Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

Here she comes with her lighter. Come closer, she motions. He doesn’t trust this.

‘I don’t bite, honey. Come, let me light your fire.’

There’s that half-grin again. That tongue, licking her lips.

Grin back at her, Lambert. Now you’re even her honey! But it doesn’t sound right to him, this ‘honey’. And what’s this about a fire? He still doesn’t feel warm. He feels strange and cold. The insides of his hands are sweating.

He leans over. No one has ever lit up for him like this, let alone a woman.

‘Chick!’ goes her lighter as she flicks it on. ‘Sssss!’ goes the little flame, here next to his face. Those longs nails right here next to his cheek. Christ! Now he’s gone and breathed too hard. Out goes the lighter. God in heaven!

‘Easy, boy!’ She flicks it back on again.

Now he gets it right. He leans back in his chair. Man, this cigarette’s going down well. He takes deep pulls. Nothing helps like a nice deep pull. He feels a slight shudder down his tail-end.

From where he sits he has a full-frontal view of his fridges. The cigarette’s helping, but it’s not helping enough. And his fridges can’t tell him fuck-all, either. They look fucked. Small and dirty and fucked out.

He steals a glance at Mary. She also says nothing. She’s smoking with her eyes screwed up, drinking her Coke in small sips. She doesn’t take her glass away from her mouth.

Now their conversation mustn’t go and dry up. If push comes to shove he can always go and fetch the TV from the lounge. Maybe there’s a scary movie on Bop, or fast American news, there-then-here-now. If only Treppie was at home. He would have known what to do. But maybe not. Treppie would’ve stuck around too long, until it was too late for him to make his birthday happen.

He sees her looking at her watch. She looked just a minute ago. Ten to twelve. Time to try another angle.

‘So what do you think’s going to happen on the twenty-seventh?’

‘Why?’

Why? Why? He’s not fucken asking her which side the sun rises every day.

‘Well, uh, it’s a turning-point in the history of our country!’

She gets up quickly.

‘Jesus Christ! You need to find your own bladdy turning-point. Come on , now!’

What’s that she’s taking out of her bag? She throws it down on the bed. Fucken FL’s! Right, if she can push, he can also push.

‘Are you challenging me, lady? I’ve got my own, you know. Rough Riders. Very nice. So get ready for a bumpy ride!’ He gives her a fat wink. Now he must move!

‘Shall we dance first?’ Turn up that radio. For Christ’s sake, let’s have a good song now! ‘Just right for a cheek-to-cheek, hey. Nice song. Jim Reeves. Golden Oldie. Big fan of Jim Reeves. Do you know him?’

‘Lord, have mercy!’

Just look how she flicks away that stub with her fingers! Not bad! Stamp on it, girly, stamp on it with that dainty little shoe of yours. That’s more like it. A bit of a temper is better than nothing. Here she comes, on her high horse.

‘That’s what I like in a woman! She must be game for everything!’

Now he must hold her tight. Like the heroes in the movies who dance close with their girls. Soft guava! That’s what Treppie always says when those scenes come up. Soft guava and cucumber power!

Here she is, now. Right up against him. With that shiny hair of hers right under his nose.

‘So, what are you waiting for, Prince Charming?’

She smells sweet. Too sweet.

His hands feel her hands taking hold of them. She puts his hands on to her hips.

‘Come on, Lambert, we haven’t got all night.’

Now she’s swaying her body into his, but the beat isn’t actually right for a slow dance. She pulls him so he can start moving. No one has ever pulled him like this before. His hands slide further and further down her dress. Smooth, no funny bumps. No, hell, wait. He moves his hands up again. Rather listen to Jim Reeves.

Mary marry me

Let’s not wait

The time we have

Is all there is

And then it might be too late.

‘Do you hear that?’ She’s pulling him by the jacket now. ‘The time we have is all there is.’

But now she’s starting her shit again. Here comes more loosening of buttons. This time it’s his buttons. Three, four, five, look how quickly she works those thin, brown hands of hers. Christ, those red nails here high up against his white skin! Well, at least it’s just here around the top. Don’t lose it now.

‘You know what we call this type of dance, Mary?’

She shakes her head so hard the curls whip into his nose.

‘Soft guava, we call it the soft guava.’

‘ Papkoejawel! You think I don’t know that word?’ Mary laughs.

He doesn’t like that laugh. Is she trying to play the fool with him or something? Let him rather laugh along. Ha-ha-ha! Then he can button up his shirt again, pour himself another drink. If she wants to laugh she can sit down and laugh till she’s finished.

‘So, you can speak a bit of Afrikaans?’

Now she’s suddenly packing her cigarettes back into her bag. Where does she think she’s going? Maybe she thought he was talking about her guava.

‘Look here, man, what do you take me for? The man in the moon? Of course I can speak Afrikaans.’

‘I thought you were a Creole, from Creolia or someplace!’

‘Creolia? Ha-ha-ha! Very funny. A Creole, lat ek vir djou sê , Mister Ballroom Champ, is ma’ just a lekker coffee-colour dolly what can mix her languages. So if that’s your problem, if that’s what’s putting you off, I’ll just leave sommer right now. I’ve got my money. I’ve got nothing to lose. Time’s nearly up anyways.’

24:00, it says on Treppie’s clock — radio. Forty!

‘Please, please don’t go. I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.’

A darky. So, that’s what Treppie was making big eyes about. Well, he’s not bothered by a piece of coffee-skirt, if that’s what Treppie’s idea was. A bit of the dark stuff is no problem for him!

A neat brandy. Without Coke. Then he’ll be ready. ‘It’s all right, man, anyway, you are so nice and smart with your make-up and everything, I bet you can actually pass for white any time, Mary, hey? You get my drift? I mean, it can’t be too difficult for you. What about another Coke, hey? With half a tot? What do you say?’

Dead silence here behind him. What’s it this time? He turns round. Mary’s looking at him with wide eyes that shine like daggers.

‘You bastard! Look at you! Look at this place! Who the hell do you think you are, hey? You’re not even white, man, you’re a fucken backward piece of low-class shit, that’s what you are. Useless fucken white trash!’

‘Excuse me? What did you say there? Is there something wrong with my ears or is somebody calling me a piece of shit in my own house?’

Now all hell is loose. But no one can teach him anything about talking shit or making shit. If this off-white number doesn’t watch out he’ll knock her and all her shit as flat as a pancake! Yes, retreat, retreat, you’d better, you toffee-cunt. Let her, she can’t get further than that inside door. He sees her feeling for the inside door’s handle.

‘You’re too late, Mary, too fucken late! Rather give that hand of yours here.’ He locked that door before she came, early tonight, to keep out his mother. And Treppie. They said they were going out but you never know with them. Fuck, if only they were here now, then he could go and call them to come help a bit. Then they could all help him to put this cheeky slut in her place, for once and for all.

‘I said, let go of that door!’

Her breath’s on his face now. Her mouth is thin. She’s got lines round the outside of her mouth. ‘Zing!’ goes his head. Through the zing he picks up a song playing on the radio.