Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

And he, Treppie, must count his blessings and thank Community Development for giving him an affordable roof over his head. And he doesn’t need to join in the thievery just because he happens to be living among the publicans and sinners in Triomf.

Then Treppie says Pop might have his facts right, but he still draws cock-eyed conclusions. That’s if he manages to draw any conclusions at all. It’s not a matter of sins, he says. It’s a matter of structures. From sub-economic structures you get sub-economic sins. That’s how the thing works. Treppie says for him there’s only one conclusion: Triomf is a place where the state’s one hand washes the other, and then it says you mustn’t come and point fingers, it’s all in the family. All in the backyard. Community Development in the true sense of the word.

BATH

Mol closes the bathroom door behind them. She’s glad Treppie’s mouth is shut tonight. His door too. She’s glad he’s not standing around in the passage, at the end of this Guy Fawkes of a day, to see how she and Pop go into the bathroom together in a pitch-dark house. With a candle. And the lights haven’t even been cut off.

She must say, she wishes she could pull the curtain on this candlelight business. But it looks to her like Pop can’t be bothered any more with pulling of any kind, never mind curtains.

Treppie, on the other hand, would have pulled out all the stops on this little matter, that’s for sure. He would’ve said things about overloads in their top storeys. Or about their nervous systems tripping, or their fuses blowing, and so on. She knows him. He pulls out monkeys from behind every bush.

Pop gives her the candle and takes the mirror out of the bath. He looks around him and carefully places it on top of the bathroom cabinet. Then he takes the candle from her and puts it down in front of the mirror.

‘So,’ he says, ‘now there’s a double light.’

He smiles a little smile at her and then takes something out of his pocket. What now? A bath plug! Wonders never cease.

‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Just got it somewhere.’

‘How?’

‘Picked it up.’

‘But where?’

‘Here. There.’

‘My guess is as good as yours?’

‘Correct.’ They laugh a little.

Shush, Pop signals, they mustn’t make a noise. Just in case Treppie wakes up.

‘Yes, let sleeping dogs lie.’ They giggle.

‘Ee-ee,’ says Toby, in the passage. He wants to come in too.

Pop opens the door for him.

Toby comes in. He sits himself down against the wall and pricks his ears. His eyes are shining — this is a day when the fun and games just won’t stop.

She smiles at Pop. They both know what Toby’s thinking.

‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘now you can run the bath.’

Pop sits on the edge of the bath as it fills up. He starts taking off his clothes. She stands there, looking at him. Never before has she seen Pop undress like this, in front of her, from beginning to end.

‘Aren’t you going to bath?’ he asks.

‘You first.’ Why’s she feeling so shy all of a sudden?

‘No, together,’ says Pop. ‘I wash your back, then you wash mine.’

First he gets lovey-dovey and now he wants to wash her back. Aikona!

‘Come on,’ says Pop, ‘I don’t bite.’

Oh well, it can’t do any harm. She loosens the one button on her housecoat. It’s a very long time since they last bathed together. Never in this house, except that time when she came out of hospital after Lambert stabbed her with a knife. She was lame for a while after that. Pop used to help her into the bath and wash her a bit, but he never got in with her. The last time he did that was in Vrededorp, in the old house. But then there were other reasons. And it was always her who said let’s go bath. That’s what she did when she wanted to go somewhere with Pop and Treppie, or if she wanted sweets or something. Bathing with Pop was the price she had to pay. But it was okay. Pop was soft with her. Most of the time she just rubbed him, or sucked him. And it didn’t take long.

But now she’s not so sure. Maybe today’s been a bit too much for Pop. For all she knows, maybe he did hit overload and trip a fuse today. Maybe he’s getting funny with her. She must try to get out of this thing.

‘My washrag. I haven’t got my washrag.’

‘We’ll make a plan,’ says Pop, standing there in nothing but his vest. ‘We can use this old shirt of mine.’ He picks up a bundle lying against the wall. It’s the shirt he took off this morning, before they gave Treppie a lift to the bus stop. The one with its front part torn out. Now Pop tears off the shirt’s collar too. He pulls off the buttons and puts them down on the cistern.

‘To keep,’ he says. ‘You never know when you might need a button.’ Then he rips off the shirt’s collar. ‘See, now it’s nice and soft.’ He bunches it up in his hands. And now? Now she hasn’t got any more excuses.

‘A towel. There’s no towel here.’

She wants out.

Pop’s knees look like pointy things in flour sacks.

In the light of the candle, the bone in the middle of his chest sticks out. Under his throat, and on both sides of his neck, are deep hollows where it looks like there’s not enough skin. Just a thin layer, like the wrinkled skin of boiled milk.

‘Behind the door, in our room,’ Pop says. ‘My towel’s hanging there. Go get it. No, wait. I’ll do it.’

‘No, I will!’ Now she must be quick.

Pop looks at her. He sees right through her. She doesn’t want to look him in the eye.

‘What’s wrong, Mol?’

‘Nothing.’

But Pop keeps looking at her.

Then she says: ‘You’re a bit funny tonight.’

Pop lets his head drop.

Shame. Maybe he means nothing by wanting to bath with her. Maybe he’s just tired. When he came stumbling out through the smoke this morning, still half asleep, she could see something was wrong. And then there was all that running, round and round the house. He didn’t even get a chance to pull on his pants. And all the people laughing at him over the wall, pointing to his thin little legs sticking out under his vest. Maybe he wants to touch her so she’ll touch him back. Let her just be straight with him.

‘I’d rather not play around with you, Pop,’ she says.

‘I feel …’ Pop says. He points to his whole body, with hands that open and then close again. He can’t say what it is he’s feeling. But she knows.

‘Overload?’

‘Overload.’

‘Me too.’

‘Fused,’ says Pop.

‘Tripped out.’

‘That makes two of us,’ says Pop.

‘Poor us.’

‘Never mind.’ Pop stretches out his arms towards her. She takes a step closer to him. Then he puts his arms around her. He rests his head heavily against her body. She must be smelling sour and sweaty by now. It’s from today’s things, from the deadly panic.

‘I stink.’

But Pop doesn’t mind. ‘At least we still have each other,’ he says.

‘And a roof over our heads.’

She pushes him away. ‘I’ll go fetch the towel. You get in in the meantime.’

‘But you’re coming back to bath with me, hey, Mol? Please?’

‘Okay.’

‘It’ll do us good,’ says Pop.

She goes and fetches the towel in the bedroom, feeling for it in the dark. She doesn’t want to put on the light. Why, she can’t understand. Maybe the dark’s like warm water. And maybe that’s also what Pop’s thinking. Maybe he’s thinking it’ll make them feel better after this day. Each to his own. If she could have her own Guy Fawkes, then she supposes he can play with candles. Just like the dykes. She smiles at herself in the dark. Same difference, as Treppie would say. Every family has its own secrets. And no one’s any better than the other. Her eyes are getting used to the dark now. The small light in the bathroom seems to be lighting up the whole house.