Marlene van Niekerk - Triomf

He actually just said that to cheer them up a bit after last night. It was Saturday and the grass had to be cut in the middle of the night again, and there was almost another fuck-around with the people next door.

But then Pop suddenly decided to get difficult, and he let rip right there in the passageway.

Didn’t he, Treppie, know that death was the biggest shame of all, and that nothing whatsoever could cover it up? Just look, he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling of the passageway, just look at the state in which he would have to meet his maker — with empty hands and not a single button on his fly. And surely it wasn’t asking too much that your shirt at least cover your shame while you were still alive? That was the least a person could do, he said. And, he said, the ones who survived him had better make sure he got washed decently and laid out nicely for his final journey to the pearly gates.

Pop’s been making these heavy speeches lately, at the funniest times and in the strangest places. Like this one, in the middle of the passageway, on an empty stomach. Or in Shoprite. Like when he started giving the baked beans in tomato sauce a sermon the other day.

He was looking everywhere for Pop and he couldn’t understand where he’d got to — all they needed was dog food. He found him standing in front of the specials shelf. That day it was baked beans.

You beans, Pop said, you might fancy yourself in your tomato sauce. But I say unto you, let someone just add some pigfat and then you’ll be worth bugger-all. ’Cause it’s all just a matter of pigfat and pulses. Which means it’s all about nothing. Poof! The next thing you know, someone farts, and then someone else says sis, what’s that smell, and then that’s it, you’re finished. Nothing! Finished, out, gone! Pffft! No one, but no one can escape this trinity of beans, farts and death. Amen.

Not bad, not bad at all. He didn’t catch everything Pop said, just a word here and there, but from what he could make out it sounded nice and sharp.

What he didn’t like was Pop’s face and Pop’s voice. Pop didn’t laugh and he didn’t smile, and his voice sounded like something rattling in the wind. He sounded completely different from the way he, Treppie, would’ve sounded if he’d suddenly started giving the beans a talking to. And God knows, he preaches a lot, whether his audience is on special or not. But it’s always a game. This speech of Pop’s was different. It wasn’t a game. ’Cause the next thing Pop went and swept those beans right off the specials shelf. First he swept them off the top two racks, with his right arm to the one side and his left arm to the other. Then he put his foot to the tins on the bottom rack. They went crashing far and wide. It was so bad he had to drag Pop to the car kicking and screaming. You would’ve sworn it was Lambert carrying on like that, not Pop. Or even him, Treppie, ’cause he gets unhinged pretty bad himself sometimes. But Pop’s a softie, never allows an angry word to pass his lips. Yet here he was lecturing at the beans. Kicking tins around in Shoprite and swearing his head off. Not that he was completely sober, either. The two of them had thrown back a couple earlier that afternoon, but most of the time the Klipdrift just makes Pop sleepy. And wine makes him silly. He’d never seen Pop go off the rails like that before.

When they got home, he sat Pop down in his chair and switched on the TV full-blast, so Pop could fall asleep. Then he went and told Mol what happened.

It was Lambert, she said. Pop was worried about Lambert going backwards before he even started going forwards. And it broke his heart that things always seemed to go like this with the Benades. Generation upon generation. Lambert wouldn’t even have a generation to come after him. What would happen to him one day when the rest of them kicked the bucket?

Well, yes, that’s surely enough to make anyone want to preach to the beans.

He, for one, really doesn’t want to be around the day Lambert finds himself all alone in the world, without any children he can call his own. The day he has to make a polony sandwich on his own. Or mow the lawn.

In January alone, that postbox came off three times. And every time it happened, the whole lot of them had to jump to attention, or else. Then Lambert lifted all the loose blocks from the parquet floor, even the ones that were just half-way or quarter-way loose. Dug them out with a screwdriver. He said he wanted to sand the things underneath so they’d stick properly the next time, once and for all, but then he made another fire and burnt the lot of them. Now the passage is full of potholes and everyone’s feet keep catching. Now it’s not just Lambert who suffers from the falling sickness here in Martha Street.

Take Mol. She tries to get into the kitchen with her Shoprite bags, but she’s down before she can get past the kitchen door. Then it’s just plastic bags all over the passage. Or Pop. He tries to switch off the TV after the peace song, but he trips over his own two feet and knocks his head against the sideboard. Then the sideboard falls off its brick. And the cat off the sideboard. Now they’ve got a headless cat again. Some things never change.

Flossie stands out here in the back like a beetle without its shell. At least her wheels are on again. Now Lambert’s talking about using not one, but two cars when the shit starts flying. He reckons that he and his girl are going to ride in front, in Flossie, with no roof and no doors, hair blowing in the wind. He, Treppie, and Mol and Pop must follow, in Molletjie. Lambert says they’ve got more chance of getting to the border with two cars than with one. The one must be a travelling spare part for the other, in case of a breakdown. That’s what he says.

Which one for which one, he can’t say.

Sounds more like a travelling disaster, if you ask him. He’s already told Lambert, travelling under any circumstances is really looking for shit, let alone in times like these with loose bullets and things flying all over the place. All you do is expose yourself. As if you’re not exposed enough as it is, with your soft human skin and its holes for seeing and smelling and tasting and farting — that’s if you’re lucky enough still to do all those things. And with your two little legs and their forward-facing feet, and your hands each with their five little twigs. Always trying to grab on to things in the void here in front of you, never knowing what’s coming next. Or what’s likely to trip you up.

All the more reason for sitting quietly and waiting for the perfect shit. Reading helps. Not the world’s headlines, and not the main cats’ moves, either. That’s fucken boring. What he looks for are all those odd little fuck-ups in the lives of the underdogs. If it proves one thing, it’s that the Benades aren’t alone in the world. They’re not the only ones who’ve turned out funny.

Like the story about the spinster and her goldfish. It was winter in England and it was so cold those fish were about to freeze. So she put the goldfish bowl on top of the heater to warm them up, but then she went out and clean forgot about the fish. When she came back they were all over the floor. The bowl had burst. The biggest one, whose name was Jonah, was still moving around on the carpet. She gave him the kiss of life, blowing into his mouth and gills, but nothing could bring him back to life again. So she swallowed him whole, so she could share in her little fish for life ever after.

The only conclusion he can draw from this story is that small fry always land up in the bellies of bigger things. Makes no difference if it’s people or fish.

Now that kind of story really gets his guts moving. Maybe something will still happen here today.

And what else? The story about two newly-weds who wanted to show some guests their engagement video. Made by the groom and his friend, the best man. That was in America. They were still standing there with their mouths full of wedding cake when the best man started screwing a pit bull terrier on the video. And the groom was holding the dog down by its head, ’cause a dog won’t just stand still for something like that. Oops! Wrong video. The bride flipped so bad she’s still in the loony-bin today. That accomplice and his best man are now smitten with remorse. They go to the loony-bin every day with a bunch of white roses for the flipped-out bride.