Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

‘You’re drunk, man, that’s your problem.’ This is all he can think of saying. Now he just wants to get the fucken hell out of here.

‘Horries,’ he shouts. It makes him uncomfortable when Treppie cries like this, here among the old stones and stuff.

‘She’s wearing a little hat with lace netting, and behind the lace her eyes shine like dew on a spider’s web.’

Treppie swallows a sob. Then he sings:

‘Oh the dog is broken winded

His tongue is hanging out

Oh the dog is spent and footsore

From running at a trot,

From shadowing the bonny bride

From shadowing the groom

’Neath the waxing and the waning

Of the unrelenting moon.’

‘Stop your rubbish now, Treppie, shit and rubbish! The moon’s in the sky and it’s full of holes. Let’s just fuck off from here now.’

Lambert grabs Treppie, but Treppie resists. He steps backwards, letting his unsteady body lean even further back.

‘Maybe it’s rubbish, Lambert, but who’s going to open your eyes for you? Fuck those binoculars of yours, man, fuck them! It’s all in the mind. And what’s in a name? The moon is a sickle, a coin or a pickle, teaching is cheating, God is a dog, just Eve is all side same side. Anything you say. Triomf or Doris Day, we’re here to stay!’

And now, why’s Treppie grabbing his balls? No decency. No, it’s not his balls. Treppie wants his gun! He grabs the gun out of Lambert’s belt and pushes him so hard on the chest that he almost falls into his glory down the pile of stones.

‘Give my fucken gun back!’

Treppie motions from above, he mustn’t worry, he’s just looking at the gun here a bit. He puts the thing against his head, and then into his mouth. Oh shit, here comes trouble! Lambert scrambles back up the pile of stones.

‘That fucken thing’s loaded, man, don’t start fooling around with it now!’ He should have known. That business of taking the gun with them. Another one of Treppie’s plans.

‘Six of the best!’ Treppie holds the gun up high, away from himself. Lambert can’t get to it. Jesus, help! What if Treppie shoots himself here tonight? What’ll he say to Pop? He lunges for Treppie’s arm, but he misses. Suddenly Treppie turns towards the flats.

‘And this one’s for you!’ he shouts. ‘Boom!’ He shoots.

Somewhere in the distance, glass breaks. Oh Christ! Now they’re in big shit here.

‘Boom!’ Treppie shoots another shot at the flats. ‘Zing!’ the bullet comes back. Lambert ducks. No, fuck, how’s he going to stop Treppie now? Without getting a bullet in the head first? Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? He grabs for the gun. He misses, again. Treppie just swings his gun-hand away from him all the time.

‘One for the dog in the moon!’ he shouts.

‘Boom!’ he shoots up at the moon. With his other hand he throws the empty Klipdrift bottle and it breaks into pieces on the rocks. Then the gun falls out of his hand, clanging down. Lambert sees it lying there.

Are you fucken mad or something? he wants to shout, but his throat’s too dry. He hears the sound of people talking, windows opening and closing. Now they must get the hell out of here, fast. So-called fucken outing! He fetches his gun from between two stones. Then he slips his binoculars around his neck. He grabs Treppie and drags him down the heap. Treppie doesn’t want to get up or walk on his own. He’s lying on the ground with a big piece of white headstone in his arms. He wants to take it home for Gerty, he says. Lambert will have to drag him away on his backside, he says, with granite in his arms.

He kicks Treppie to make him get up. But Treppie won’t get up. He falls flat on to his back again, with the slab of stone still in his arms.

‘Chip off the old block, chip off the old moon,’ he cries, with his face on the stone. Tears roll down his cheeks.

Lambert drags him, stone and all. He can’t just leave him here like this. He’d never hear the end of it.

‘Evening, my masters,’ the old kaffir says as they pass. He lifts his hat.

Stupid fucken kaffir, why doesn’t he come and help instead. Can’t he see they’re struggling here? The gun sticks into his belly and the binoculars swing on his neck. Treppie’s so heavy he leaves a trail like a fat python in the rubbish. Only at the entrance does he let go of the stone. Lambert manages to get him over the gate. He’s completely limp. There go his pants too. ‘Grrrr!’

Lambert has to drive. Treppie keeps falling against him in the car. Oh shit, what’s that blue light he can see now in the rear-view mirror? God, is it them they’re after? He changes back to second to get some speed going. The Volksie makes a ‘heeeee’ sound as it goes into third. Now he must just turn into Gerty. Get the police off their back. He checks in the mirror. It’s a van, driving like hell, but it carries on down Thornton. Right. Now Lambert feels sharp. He’s Treppie’s guardian angel. At the bottom of Gerty he takes the turn without even slacking down, and then he goes up into Martha. Here’s their gate. The moon shines bright into their yard. He drags Treppie out of the car and around the back of the house.

What’s that big tearing noise above their heads? It’s a Jumbo, taking the whole fucken sky for itself.

‘Jaws,’ Treppie hiccups, ‘snap!’

They watch the Jumbo.

A strong wind pushes the clouds across the sky. The Jumbo sails with its nose against the current. As it flies, clouds slide off its sides and moonlight covers its body, making the whole jet shine except for its belly. The Jumbo pushes its nose slowly into the sky as it flies away from them, towards the moon. Its dark shadow passes, and then the noise follows, louder and louder, until they can hear nothing but a terrible blowing sound.

Lambert sees Treppie’s mouth open as he shouts something at the Jumbo, flying towards the moon. He shakes his fist at the sky.

‘What?’

‘Angel of Retribution!’ Treppie shouts into his ear. The Klipdrift is heavy on his breath. ‘Shadowing the bonny bride, shadowing the groom.’

‘It’s going to land at Jan Smuts. Let’s go sleep now.’

He pushes Treppie from behind, into the passage. Then he helps him on to his bed.

He walks back to his den and switches off the passage light. As he passes, he stops at his mother and Pop’s closed door, opening it slightly to listen. ‘Ghrrr-ghrrr,’ his mother snores. ‘Phewww-phewww,’ Pop snores. ‘Swish-swish’ goes Toby’s tail. Must be on the bed again. Ever since Gerty died they’ve been letting him sleep on the bed. So they’re okay.

So now, all in all, it wasn’t such a bad night. He must say, he feels quite good. He’s a patrolman with class. What did Treppie say again? The Knight of Triumph, who looks after his own people. ’Cause they can’t always do it for themselves. That’s for fucken sure.

FENCE

Lord, have mercy, they’re screaming and shooting again behind those rolls of razor-wire. It’s been going on like this all night now — flashbacks of what happened during the year. The little man on TV says they’re first having the flashbacks, and then, only later, the Queen. It’s that time between Christmas and New Year again, when this is all you get to see on TV. Mol’s tried the other stations too. Just speeches and marches and dead people under blankets wherever you look.

Every time Treppie pokes his head out of his room and sees more bodies under blankets, he says he’ll bet his bottom dollar those are Operation Snowball’s blankets. Charity’s not what it used to be, he says.