Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘Auntie, Auntie,’ says Speedo, ‘it’s like this, Auntie, I’m feeling too hot to get dressed. This way I can at least cool down a bit.’

Everyone laughs.

‘Come, let’s get the eating done now,’ says Little Flowers, ‘look how late it’s getting. Otherwise that meat sits too heavy on my stomach and then I can’t sleep.’

‘Okay, Mom, we’re just waiting for the pap and sauce to warm up a little here,’ says Johnny. ‘Make sure it doesn’t burn,’ he says to Kiepie, ‘I’m going back to get some more beers.’

‘Check if the baby’s still sleeping,’ Pink Bikini tells him. Blue Jeans rubs her on the shoulder.

This is how Lambert peeps at the people in Fort Knox. He listens to them as the moon shines blue light across his back. He watches how they take their seats on plastic chairs. He sees Big Flowers dishing up everyone’s plates to the brim, there at the stoep-table. He can see three bowls of salad, one with bananas in yellow sauce, one with tomatoes and lettuce and one with potato salad. There’s a T-bone and a piece of wors on everyone’s plate. And a heap of pap with sauce on top. They have to push their food back on the plates; there’s so much, it wants to fall off.

‘Now, let’s first drink to Fanus and Yvette,’ says Hairy Paunch.

‘Happy first anniversary,’ says Little Flowers. Blue Jeans’ and Pink Bikini’s faces turn towards each other across the plates of food on their laps.

Lambert hears them kiss.

Now that they’re sitting, all he can see is the top half of their bodies and the bottom part of their faces. Large bites disappear into half-mouths.

‘Well now,’ says Big Flowers. She holds her plate in both hands on her lap. ‘You wouldn’t say we’re in a recession now, would you?’

‘Eat your food, Ansie,’ says Little Flowers.

‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ says Speedo.

‘So, Kiepie,’ says Johnny, half laughing, ‘you figure the kaffirs are going to come and take their houses back, here in Triomf?’

‘Ag no, man,’ says Pink Bikini, ‘don’t start with that again, you know how upset Ma gets.’

‘Yes, don’t upset me,’ says Big Flowers, taking a large mouthful of pap and then a bite of wors.

Upset, Lambert thinks, upset! They reckon they know what upsets them. Let them just sit there nicely and eat their fucken T-bones. ’Cause right now his mother’s going to cut the grass. She doesn’t know it yet, but that’s what she’s going to do. Then they’ll see what upset means. The kaffirs wanting their places back is nothing, completely fuck-all. He’s going to set the blades so the revs run nice and high. And he’ll put too much oil in so the machine comes out smoking blue. He’ll see to it that the whole lawn gets cut, front and back, in the bright light of the moon. He’ll upset the whole of Triomf. It’s not just other people who can make a noise around here.

He walks with long strides back to his den, in through the back door and over the crates and pipes to the inside door.

‘Ma!’ he shouts down the passage before turning back to get the lawnmower from his room. Then again: ‘Ma!’ he shouts over his shoulder as he pulls the lawn-mower out from under the blankets in the room. And once more: ‘Ma!’ as he drags the lawn-mower, ‘rickatick-rickatick’, over the loose blocks into the lounge.

And then, again, as he walks in through the lounge door, he shouts so loud that the windows rattle: ‘Hey, Ma! Get yourself ready to cut. The grass is long!’

He pulls the machine into the middle of the lounge. Then he bends over, shoves open Pop’s knees, and drags out his toolbox from under Pop’s chair. He wants to set the petrol to ‘open’, but the lever’s broken, so now he needs long-nosed pliers to shift the broken piece of stub. But he can’t find the pliers. The fucken thing isn’t in his toolbox. With one flick of his arm he turns the whole box upside down on to the lounge floor. ‘Kabam!’ Pop rises slowly from his chair. He’s reaching out in the air for Mol. She’s been up a while already.

‘Where’s the oil? Where’s the petrol?’ he shouts at them. ‘Come, come, you’re all half-dead in this house. Move! It’s Saturday night!’

Treppie comes in, leaning against the lounge door. He says nothing. He squints at Lambert.

‘Hey, what you looking at, Treppie? What you looking at?’ Lambert shouts as he scratches among the heap of tools on the floor.

‘Me,’ says Treppie, ‘I’m looking at a mad fucker with a big dick, scratching around for small pliers on a Saturday night.’

‘Viewmaster,’ says Mol, lighting up a smoke. It looks like she’s surrendered. She’ll go through with it. Whatever.

Lambert’s up in a flash. He takes one stride towards Treppie and then lifts him up into the air by his shirt. Treppie has to stand on his toes. He shouts into Treppie’s face. Treppie turns his face to avoid the spray.

‘Now let me tell you what it is you see, you fucken bastard. You see a plastic pipe behind the bathroom door, and you see a fucken funnel in the den under the bed. You see an empty Coke bottle in the same place. You see how you siphon petrol until that bottle’s full and then you fucken see how you bring that bottle here. That’s what you see! Don’t look for shit with me now. Move it! Go siphon some petrol!’ He lets go of Treppie in mid-air.

Treppie finds his footing again, ironing out his clothes with quick, sharp little plucks at the edges.

‘Go siphon your own petrol, you mad fucken arsehole,’ he says, turning back to his room.

‘Hey,’ says Lambert, starting after him.

‘Hold it, hold it,’ says Pop. ‘Leave Treppie alone, I’ll get the petrol.’

‘Okay,’ says Lambert, ‘but let me tell you one thing tonight …’ And he turns around to face Pop and his mother, to tell them something as they stand there, next to each other, with their careful faces. ‘… and I’m going to say it just once.’ He wants to say it just once to his mother, who’s standing there and fingering her bun. And he wants to say it just once to Pop, who’s standing there half-asleep, pulling his braces over his shoulders with his thumbs. He wants to tell them, the two of them standing there like they’re going down an escalator into a big dark hole — he wants to say it to them, but then he says nothing. He’s forgotten what he wanted to say. It was too much to say. His eyes burn and his throat feels tight.

‘The GTX,’ he says instead. ‘The GTX. It’s under my bed. Don’t open the full can,’ he says, swallowing down the burning feeling and blinking. ‘There’s a can that’s half-full. Bring it here.’

He looks down. The long-nosed pliers. It’s fucken lying right in front of his fucken feet. He picks it up and goes down on his knees next to the mower. He sets it to ‘open’.

Mol fetches the oil while Pop siphons some petrol. Treppie’s swearing in rhymes in the passage: ‘Dammit, fukkit, dogshit!’

That’s better. He feels much better now. At least now there’s some action. A person can’t sit around like this and do nothing on a Saturday night.

‘Sow the seed, oh sow the seed of the watermelon,’ he sings as he sets the blades higher.

‘Shuddup!’ Treppie screams, but Lambert just sings louder.

‘We must get a better siphon,’ he tells Pop after they fill up the mower. ‘This one messes too much.’ He’s talking loudly.

Pools of oil and petrol spread over the parquet floor. Mol goes to the kitchen to fetch a rag.

Lambert wants to start the lawn-mower, but the cord’s slack. ‘Grrr!’ He pulls. ‘Grrr, grrr!’ Once more: ‘Grrr!’ ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Fuck this piece of rubbish!’ He kicks the lawn-mower.

Treppie walks past in the passage, looking into the lounge.