Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

She closes the bathroom door behind her and takes off her clothes. Pop moves up so she can get in behind him. The bath’s nice and hot. And full.

‘Wash nicely now, Molletjie.’ Pop passes her the shirt-washrag over his shoulder. She rubs soap on to it. Pop’s back is right in front of her. Hard and white like the trunk of an old bluegum. There’s more strength in there than she thought. A mystery like death. She shivers.

‘This old back of yours,’ she says, just so Pop won’t start wondering why she’s so quiet.

‘Now you. Turn around!’ says Pop.

Their bums get stuck. As they turn in the bath, their bodies make noises. Water spills over the edge. Toby wants a closer look. He wants to lick their wet arms with his long, red tongue.

‘Hey, you!’ Pop splashes Toby. ‘You wanted to bath, didn’t you, so there! Old Toby-dog. What do you know about life, anyway?’ Pop rubs his wet hand between Toby’s ears.

Now it’s her turn. Pop squeezes hot water from the shirt on to her back. Ow, it burns. But she says nothing. He’ll start thinking she’s a ninny.

‘Looks like you were in the wars, old girl. Full of bruises and scratches.’

It must be from this morning. She remembers bumping and scraping against things as she ran down the passage with that car seat. It was too wide. And her back was against the wall most of the time, first this side, then that side. It was more than the wars, it was hell! ‘Hell.’ She’d rather not think about this morning.

‘Never mind,’ says Pop, ‘it’s all over now.’

She wonders if Lambert’s come to yet.

‘When we finish washing, we can go see how things are looking at the back,’ he says.

They wash in silence.

‘Ja, well,’ they say as they help each other out of the bath. Suddenly they face each other, stark naked. She gives Pop the towel. He must dry himself off, before something in his body snaps. But he takes it out of her hands. What now? Now he’s starting to dry her off! She can do that herself! But Pop doesn’t want to stop. She pushes him away, but he insists. He’s on his knees in front of her, with the towel in his hands. It’s as if he wants to give her something. She looks down, at where he’s drying her off, at her old legs, her shins that are full of dents and cuts. Between her legs he dries, her worn old skin, her folds and her belly that sticks out. And her breasts that hang down over her stomach. One by one, softly, Pop lifts them up and dries underneath them.

‘Turn around, Molletjie.’

She doesn’t want to. In front is one thing, but behind is another story.

Pop doesn’t want to listen. He wants to dry her off everywhere. He says he’s counting his blessings.

He dries her sore back, dabbing softly with the towel. She must lift up her arms, he says. He wipes the drops from under her arms, and he dries her hollow, woolly armpits. Then he wipes the big, flat moles on her upper arms, carefully, as if they’re sores. And her buttocks. She knows how they wobble when she walks. And inbetween too, in her crevice, which she feels is getting broader and flatter these days, as if her buttocks want to pull apart towards the bottom. And the back parts of her thighs, all puffy and full of blue veins — she knows, she’s looked at them in the bedroom mirror. He doesn’t miss a single spot, but he’s like someone who’s lost his way.

That’s enough now, she motions with her body. But Pop keeps looking at her. God knows what’s gotten into him.

‘You know what I see, Mol. I see time passing. It passes, together with blessings. You count them like seconds. They don’t stand still, they just pass.’

Suddenly Pop pushes his head into the hollow of her hip. A shudder passes through his body. Now Pop’s crying. From bathing with candles. Oh yes, she saw it coming. But what’s she supposed to say to him now? All’s well that ends well? That he can stop now, everything will be okay? But how can she say that to him, now? ’Cause she can see the row of knobbly bones running down the middle of his back, right here in front of her, and she knows he’s crying about everything. About everything that’s just more of the same in their lives. And in the end it’s all nothing.

She’ll put on a brave face. She’ll say the best thing she can think of, under the circumstances.

‘A person can cry, Pop, but actually you should laugh, man. It’s like Guy Fawkes. A few little crackers and a rose or two up in the sky. Poof! Poof! Then it’s over. In two ticks! Before you can say Tom Thumb!’

She takes Pop’s head in her hands. She wants to look into his face so he can see her smile. When she smiles, he always smiles back at her. But Pop’s neck is stiff. She can’t turn it. All she can see is one side of his face, from an angle above him.

Elephant eye! Looking out from a hole, a faraway, dark place, with an old wrinkled eyelid that half covers the eye. And the wrinkles underneath, down and across, from so much looking out. And tears! But not elephant tears. Human tears! ‘Plop-plop-plop!’ they fall on to her feet. Thick, fat, lukewarm tears. Dear Lord, have mercy!

She feels her own breath coming quickly now, her own heart skipping a beat. She doesn’t want to look at that eye of his any more. Not at his mouth either, Pop’s mouth that’s all in a pout with crying. Just like an elephant’s. All he needs now is a long trunk reaching out blindly into the air. Reaching out for her! No! She mustn’t start thinking about elephants now. Better not.

‘Ag, Pop man, you’re making me all dirty again with these tears. Watch or I’ll have to take another bath.’

Pop knows all too well it’s getting a bit much now. He tries to make a joke, sniffing inbetween the words.

‘You should be glad, old Mol, at least there’s still some moisture left in me!’

But the joke doesn’t come off. And now he’s really crying. Now she also can’t take it any longer. Dear Lord, Jesus. She can’t hold it back any more. She joins in, nothing to be done, she’ll cry with him a little. She goes and sits flat on her backside, next to him, there on the cold cement floor. Weighed down by all the crying. Toby pushes himself between their legs. He licks their tears.

‘Hell, old Toby, and we haven’t even had a drop to drink!’ says Pop.

Mind you, maybe that’s just what they need right now. A stiff tot to fix them up a bit.

‘All right,’ says Pop, ‘maybe that’s just the thing.’

He blows his nose into the wet rag. Then he passes it to her so she can also blow her nose.

‘Get dressed, Mol, I’m going to get the sideboard keys out of Treppie’s pocket.’

He knows he’s taking a chance. A naughty little look breaks through the misery on his face.

‘Just watch me,’ he says, worming his wet arms through his shirtsleeves. Then he’s out of the door, in nothing but his shirt. In the candlelight, his thin, white calves look like little dry sticks.

MAN OF STARS

They walk to the den, each with a glass in hand. She holds the candle on its little lid. Pop’s got the Coke and the Klipdrift. He pulls up crates so they can sit on either side of Lambert. He puts down the candle next to Lambert’s head. The flame throws funny, dark little patches over Lambert’s face, and long, pointy shadows on his painting; the one of their house and the things in Africa. Toby sits near Lambert’s feet.

They sit down. Washed clean and done now with their crying, they look at Lambert lying there on his back. Only his head sticks out from under the worn old blanket. Funny shadows play on his face. He snores quietly. Pop sits back a little.

She holds out her glass for Pop to pour. He pours for both of them.