Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

Should she go make some tea? she wonders, to bring some relief here.

‘Detention without trial!’ says Treppie. ‘Article Twenty-nine! Mind you, there’s a new rumour doing the rounds. Want to hear?’

Yes, they want to hear, Pop nods.

‘They say Robben Island’s not going to be a prison any more in the New South Africa. It’s going to be a museum. But that makes no difference. They’ll still need Lambert there. He’ll be indispensable. Behind glass. Instead of Bushmen and Hottentots. Then he’ll be able to demonstrate nicely, hey?’

‘Give back my fucken gun!’

‘Aren’t you tired of your own voice yet, Treppie?’ asks Pop. ‘Don’t you think you’ve showed off enough for one day?’

‘Yes, ask the fucker, ask him!’ says Lambert. He lunges for his gun, but it’s not necessary. Treppie gives it to him nice and neatly, with the grip facing forward. Lambert puts the gun under his pillow. Then he sits down on top of the pillow, on top of the gun.

No, Pop needn’t worry, says Treppie. Everything’s okay. He’s finished playing games. Now he’s coming to the serious business.

What serious business? In that case, she’d rather play games.

‘You want to know what it is, hey, Mol?’ Treppie says.

Treppie can see right into her head, that’s for sure. Never mind, he says, she must strap on her life-jacket, so long, and Pop must throw the goat overboard and then comb the horizon, ’cause this leaky boat of theirs is heading for the rocks, fast.

She sees Pop looking at Treppie and wondering, what now? She also wonders, but Treppie’s on the move again.

‘Now, where were we?’ he asks Lambert.

‘Oh, yes, you came back from Triumph by night and you looked at all the paintings, from Genesis right through to Revelation. But wasn’t your time up by then, Lambert? Hell, man, we had to drive a hard bargain for that slut, my man. And in the end she wanted two hundred rand just for one hour. Look, you have to realise, she wasn’t exactly on a special offer, unless she was on top of you , old boy.’

‘She didn’t say anything about time,’ Lambert mumbles. He doesn’t look Treppie in the eye. He’s looking at the wall.

‘She visited nicely here with me, and I’d watch out if I were you, ’cause she said she’s coming again next week. I told her she’s welcome, we’ve got plans for when the shit starts flying.’

Treppie holds up his hand. What did Lambert say, there?

‘For when the shit starts flying, Treppie, and you can take that stupid joke of yours about the broken fan and shove it right up your arse!’

‘In it goes!’ says Treppie, pretending to stick something up.

‘I hope it does something for my constipation. Then at least there’ll be one thing left in working condition in Triomf after the election, even if it’s only a working stomach!’

‘Shuddup, you!’ Lambert shouts at Treppie. Now he’s talking to her and Pop. It sounds like he’s begging.

‘There’s no more apartheid, so she could easily come with us and everything. I told her we don’t mind smart Coloureds like her.’

‘Try for white, I see!’ says Treppie. ‘And then I suppose she went and powdered her nose?’

Now he makes as if he’s in the bathroom, pretending to powder his nose.

‘Mary, Mary on the wall

Who is the fairest of them all?’

he asks a make-believe mirror here in front of him.

‘And then she saw, oh Lord, but I’m not a blonde mermaid on the roof-rack of a Volkswagen. And then that mirror cracked into little pieces, all over the bath!’

Or can Lambert tell them how the mirror got into the bath? Did they do it on top of the mirror, inside the bath, under the water? Hell, that takes his mind very far back, he says. Can she, Mol, still remember those naughty days?

No, Treppie. She shakes her head. He must really stop now.

‘Well,’ Treppie says to Lambert, ‘maybe I’m the only one, but I remember well, your mother was still very young, and she used to take her older brother in hand too, in the bath. Those days her little brother was still very small, smaller than her, but when his sister got tired, then kid brother just had to take over. And you wouldn’t say it today about your mother’s older brother, would you, but in his young days he just couldn’t get enough. There was no satisfying him!’

She can feel Pop looking at her, but she’d rather not look back right now. She looks at Lambert. Thank God in heaven, it doesn’t look like he’s clicking. He just looks upset. Thank God he’s got other things eating him today — a broken shoe and a headful of hair. A hangover on top of a night that went soft on him. He won’t be making any missing connections today.

‘Ag, you’re just talking shit, Treppie. Just shuddup!’ he says.

‘Yes, Lambert, he’s just talking shit!’ Her voice comes out louder than she means it to.

‘Now listen to me carefully, both of you. It’s not a shit-story, it’s the story about how everything began. And if there’s one thing about a good story it’s that it has to have a beginning. The second thing that makes a story good is that it must be true. Now this story is a true story, as true as true can be. And the third thing about a good story is that no one must ever have heard it before. Okay, granted, the only one here who hasn’t heard it is Lambert, but where will you find a better audience than Lambert? Like a lamb to the slaughter. Innocent! Those who don’t know won’t be punished. So it is written. And I, for my part, don’t take punishment for other people. So Lambert must hear the story. He’s grown up now. He can hold his own. We know that. He can fix fridges, he can drive a car, he can shoot, he’s been recruited and he’s just been serviced, so why can’t he know where he comes from? It’s his right, isn’t it? Or what do you two say?’

Treppie looks at them and then he looks at Lambert. Treppie’s face looks like he’s making ordinary conversation on an ordinary day. He takes out his pocket-knife and begins to clean his nails with long, fancy strokes. ‘Grrtt-grrtt!’ goes the knife under his nails. He holds them out for inspection. He’s not happy with them.

He’s talking to Lambert, glancing at him sideways as he scrapes.

‘You’re a person who knows your rights, hey. You must stand up for your rights. That’s what I say. And this right is a basic one. It’s your birthright, and that’s a human right. To know about your, er, origins.’

Treppie stops talking. He holds both hands out in front of him. Now he’s satisfied. ‘Click’ goes the pocket-knife as he closes it again. He puts it back into his pocket.

‘Anyhow,’ he says, ‘everything in good time, right? Where were we now? Oh yes, the mirror in the bath. And what else? The postbox. Just imagine. After all this time, that postbox is still an invariable in this story of ours. You weld it, you paint it, but when you look again, it’s fucked up and it’s lying in a whole new place. But this time, Lambert, the angle of displacement is a little too wide. On the lounge floor! Via the window! A spot of wet peace in the heart of Jo’burg.’

Via.

‘Ja, Mol, via, Via Dolorosa. But let me finish questioning Lambert here. Come, Lambert, explain a little now. When you and Mary came back from wherever, you were so, er, hard-up, that you rather went for the postbox instead, hey? But that hole in the front is too small, if you ask me. And its sides, wow man, they’re a bit on the sharp side, not exactly what I’d call, er, nesting material, er, for a pecker, er, I mean, even if it was a Sacred Ibis or, er, a pelican or something like that! But that’s the only way I can figure out how it came flying through the front window. Some or other monster of a pecker. Shot clean off its pole. Maybe it was a freedom dove!’