Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘Then I told her, that may be the case, turning-point and everything, but it’s fuck-all compared to the way I can turn on a point. I’m the turning-point of Triumph, I told her, just watch how nicely I can turn! Corkscrew!’

Corkscrew. What’s so funny about that now? But Lambert thinks it’s very funny. ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ he laughs at his own joke. Treppie laughs with him. ‘Hee-hee-hee-ha-ha-ha!’ Treppie shows with his hands how Lambert turns on a point. ‘On a pin,’ he says, ‘neat as a pin in Triomf!’

‘And then she wanted to dance as well.’

As well. Hmph! Lambert’s telling lies here, she can see it on his face. He thinks he can lie to Treppie. Treppie looks like he can see the dancing before his very eyes. He’s putting on a helluva big show again.

‘Classy girl, hey, and then you two rock’n’rolled until the legs fell off these chairs, hey?’

Treppie’s up in a flash. He sings:

‘When I was a little bitty baby

My mamma would rock me in the cradle’

Out comes his foot now. He pretends he’s dancing, but he’s not dancing, he’s kicking. He kicks the bed’s leg, ‘crack!’ It sags slowly on to its one side.

‘Whoof!’ says Toby.

‘Oh, shit, sorry, old Lambert. Just a little accident,’ he says. Just look how sorry he looks.

First he sprayed beer and now he’s kicked the bed, but it’s all just a little accident. As if there isn’t enough of a mess in this place already.

Lambert mustn’t worry, says Treppie, if he just gets off the bed for a second he’ll shift a crate underneath. Then everything will be fine again. There, see? No problem at all. And if it wasn’t rock’n’roll, then what kind of dance was it?

‘It was a slow dance,’ says Lambert. Mol can see he’s holding himself back. She saw how long it took him to weld that leg back on to the bed. He doesn’t sit down again. He props himself up against the wall.

‘It was a shuffle,’ he says. ‘On Highveld Stereo.’

That’s just what Treppie wants to hear, ’cause now he’s standing at the ready with the radio that he just picked up from the floor. The radio’s in its glory. Its insides are hanging out on the one side.

‘I see,’ he says. ‘Cheerio, Highveld Stereo!’ he says, throwing the radio down on to the floor with a ‘crack!’ and then kicking it under the bed. Toby thinks it’s for him to go fetch. All you see is his tail wagging as he dives under the bed, chasing after the radio.

Does Lambert remember what song it was? Treppie wants to know. The song they were shuffling to.

No, says Lambert, he can’t remember so clearly now, but it was a Jim Reeves song. A Golden Oldie. Oh yes, she can see a thing coming now, now Treppie’s head’s working like a clock.

‘Soft guava!’ he shouts. Doesn’t she and Pop also think this calls for a demonstration? There he goes again. No stopping him. Pop sinks deeper into his chair here next to her.

‘Mary, marry me,’ Treppie sings. He makes his voice deep and smooth, like Jim Reeves. Too many voices in there for one voice box, she always says.

Now Lambert is moving. He unsticks himself from the wall, bends down and grabs that broken leg, swinging it at Treppie.

‘How do you know it was that song? You fucken bastard! How do you know? Did you fucken stand outside and listen?’

Treppie stumbles backwards over the newspapers. ‘Hold it, hold it!’ he says. It’s all just a coincidence. They all heard the song on the car radio, and if Lambert really wants to know, he should ask his mother, she’s the one who wanted to listen to the radio. She wanted to be with him in spirit, she said, and there was nothing like love songs, she said, to transport her spirit.

‘She said!’ Sis, Treppie! It’s not her who’s been looking for trouble here. Why’s he doing this to her now?

‘Not so, Mol?’ Treppie asks. Now he stands there looking all innocent. But he doesn’t really want her to say if it’s true or not. He wants to sing. He’s holding that little heel-less shoe tightly, with both hands, in front of his heart, and he puts on a face of love and yearning. He sways on his feet, like a little tree in the wind.

‘I hear the sound

Of bugles blown.

Far away, far away.

‘Tate-raaaa-tate-raaa!’ he blows on his trumpet inbetween the singing.

‘Lambert,’ Treppie calls between his singing. ‘Come show us quickly how you shuffled, man, or we’ll start thinking you’re telling lies again!’

‘I’m not lying!’ Lambert shouts. ‘We danced the whole fucken place to a standstill, man!’

Well, then there’s no need to be so modest, says Treppie, then he must come here and show them. God, what now? Now Treppie’s got Lambert round the neck and he’s making rude movements. He’s pushing his hips between Lambert’s legs.

‘Where’s the guava, where’s the guava? Oh shit! No guava and no cucumber either!’

Sis, Treppie, sis!

Toby jumps up against them. This looks like a nice game. If she’d been a dog she’d have thought so too. But she isn’t a dog.

Lambert shoves Treppie so hard that he almost lands with his backside in the fridge.

‘My goodness, Lambert, are you trying to send me to the cooler, old boy?’ says Treppie, as if honey’s dripping from his tongue, but he’s up on his feet again, ready for more. If only Pop would do something.

Well, says Treppie, if he’s not good enough, then Lambert must try his mother. ‘Nothing like a mother’s touch!’ he says. Treppie plucks her clean out of her chair. Now he’s putting that wig on her head! Here she stands, and no one’s even helping her! Pop just looks at her with those dead eyes of his.

‘Woman, behold thy son,’ Treppie shouts.

He shoves Lambert right into her. She feels Lambert’s arms going around her. He squeezes her so hard her voice goes ‘eep!’

‘La-la-la-eep!’ Treppie sings.

‘Shuddup! Shuddup!’ Lambert shouts.

Lambert’s pushing her across the floor like a wheelbarrow. Newspaper and glass under her feet. Lambert’s barefoot. Doesn’t he feel anything?

‘Shuffle, Ma, shuffle!’ Lambert shouts.

Pop’s holding his head in his hands.

Toby barks.

Treppie sings his song.

‘Just you shuddup!’ Lambert shouts at Treppie. He’ll sing his own song, he says, and she must keep her feet together, she must keep them flat on the ground so he can demonstrate, Lambert shouts. From the one side of the room all the way to the other side. All you hear are feet. Now Lambert starts singing.

‘Rock me gently

Rock me slow’

he sings, but his voice is low and tuneless. She can feel his voice trembling against her body.

‘Yippeee!’ shouts Treppie. He claps his hands and whistles. ‘Just check, Pop, just check how our old sis here can still soft-guava with this boy-child of ours. A person would swear they’re sweethearts. Our own sleep-in Cleopatra, queen of the hive. We needn’t have spent so much money at all ’cause what more does a person want now, hey?

‘Take it easy, don’t you know

That I have never been

Loved like this before.’

She squirms but Lambert’s holding her so tight she can’t even breathe. He shuffles her right up to her chair and then shoves her so hard she sits down with a ‘hic’.

‘Ai, ai, ai,’ says Pop. His eyes are wet.

‘So, are you lot satisfied now?’ Lambert asks. ‘I shuffled that darky until she couldn’t any more, ’cause that’s what she wanted. After a while she didn’t even know where she was.’

Darky? Why’s he calling her a darky now? Does Pop know?

‘Ja, Ma,’ says Lambert. ‘He knows, him and Treppie. They think they can bring me a Coloured floozy for my birthday.’

‘And then he kissed her!’ Treppie sings.