Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

Sometimes they have interesting conversations.

But as soon as it gets interesting, Treppie starts fucking around.

Lambert looks at Treppie next to him, here on the lawn. ‘Wakey-wakey!’ Treppie says. ‘All is quiet on the white side of Ontdekkers.’

The helicopter turns to the Bosmont side.

Martha Street’s residents go back into their houses. The moon’s sitting high.

‘They’re looking for a Hotnot,’ says Pop.

They stand and watch for a while as the helicopter searches, up and down, up and down, its red tail-light flashing. The searchlight cuts Bosmont’s dark streets like a thin, blue probe of glass. Sirens wail all over Jo’burg. Shots go off on Ontdekkers.

‘Who’s shooting?’ his mother asks.

‘Those are just the taxis that are missing, Ma.’

‘It’s Jo’burg that’s missing,’ Treppie says.

‘Her points are dirty. Her timing’s out. Who’ll give Jo’burg a service?’ he sings. Treppie started hitting the Klipdrift early tonight.

Lambert goes back to his den. There was nothing special on the go tonight. He went up and down Martha Street and then into Gerty and down Toby, to the bottom, where he always checks out the cars on the big advertising boards.

Those boards have long strips running downwards. First they turn one way, then the other, making a ‘ting!’ sound after each turn. And there’s a different picture each time.

Tonight it was a car driving through a veld fire.

Metallic blue . ‘Ting!’ It curves!

‘Ting!’ Opel Kadett 140.

And then it starts all over again. The blue car with its wheels in the fire. No one inside.

‘Ting! Ting! Ting!’

Over and over again.

Then the moon rose like a big, yellow ball above the advertising board.

And then he thought, no, now he’d better go home.

He goes round the back way to his den. Once inside, he feels for the key at the back of the Tedelex’s ice-box. He unlocks the steel cabinet and takes out his binoculars. Should he strip them? He once opened a kaleidoscope that Treppie brought home from the Chinese, just to see how it worked, how it made the little patterns that were all the same but also all different. But the pieces of glass fell out and he couldn’t get them to fit together again. Common piece of Chinese rubbish. Anyway, a Chinese is a sort of a Hotnot. The Japanese are the ones with real class, Treppie says. They’re honorary whites. They can make motorbikes. Suzuki, Kawasaki. Sounds more like Zulu to him.

He lies back on his mattress. The mattress he inherited from Pop and his mother. They actually went and took the new one for themselves. They say if he wants to burn his own bed he mustn’t complain about what they give him. Mind you, theirs is also not brand new, it’s a second-hand mattress from the pawnshop in Brixton, with an inner-spring. Not bad. And they bought a base, too, a shaky one, but what the hell. Now at least there’s one decent bed in the house. When his girl comes he’ll swop the mattresses around. They mustn’t try to stop him. You can’t let a guest sleep on a fucked-up piece of old sponge on the floor.

He focuses his binoculars on SUPERBEE. He sees it from so close that all he can make out are some of its parts. It takes him a while before he realises he’s looking at SUPERBEE’S body. Then he clicks it’s the middle sting, the one curling round the cloud. He can see on the black line how his hand was shaking when he got to the narrow part at the end. He looks down, at the wings, where the world shines through, softly blurred with spit between the veins. Yellow grass and red aloes. This bee’s more than a Superbee. This bee’s heavenly! It should actually be called ANGELBEE. Maybe he can still change it. Same number of letters. He’ll first have to paint white over SUPER and then write on top of it again.

He looks at his painting. There’s still a helluva lot to do. Lots that he has to fill in. Here and there he’s drawn a piece of outline. Most of the squares only have names. He looks at the names. Actually, everything should get wings like Angelbee. Angelbee’s got a vibe. None of them must lie thick or heavy or flat on the earth. They must fly. Things that can fly up into the air have vibes from other worlds.

Termite angel. Angel wasp. Heavenly rats and moths. Angels for Africa. Then the whole ceiling can get stars, so it looks like heaven.

He sees yellow spots on the ceiling. Must be the geyser leaking, or the overflow. And black specks, from the damp. Or maybe it’s fly-shit.

In the one corner he suddenly sees an off-white clot of threads. Things that look like sticks.

What is it?

He sets the binoculars to see better, but it blurs on both sides. He turns and turns until he gets it into focus.

The ball-thing’s moving. No, what the hell. What’s this now?

Slowly the little ball begins to tear open on the one side. Something’s moving around. Then three little folded-up things pop out. For a while they just hang there. Then they slowly open up.

Spiders.

Daddy-long-legs.

‘I spy with my little eye,’ says Treppie, suddenly here next to him. Lambert jumps. He sits up quickly, trying to hide the binoculars behind his back. But Treppie doesn’t want them. He’s sitting on a crate, holding his hands like binoculars in front of his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.

‘The sky’s the limit,’ he says.

Then he takes away his hands.

‘And the heavens declare!’

‘Just don’t start with me now.’

‘I’m not starting with you.’ Treppie winks. ‘I’ve got a suggestion for you. Put on your shoes, and then bring those binoculars of yours. I’ve got the Klipdrift. We can tell Pop and them we’re just going for a spin to Brixton. Then I’ll take you on an outing. Then I’ll really show you something.’

‘Like what?’

‘Shit with what. If you’re scared, bring your gun.’ Treppie winks a double-wink at him. First with one eye and then the other.

Okay, so he knows, the bastard. Nothing to be done about it. And with all that Klipdrift in him, he’s capable of barging into places he doesn’t belong. Well, okay then, for just in case.

Lambert takes his belt from the steel cabinet and fastens it under his belly. He loads the gun. One bullet for every hole. Six of them. Then he puts the gun into his belt on one side. His binoculars dangle from his neck.

Treppie stands at the door, looking at him. He rocks slowly on his feet.

‘I’m ready if you’re ready.’

Treppie salutes. It’s weird, his fist makes a dull noise as he knocks it against his chest. With the other hand, he lifts the Klipdrift high into the air, and says:

‘It’s the knight of Triumph

Look, look, look over here

He can see around corners

And his barrel is loaded

But where, oh where is his Guinevere?’

Treppie mustn’t go and fuck with him now. He wants to know who this Guinevere is, but he decides to leave it. One thing at a time. He’s feeling a bit jittery about this outing.

Treppie doesn’t drive to Brixton. He drives down Long Street, with a smile on his face, till he gets to the gates of the other big Jo’burg dump, the one between West Park cemetery and the police flats. That building’s so high you can see it for miles around. It even flashes a red light on top to warn aeroplanes at night. From its windows you can see the dumps, the cemetery, and from Northcliff hill all the way to Florida, where the water-organ plays. On the other side it looks out over the northern suburbs, right up to the Sandton Sun, which shines like a bar of gold in the night, also with a light on top.

They climb over the high gate. Treppie walks in front between high piles of rubbish until they get to the back of the flats. The moon shines brightly all around them. A fucken weird place to visit at this time of night! He wonders what bee Treppie’s got in his bonnet. They walk past an old kaffir sitting next to his konka. The poor bastard must live here.