Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

And she thought to herself, if Pop could do it then she could do it too. So she said: ‘Sis man, Treppie,’ as if he’d only farted. She thought if she acted like his whole dreadful sermon was no more than a smelly fart, he’d maybe shut up by himself.

‘Sis man, Treppie, sis man, Treppie!’ he mimicked her.

At that stage she already saw foam bubbling in the corners of his mouth. Pop still tried to put his hand on Treppie’s shoulder, but he slapped that hand away like it had stung him. He grabbed Pop by his shirt and shook him so hard his head jerked to and fro. Toby was going crazy behind the closed windows of the car. He thought they were playing a game and he didn’t want to miss out on the fun. Then she remembered how poor old Gerty always knew the difference between fun and fighting. But what would poor little Gerty have done on this koppie tonight? It was more than just an argument, it was like Jacob wrestling with the angel, if she remembers her Bible correctly. Treppie began pushing Pop further and further backwards over the patches of grass next to the road. She could see them getting knocked over if they didn’t watch out. Careful, she tried to say, but there was no stopping Treppie.

‘Brother Addlebrain!’ he shouted. Shove. ‘Brother Stickdick!’ Shove. It was terrible. And then he wanted to know what Pop’s dick was looking like nowadays ’cause he thought it must be looking like a five-day-old Russian behind the counter at Ponta do Sol. That dick of Pop’s was the place where all the trouble started, he said. He had to suck Pop’s dick like it was a lollipop, remember? And he hadn’t understood anything, he was still too young, but when the lashes were dealt out he was always the only one who got them. And why had Pop always just stood there with big eyes while he got the hidings, while he got beaten to within an inch of his life? Would he just answer that one question for him? Would he, please?

Then, thank God, a car came driving up the hill, slowing down and shining its lights on Pop and Treppie. The car was full of people stretching their necks out the window to see what was going on. The three of them must’ve looked like wild buck or something with their eyes shining in the dark. It was a chance for her and Pop to stop Treppie’s shoving. Pop said he was cold and if they all got back into the car, he’d tell them a story.

Treppie, she said, the people are staring at us. She knew Treppie hated people looking at him. He’d rather get back into the car than be looked at. But this time she was wrong. Treppie showed them the finger and then he walked quickly towards the car, which was now idling on the slope. ‘Kaboof!’ He slammed the roof with his hand, so hard that the driver clean forgot how to pull off. You just heard gears crunching. In the middle of the crunching she heard Treppie screaming at them. They could watch if they wanted to, there was a variety concert here under the Brixton tower tonight, and if they stayed a little longer they could hear a story too, a story by Old Sweet-Sucker over here. ’Cause very soon the Benades would be flying off into their glory, anyway, and then no one would’ve heard their story. They must be on the look-out, next time he’d send out complimentaries for the famous Benade roadshow, ta-te-raa, the tallest story in the western suburbs, better than any cowboy movie they’d ever seen. Good value for money. Then that driver finally got his bearings and pulled off up the koppie. ‘Doof!’ Treppie kicked the bumper as it took off. Only then was he ready to get back into the car, but Toby first wanted to take a little walk. So they all stood there and looked on while Toby found a pole to piss against and a patch of grass on which to do his business. He bent his back and stretched his neck and pushed out a long turd, followed by a few small ones, ‘clip-clip-clip’, and then he did a few little back-kicks, making the stones fly out behind him.

Aaah, said Treppie, lucky dog. At least one of them had found some relief here tonight. They might as well get back into the car and listen to Pop’s story now. And it’d better be a good story, he was fed up with fucken fairy tales full of forgiveness, fed up with fucken ocean liners with forgiveness in champagne glasses on all three decks, allow me to top you up, sir.

See-saw. That’s what she says.

So, that was the end of Treppie’s sermon on the mount.

And only then was it Pop’s turn to preach. They should be grateful she isn’t one for sermons, ’cause then their bums would’ve all been worn down and they would’ve needed an interval, first. It makes her tired just thinking about everything that went on there tonight on top of that koppie.

Mol winds down the window. The rain has slowed down a bit. She feels in her housecoat pocket for her cigarettes. Only one left. She was smoking one after another there under the tower tonight, but she wasn’t smoking any of them right down to the end. She kept throwing them away half finished, ’cause every five minutes there’d be a whole new flare-up all over again. Now she’s struggling to get her lighter working. She has to turn it upside down before it takes. No wonder, after all that lighting up to look at Treppie’s scars. Lighters weren’t made for inspecting damage in the dark. She looks at Pop. The way he’s sitting there now you wouldn’t say he could string so many sentences together. His head is propped up against the window and by the light in the parking lot she can see the little hollow above his collarbone in front where his shirt hangs open. It looks like the skin on top of boiled milk when it goes cold — like fine little crinkles. She has to look long and hard before she sees the shadow of a pulse under his skin. When they all got back into the car on the koppie and Pop started talking, she prayed that he’d just keep going. He even held up his hand to show Treppie he didn’t want to be interrupted. Clever old bugger. He started by buttering Treppie up. More than butter. Toffee! He said it was true, all of them would’ve come to nothing if it hadn’t been for Treppie. As it was, they were little more than skin and bone, but without Treppie they wouldn’t even have cast a shadow. Then Pop stopped talking ’cause he couldn’t find the exact word to describe how important Treppie was in their lives. By now she’d caught on to Pop’s plan and she thought, let me quickly chip in here. She had just the right word for him: ‘Vital ingredient’. That was exactly the word, Pop said, winking at her to say thanks. Treppie was their vital ingredient, he said, and he wasn’t really talking about Treppie’s job at the Chinese either.

Of course not. Treppie says he does odd jobs for them, servicing their fridges and writing up their menus in English, but she thinks he just sits there and gambles. Gambles and plays the horses. Sometimes he’s suddenly flush and then for weeks on end he’s broke again. So she agreed with Pop, it wasn’t really a matter of working at the Chinese. Pop said what he was really talking about was wiring. Treppie kept them wired up with his stories ’cause Treppie always had an angle on a thing. He always saw a corner or a twist or a side or a colour in a thing, no matter how flat and white and nothing that thing was.

Then she saw Pop’s eyes starting to shine like in his younger days when he had a plan. She could see he was getting right into the heart of his sermon now. And so she also began to feel stronger.

But that was only one side of the matter, Pop said. Yes, she said, it was just the one side, and then she threw in one of Treppie’s favourite sayings: ‘It takes two to tango.’ Spot on, she was spot on. Pop squeezed her hand a little so that Treppie wouldn’t see and he said, spot on, now she was reading his thoughts. Spot on.

The point was, Pop said, and he turned around in his seat, pointing his finger to the back, but she quickly took that finger out of Treppie’s face. She knew that was another thing Treppie couldn’t stand. A finger pointing in his face.