Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘Next door’s complaining,’ she says. She points to the sideboard. ‘Where’s mine?’

‘You’ll get yours when you fucken finish cutting the grass. That’s when you’ll get yours. You hear! Do you hear me!’

‘Next door,’ she says.

‘Fuck next door!’ says Lambert. He pushes his mother on the chest.

‘Sow the seed, oh sow the seed,’ Treppie sings from where he sits. He smiles an old smile. His eyes are shining. When Treppie looks like this, then he’s into the game, then he wants to play along, then things start cooking. Fine, maybe something will cook up here tonight.

‘Mol,’ says Treppie. ‘Mol, you know what happens when the fucken grass is long. You know very well what happens. Then the shit starts flying. You remember what happens, don’t you?’

‘First rest,’ she says. ‘First sit.’ She goes and fetches herself a glass in the kitchen. When she comes in again, she pours herself a drink. She sits down heavily, flinging her legs wide open.

‘Close your legs, Ma, close your legs!’ says Lambert.

Pop lets his head drop into his hands. ‘Lambert,’ he mumbles.

Lambert shoots a look at Pop. If Pop has something to say then let’s hear it, he says. Didn’t Pop hear what Treppie just said about the grass? Or has Pop suddenly gone deaf? And can’t he even feel that long drop of snot hanging from his nose? Must he, Lambert, wipe it off for him?

Pop wipes the drop off with his sleeve.

‘Still is the night,’ Treppie starts singing.

‘Pop,’ says Treppie, ‘Pop, where’s your mouth organ? Hey, Pop, don’t go to sleep now, man. The night’s still young. Where’s your mouth organ?’

‘Leave him,’ says Mol.

‘You leave your glass, Ma,’ says Lambert. ‘That’s what you must leave, now, right this second! Go cut the grass, so we can get some peace around here!’

‘Sweet the moments, rich in blessing,’ Treppie sings. ‘Hell, but I feel like singing tonight.’ He gets up and pours himself another drink. ‘I feel like singing, singing and dancing. Waltzing. I feel like waltzing. And you, Mol, you also feel like waltzing?

‘Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,’ sings Treppie. He does a few steps with his arms held out. ‘Click-click’ go the blocks on the floor.

‘Outside! Get outside and finish the grass! Now!’ Lambert shouts. He plucks his mother up and pushes her out the front door, slamming it behind her. This is no time for dancing.

He watches her through the window. She stands on the stoep with her hands against her sides. Her one side is yellow from the stoep-light. Her other side is blue from the moon. Slowly she moves towards the moon’s side. Where the fuck does she think she’s going now? The mower’s right in front of the stoep. What’s wrong with the old bitch tonight? She must work the machine. She must make a noise. She mustn’t go wandering around now. It’s now or never. He goes out the front and starts the engine. His mother wants to get away from him. She grabs the mower and quickly pushes it away. ‘That’s more like it!’ he shouts after her. Then he goes inside and watches her through the side window in the lounge as she cuts the grass on the moon’s side. The lawn’s looking nice and even. Except for the patch where the grass grows long, near his scrapheap. All Flossie’s old parts. Pieces of the old Austin for just in case. He always keeps things for just in case. Then he knows he can look for things in the scrapheap. But he doesn’t always find what he’s looking for ’cause the grass grows too long around his stuff. Then he burns the grass. When he does that, everything else burns as well. All the metal stuff, till everything’s pitch black. But the grass has to be short, otherwise things get lost.

There she starts on the patches of grass around the scrapheap. Yes, he’s been waiting for it — right over a piece of iron. The engine dies. Sounds like a blade has gone too. Here she comes now, pulling that thing behind her again. He walks to the front window to watch her. She’s standing on the stoep. She’s sniffing, but she doesn’t come inside. She turns around. Then her eyes open wide. She didn’t think he’d stand here at the window and watch her! The old cunt looks scared out of her mind. He must go fix her up.

‘Nearly finished, nearly finished,’ she says as he comes out.

‘This is the last time, you hear me! The last time! You’re looking for me, Ma, and if you look for me you’re going to get me! You’re going to get me!’

‘Okay, okay, Lambert. Just start it for me. Quickly.’

Her hands show he mustn’t hit her, she’ll cut, she’ll cut till she falls over, but she’ll cut. She’s nicely broken in. That’s the way it should be. At least there’s one person in this house who does what he says.

It’s long after twelve. Lambert’s peeping over the prefab wall. He’s wearing nothing but his shorts. The moonlight’s bright now, but it’s still hot. His mother gave him no more trouble. She cut the grass obediently, but nothing further happened, and he began to get sick of starting up the engine all the time. So when Pop said it was time to go to bed he was actually glad. His mother was ready to fall over in any case. And Treppie was so drunk, he’d started shoving handfuls of grass into his mouth, ‘mooing’ like a cow on the front lawn. He had to help Pop carry Treppie inside, the mad wanker. They’re all sleeping now. The house is dark. Now he can peep over the wall in peace. Why Fort Knox stopped complaining he still doesn’t know. Must’ve had too much beer.

It smells of cut grass where he’s standing. They’re playing light music next door. He stretches his neck.

First he sees nothing. Then Blue Bikini and Speedo come shuffling past. Speedo’s got both his hands on her bum. Lambert can see he’s working her bum again. They’re dancing so close you can’t see Speedo’s bulge any more.

The faces aren’t visible but he can hear them kissing — it’s a sucking and spitting sound, like eating a mushy guava, as Treppie always says. Mushy guava and cucumber power.

Pink Bikini and Blue Jeans lie on a blanket. They’re kissing. All he can see is their legs, as far as their backsides. The flap of the canvas sail over the fast-food stand blocks his view. He can see legs folding over each other and feet clawing and curling into each other. The Cotton Prints and the Paunches are nowhere to be seen. Must be sleeping by now. Jesus, he wishes he could see a bit better. If he could just get a bit higher he’d be able to see over the top of the sail. But then he’d have to stand on the prefab wall and he wouldn’t have anything to hold on to.

He goes to his den and fetches some beer crates. He stacks six of them on top of each other, against the wall. Like this he’ll be able to hold on to the gutter with his one hand. But how’s he going to get up the crates? He fetches another three crates to use as a step.

He lifts himself on to the stack of crates by climbing on to the lower lot first. Now he’ll be able to see what’s what in Fort Knox! He’ll be two crates higher than the prefab wall.

As he finds his footing on the topmost crate something starts to wobble underneath him. He grabs the gutter and holds on, but he’s falling. He sees the wall and the middle food stand coming towards his face. It’s the hamburger stand. More than half his body’s already over the wall. He makes a grab for the canvas sail. ‘Crack!’ goes the frame. ‘Grrrts’ goes the flap as it tears in his hands. First he falls a dent into the hamburger stand, then he thuds down on to next door’s cement floor.

The next thing he hears are the screams of the bikini girls.

‘Kiepie, Johnny! Come quickly, it’s that piece of shit from next door again,’ shouts Speedo.