Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘Sweets,’ says Pop.

‘Suit yourself,’ says the girl, giving them a funny look.

‘It’s okay just to eat just pudding, isn’t it?’ asks Mol.

‘Of course,’ says Pop.

‘Then why’s she looking at us like that?’

‘Her arse,’ says Lambert, pulling the plastic card with pudding pictures out of its plastic holder.

‘Why did you let her start with her long story, then?’ asks Mol.

‘’Cause Lambert’s never heard it before,’ says Treppie.

‘We never get to hear it,’ says Lambert. He’s too busy looking at the pictures to see Treppie’s making fun of him. ‘And it sounds good: two hundred and forty gram pure beef patties with the sauce of your choice …’

‘That’s fuck-all too,’ says Treppie, showing with his hands how big the patties are. ‘These places are a rip-off.’

‘Are you two going to order?’ asks Pop. He motions to the waitress to come over. The night’s getting too long now. His hip’s hurting from the long climb up the stairs.

‘Apple pie with ice cream,’ Treppie says to the waitress.

‘A waffle with syrup and cream,’ says Lambert.

‘You should have ice cream, it’s not real cream,’ says Treppie.

’With ice cream and lots of syrup,’ says Lambert, leering at the waitress. She pretends not to hear him.

‘And some syrup for you too,’ he says. ‘You look to me a bit sour.’ Lambert’s smile gets even bigger.

‘Lambert!’ says Mol, kicking him under the table. She smiles at the waitress.

‘A cream-soda float for me,’ she says.

‘Sorry, ma’am, we don’t serve floats, ma’am.’

‘Ma’am,’ Treppie mimics her.

‘Just bring her a vanilla ice cream and a cream soda in a tin,’ says Pop. ‘And a glass and a spoon and a straw. And for me an Irish coffee,’ he adds. Maybe it’ll kill the pain a bit.

‘Make it two,’ says Lambert.

‘Greedy,’ Mol says to Lambert when the waitress goes. ‘You mustn’t start looking for shit here.’

‘Well, this place is also shit,’ says Lambert. ‘This lot here think they’re the who’s who. Just look at them checking us out. Fucken common rubbish!’

Treppie laughs.

‘Come now, my boy,’ says Pop.

When their order arrives, they eat quickly. Pop makes a float for Mol, but the cream soda and ice cream won’t all fit into Mol’s glass.

‘First finish this one, then we’ll make another,’ says Pop. ‘Then we get two for the price of one.’

Lambert finishes his waffle in four bites. He sucks at the Irish coffee.

‘A whisky mosquito pissed in here,’ he says. ‘We should’ve said double. Two mosquitoes. Pssst, pssst.’ He pretends he’s pressing two mosquitoes into the glass with his thumb and index finger.

Mol laughs.

‘Hell,’ says Treppie, ‘the Benades are really on top form tonight.’

A man in a suit comes walking up to them with a big smile on his face.

‘Just watch how they throw us out now, floats and all,’ says Treppie under his breath. Lambert growls, getting ready. He knows his rights. He hasn’t done anything wrong. They mustn’t come looking for trouble with him now.

‘Good evening, people,’ says the man, smiling from ear to ear.

‘Good evening,’ Lambert and Treppie mumble. They haven’t done anything wrong, but they look guilty. Still, no one must come and bug them now. They stare back at the man. All the people around them turn to look as well.

‘Who’s the host tonight?’ asks the man.

‘The what?’ asks Lambert.

‘Who’s paying?’ he asks.

‘Me,’ says Pop, ‘I’m paying.’

‘Well, sir …’

That’s the third time in one day somebody’s called him ‘sir’.

‘I have good news for you!’ the man says, smiling at the other people too.

‘It is my pleasure to announce that you are sitting at the lucky table tonight, the Spur’s lucky birthday table. Your bill is on the house tonight and here in this envelope I have six free meal-tickets worth fifty rand each for you and your family, accepted at any Spur restaurant right through the country and valid for the next six months. Give them a hand!’

He hands Pop an envelope.

And there the whole Spur starts clapping. The man winks at three waiters, who bring three huge bottles of champagne to the table. Corks pop, glasses are brought and the Benades get served before anyone else. Then all the other people also get some of the champagne. A girl in a tiny pair of hot-pants and Indian feathers on her head comes disco-dancing right here in front of them. She goes and sits on Lambert’s lap, proposing a toast to the Benades.

‘Hi, honey,’ she says.

‘I like your feathers,’ says Lambert. He touches the feather-stuff in the girl’s hair. ‘But your legs are cold!’

‘Check Lambert out, he thinks he’s in a movie,’ says Treppie, laughing.

‘In a See ,’ says Mol. She takes a big sip of champagne.

‘Cut it out,’ says Pop. ‘Drink up, Lambert, we must go home now.’

‘With an Indian on his lap! I’m still going to wet myself here tonight,’ says Mol. ‘What shallow little glasses! Let’s use my float glass instead, it’s better.’ Mol grabs the champagne bottle and fills up the float glass. She takes a few more sips.

‘Mol, it’s not a cold drink,’ says Treppie, trying to stop her. But it’s too late.

The champagne’s doing its job. Pop can see her coming loose at the seams, from the champagne, from today and from all the days that came before. ‘I can float to England on this stuff,’ she says. She laughs loudly, wiping tears from her eyes.

‘Come,’ Treppie says to Pop, ‘let’s fuck off now, before Mol starts seeing more roses.’

‘Yes, that’s enough of a good thing,’ says Pop. ‘My leg’s hurting.’

Lambert’s rubbing his own legs. The girl’s gone. All you see of her are some feathers in the opposite corner, among a bunch of men.

‘Lambert,’ says Treppie, ‘you help Pop. Come, Mol!’ he says, pulling Mol out of the seat. She wipes her eyes with a serviette.

Pop struggles to get up. He limps all the way to the counter. Treppie goes with Mol to the car. Pop leans heavily on the counter. The noise of the cash register sounds like it’s coming through a thick cloud. That’s where Lambert finds him.

‘Hey, Pop, we don’t have to pay tonight, remember. Give me those other tickets so I can keep them for you.’

Pop just nods. He limps behind Lambert, who’s pulling him to the exit by his shirtsleeves. At the stairs, Lambert goes two steps down, pulls Pop closer, and then lifts him on to his back. Pop doesn’t resist. He feels like he’s rocking in a thick fog. He sags forward, right up against Lambert’s back. It’s a wide, fat back and it smells slightly sour. He feels how Lambert’s large, warm hands slide in under his bum to hold him up. He suddenly has no strength left, not even enough to hold on to Lambert.

‘Hell, Pop,’ says Lambert, ‘you feel like you’re nothing but air.’

The stairwell lights and the Indian heads pass by Pop’s head at strange angles. He closes his eyes. His ankles knock first against this side of the wall, then that side of the wall as Lambert carries him down the stairs. It feels like he’s going faster than he really is.

Pop pushes his head down a bit, into the space between Lambert’s shoulders. He feels like he’s slowly melting back into the place he came from, a place he doesn’t know any more.

Where does he end and Lambert begin? He doesn’t know. This morning’s feeling is back again. But not just in his shoulders. He can feel it everywhere. Outside, on the pavement, he feels it in the air too. Pure honey syrup. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Without stopping and without end.