Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘Evening, my masters,’ says the kaffir, taking off his hat.

‘Evening, chief,’ they say to him.

It takes a long time before they get to where Treppie wants to be — a big heap of stones.

Up here, Treppie points. ‘That’s it,’ he says when they get to the top.

Not rocks, Lambert sees, but stones. Smooth, shiny cut-offs from polished granite, the left-overs from West Park’s headstones. Lambert looks at the big block of flats. Then he looks around him. A person can see far from here.

‘Must be nice to live here, with a view like this. You can almost see the whole of Jo’burg.’

‘Oh yes, as long and as wide as God’s mercy.’

Lambert looks at Treppie. He’s full of tricks again. He was hitting the Klipdrift early tonight, even before Lambert went on patrol.

‘Yes,’ says Treppie when they both find seats on flat pieces of stone, ‘and if you ask me, they need it, too. Fucken heavenly garages full of mercy. With a view, for just in case. Not that it’ll help. A policeman’s eyes sit too closely together, like a baboon’s. He just looks straight in front of him. Never sees what’s under his nose.’

Treppie shows with his fingers and his nose how the baboon-policemen look out at the world. Then he takes a long sip from the Klipdrift bottle and passes it on.

They drink and then they look at the big block of flats in front of them, with all its little squares of light.

‘These people don’t even close their curtains.’

‘Why should they?’ says Treppie. ‘On this side it’s just dead bodies and the city’s rubbish. But us, we’re here now, we’re alive and we’ve got a gun. And binoculars.’

Only now does he click Treppie’s plan.

‘And a snort,’ Treppie says. He holds the bottle up high and says ‘Cheers!’ to the flats.

It’s funny to be so close. Pop always says the flats look like a honeycomb from a distance. That’s when they go for a drive and they come back on the Albertskroon side. Then Treppie always says: A honeycomb with no sweetness in it. It looks more like a mouth organ to him, Treppie says. Then everyone laughs and says, but it hasn’t got any music either.

Those are their jokes about the big block of police flats. They’re bored with it.

But this is a completely different story. Now the flats look like lots of little square movies, all running at the same time on a big screen.

‘So now,’ says Treppie, ‘pass me that mean machine of yours so I can find us a nice one. Take your pick. Comedy, thriller, action, romance. The works. What you in the mood for tonight, hey, Lambert?’

Treppie’s nice and greased, he thinks. He smiles. Never a dull moment when Treppie’s in a jolly mood.

‘Mmm,’ says Treppie, looking through the binoculars. ‘Just what I thought.’

He looks where Treppie’s looking, up and down with the binoculars. They’re in for fun and games, ’cause Treppie will make up all kinds of things about what he says he sees there. All you can really see are the insides of the bottom flats, and the ceilings and walls of the flats higher up. But let’s give Treppie a chance here.

Treppie drops the binoculars. He keeps quiet and looks around. The broken pieces of headstone look eerie. He drinks from the bottle and holds it up against the moonlight to check the level. Then he starts singing:

‘Oh sentinel on the ramparts

How endless seems the night

But now the dawn is blushing

And soon the morning will be glad and bright.’

‘Hey, come now, man!’ He presses Treppie on the shoulder. He must be careful now. He knows Treppie well. If he stays jolly on the Klipdrift, then he’ll go to bed in a jolly mood. But if he starts getting the blues now, he’ll just get more and more miserable as the night goes on. And then he’ll start spinning heavy shit about him, Lambert, and the rest of them. And then, later, everything will get completely out of control.

Lambert looks through the binoculars. Let him just find something to cheer Treppie up now, ’cause Treppie looks like he wants to start crying or something. He looks at the bottom windows. There’s a row of candles in one window, a woman holding up a piece of meat in another, and then there’s a dog with his feet up against the glass, trying to look out. No luck tonight. But Treppie’s too drunk to care. He hands him the binoculars.

‘Shame, the poor dogs!’ Treppie suddenly sticks his nose up into the air and lets out a long dog-cry. ‘Hoo-eee-a-a-hoo!’

His voice echoes against the high flats. A few dogs bark in the distance. Lambert feels a cold shiver run down his tail-end.

‘No, shuddup now, Treppie, if they catch us here, what’ll you say then?’

‘Then I’ll say you’re my guardian angel! Or my guide dog!’ Treppie laughs a drunk little laugh.

‘Let’s just go home now.’

‘Okay, but let’s just check first.’ Treppie takes the binoculars.

‘Check what?’

‘The moon.’ Treppie turns around in circles with his arms open. ‘They say there’s a man in the moon. But I’ve heard a different story.’

‘Ag don’t talk rubbish, Treppie!’

Now he’s not sure any more which way Treppie’s going. He’s got that twisted smile on his face, only now it’s even more twisted than usual from all the Klipdrift.

‘I heard there’s a cart up there, with two horses in front and two people in the carriage.’

‘Rubbish, Treppie, you’re fucken drunk, man!’

Lambert looks around to see if anyone’s coming. He doesn’t want any trouble now. Suddenly it feels like they’re very far from home.

‘You’re pissed, man.’

‘Not pissed, and not drunk, just tickled. That’s what my grandma always used to tell us. Your prehistoric great grandmother, the one you never met. She said there was a cart on the moon, with a bride and a groom, and two bay horses pulling the cart. On honeymoon.’

‘Bay horses, hmph!’

Treppie stands up straight. He shows Lambert he must get up too. He gets up. He and Treppie cast short little shadows on the stones. They look up into the sky. Thick balls of cloud glide through the open sky. The clouds are black underneath. Their heads look like white stones in the bluish light from above.

‘Check!’ says Treppie.

‘Check what?’

‘The bridal cart, man. Look if you can see the bridal carriage!’

Lambert lifts the binoculars to his eyes. Now he must just be cool here, that’s the best. Maybe it’ll pass.

‘Got it yet?’

‘I’m still looking!’

Lambert finds the moon between balls of cloud. He focuses nearer and further till he gets it nice and sharp. There’s a pale circle around the moon. Pinkish on the inside.

‘Now look,’ says Treppie. ‘That’s Koos Krismis and Laventeltjie, his wife. They’re on honeymoon, there above Klipfontein’s stars.’

Lambert looks. All he sees is the rough surface of the moon.

‘And there, next to the cart, is a wedding guest who wants a lift.’

Treppie’s voice sounds funny. Lambert looks for the guest. All he sees are patches and grey specks. The moon looks grated and chipped.

‘And the groom’s got a knapsack with a guinea-fowl inside. It’s for the pot, for tonight. The guinea-fowl’s head and its blue wattles are hanging out, and there’s blood dripping on to the dirt road.’

No, Jesus! He looks at Treppie. He wants to tell him he’s talking crap again. It must fucken stop now. Wallpaper, he wants to say. But tears are running down Treppie’s face, down into the wrinkles around his mouth. Strange birds call in the dark. High up in the flats, somewhere, doors slam and people shout.

‘There’s a dog running next to the front wheel, with his tongue hanging out.’