Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘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!’

He must close this door, now! In Treppie’s face, so he can fuck off here from his door. He mustn’t come and make big eyes at him now. Treppie looks like he wants to say something with those big eyes of his, like sorry, she’s all they could find and he must just make the best of it. That’s not what he needs now. Right now he’s ready to make a whole new start. That’s what he wants!

He turns around. He feels funny, like he’s too heavy or his feet are sticking to the ground or something. Now Mary’s standing in the middle of the room. She’s looking at the painting above his bed.

‘Holy Jesus!’ she says. She walks closer to the wall, bends down and looks at the postbox, where South Africa begins.

‘Who’s this supposed to be?’ She points to both sides of the postbox.

He moves closer. Just stay nice and calm now. His voice jams. First clear the throat a bit. Yes, like that.

‘This here is Jan van Riebeeck, and that’s Harry.’

‘Harry who?’

‘Harry the Strandloper.’

‘The what?’

‘Harry the Hottentot, man!’

What’s this peeling off here now? Let him scratch it off quickly, then it’ll be okay again. Harry’s got three coats of paint on his body.

‘Government brown. It peels.’

‘I see,’ says Mary, in a shriller voice. ‘Is that how the cookie crumbles around here?’

What fucken cookie’s she talking about now?

He stands away from the bed with his hands on his hips. He feels her eyes moving over him. And now? What’s so funny now all of a sudden? He must have checked in his mother’s mirror at least six times. His back feels strange from walking so upright all the time. Did he say something wrong now, or what?

He hears people talking outside. Pop says: ‘Quick!’ Then the front gate squeaks and the Volla takes off. It’s Molletjie. She roars through first, second and third, and then she’s gone. Now it’s just him here at home. Now he must smile. The time has come to say: We’re on our own now, just me and you. But his mouth opens and closes and he can’t get a word out.

Mary’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a far place. Mister, she says, if you want me to go, I don’t mind. Her voice fades. He tries to cock his ears so he can hear what she’s saying. How do you cock your ears? he wonders. It’s like focusing your eyes, but different.

‘I really don’t mind leaving, you know. In fact, I don’t give a shit! Not this much!’

She clicks her fingers in the air. She doesn’t care shit . No, wait. No, fuck, just hold on a minute now! He sticks out his arms to stop her. No, that’s not what he means, not at all. His feet move towards her. She moves out of his way. She keeps dodging him. Why? He’s not a leper or something, is he?

‘No, no please! I haven’t got the plague, man, please don’t go. That’s just old personal stuff. It’s my hobby. Painting. Wall painting. Yesterday I put the wings on. Finishing touches, like my uncle says. They did it in the churches, overseas, way back, everything had wings on, he says, even the donkeys. My uncle’s a very clever oke, you know, he runs the show here, he’s a very educated man, self-educated and all, he’s a, how do you say it, auto-addict, he remembers everything. Got a photographic memory.’