motions to the waitress to come over. The night’s getting too long now. His hip’s hurting from the long climb up the stairs.

  ‘Apple pie with ice cream,’ Treppie says to the waitress.

  ‘A waffle with syrup and cream,’ says Lambert.

  ‘You should have ice cream, it’s not real cream,’ says Treppie.

  ’With ice cream and lots of syrup,’ says Lambert, leering at the waitress. She pretends not to hear him.

  ‘And some syrup for you too,’ he says. ‘You look to me a bit sour.’ Lambert’s smile gets even bigger.

  ‘Lambert!’ says Mol, kicking him under the table. She smiles at the waitress.

  ‘A cream-soda float for me,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, we don’t serve floats, ma’am.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Treppie mimics her.

  ‘Just bring her a vanilla ice cream and a cream soda in a tin,’ says Pop. ‘And a glass and a spoon and a straw. And for me an Irish coffee,’ he adds. Maybe it’ll kill the pain a bit.

  ‘Make it two,’ says Lambert.

  ‘Greedy,’ Mol says to Lambert when the waitress goes. ‘You mustn’t start looking for shit here.’

  ‘Well, this place is also shit,’ says Lambert. ‘This lot here think they’re the who’s who. Just look at them checking us out. Fucken common rubbish!’

  Treppie laughs.

  ‘Come now, my boy,’ says Pop.

  When their order arrives, they eat quickly. Pop makes a float for Mol, but the cream soda and ice cream won’t all fit into Mol’s glass.

  ‘First finish this one, then we’ll make another,’ says Pop. ‘Then we get two for the price of one.’

  Lambert finishes his waffle in four bites. He sucks at the Irish coffee.

  ‘A whisky mosquito pissed in here,’ he says. ‘We should’ve said double. Two mosquitoes. Pssst, pssst.’ He pretends he’s pressing two mosquitoes into the glass with his thumb and index finger.

  Mol laughs.

  ‘Hell,’ says Treppie, ‘the Benades are really on top form tonight.’

  A man in a suit comes walking up to them with a big smile on his face.

  ‘Just watch how they throw us out now, floats and all,’ says Treppie under his breath. Lambert growls, getting ready. He knows his rights. He hasn’t done anything wrong. They mustn’t come looking for trouble with him now.