Treppie says that’s the way it goes in places like Triomf. He says it’s a sub-economic disease. It’s meant to remind you who you are and where you live. For that, Treppie says, nothing works better than cutting off people’s electricity.
Then of course there’s another never-ending argument, ’cause Pop says Treppie’s talking the biggest load of rubbish under the sun. He says the people in Triomf are the state’s own people. And the houses here were built by Community Development. For young civil servants, for policemen and Post Office workers, and for the people from Parks and Roads, Railways, Licences, Customs, Refuse and Gardening, and Pest Control. And don’t forget the people from Water and Electricity. You name it, says Pop. If you want to find them, you needn’t look any further than Triomf. You could almost say the whole municipality of Jo’burg lives here. And make no mistake, says Pop, these people understand the ins and outs of things, from top to bottom. They’re the kind of people who know how to help themselves to state property. Not to mention state electricity.
And if Treppie bothers to open his eyes, Pop says, then he’ll see how many people still paint their doors and their gutters with Public Works paint. Government brown. And how all the gardens behind the prefab walls are full of the Gardening Department’s left-over aloes. And how bricks and cement still get offloaded here by the lorry-full, in front of private houses. In broad daylight. Everything from municipal lorries to municipal kaffirs. Plastic pipes too, and bathroom tiles and wire-netting and paving stones and steel plates and trees in plastic bags. From the state nursery. You name it.
Not that Triomf has many trees. The roots struggle to get a grip. They first have to grow all the way through Sophiatown’s rubble. Pop says you have to dig six feet under Triomf’s tar before you find the old topsoil. Inbetween there’s just rubbish. It takes a tree three years to find the soil. And then it has to be a tough tree that kills everything in its path, like a black wattle or something meant for a state plantation. And even then, it’s a struggle. The only reason the oak tree at the bottom of the street is so big is ’cause it was planted before Triomf’s time.
That’s why they never planted anything here on their own plot. Never mind Lambert and his spanners.
So, Pop tells Treppie, when the lights cut out all the time it’s not a sub-economic disease, it’s a stealing disease, plain and simple. And if there’s any overload problem, it comes from the sins of bypassing. The municipality people connect their houses with wires that bypass the boxes. Then nothing shows on their meters and they pay bugger-all at the end of the month.
But it’s the women who pay the price. The women have to pay twice over. With their lives. That’s what comes from stealing, Pop says. He says Treppie must just open his eyes a bit – Pop used to backchat Treppie like this in the old days, when they still had a business in the yard – Treppie must just open his eyes a bit, Pop would say, and then he’ll see how many times little children come running out of their houses, screaming that their mommies have shocked themselves blue on the washing machines. Or they’re stuck on to the handles of the fridge. Burnt black. That’s what comes from wrong bypass connections.
And he, Treppie, must count his blessings and thank Community Development for giving him an affordable roof over his head. And he doesn’t need to join in the thievery just because he happens to be living among the publicans and sinners in Triomf.
Then Treppie says Pop might have his facts right, but he still draws cock-eyed conclusions. That’s if he manages to draw any conclusions at all. It’s not a matter of sins, he says. It’s a matter of structures. From sub-economic structures you get sub-economic sins. That’s how the thing works. Treppie says for him there’s only one conclusion: Triomf is a place where the state’s one hand washes the other, and then it says you mustn’t come and point fingers, it’s all in the family. All in the backyard. Community Development in the true sense of the word.
BATH
Mol closes the bathroom door behind them. She’s glad Treppie’s mouth is shut tonight. His door too. She’s glad he’s not standing around in the passage, at the end of this Guy Fawkes of a day, to see how she and Pop go into the bathroom together in a pitch-dark house. With a candle. And the lights haven’t even been cut off.
She must say, she wishes she could pull the curtain on this candlelight business. But it looks to her like Pop can’t be bothered any more with pulling of any kind, never mind curtains.
Treppie, on the other hand, would have pulled out all the stops on this little matter, that’s for sure. He would’ve said things about overloads in their top storeys. Or about their nervous systems tripping, or their fuses blowing, and so on. She knows him. He pulls out monkeys from behind every bush.
Pop gives her the candle and takes the mirror out of the bath. He looks around him and carefully places it on top of the bathroom cabinet. Then he takes the candle from her and puts it down in front of the mirror.
‘So,’ he says, ‘now there’s a double light.’
He smiles a little smile at her and then takes something out of his pocket. What now? A bath plug! Wonders never cease.
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Just got it somewhere.’
‘How?’
‘Picked it up.’
‘But where?’
‘Here. There.’
‘My guess is as good as yours?’
‘Correct.’ They laugh a little.
Shush, Pop signals, they mustn’t make a noise. Just in case Treppie wakes up.
‘Yes, let sleeping dogs lie.’ They giggle.
‘Ee-ee,’ says Toby, in the passage. He wants to come in too.
Pop opens the door for him.
Toby comes in. He sits himself down against the wall and pricks his ears. His eyes are shining – this is a day when the fun and games just won’t stop.
She smiles at Pop. They both know what Toby’s thinking.
‘Right,’ says Pop, ‘now you can run the bath.’
Pop sits on the edge of the bath as it fills up. He starts taking off his clothes. She stands there, looking at him. Never before has she seen Pop undress like this, in front of her, from beginning to end.
‘Aren’t you going to bath?’ he asks.
‘You first.’ Why’s she feeling so shy all of a sudden?
‘No, together,’ says Pop. ‘I wash your back, then you wash mine.’
First he gets lovey-dovey and now he wants to wash her back. Aikona!
‘Come on,’ says Pop, ‘I don’t bite.’
Oh well, it can’t do any harm. She loosens the one button on her housecoat. It’s a very long time since they last bathed together. Never in this house, except that time when she came out of hospital after Lambert stabbed her with a knife. She was lame for a while after that. Pop used to help her into the bath and wash her a bit, but he never got in with her. The last time he did that was in Vrededorp, in the old house. But then there were other reasons. And it was always her who said let’s go bath. That’s what she did when she wanted to go somewhere with Pop and Treppie, or if she wanted sweets or something. Bathing with Pop was the price she had to pay. But it was okay. Pop was soft with her. Most of the time she just rubbed him, or sucked him. And it didn’t take long.
But now she’s not so sure. Maybe today’s been a bit too much for Pop. For all she knows, maybe he did hit overload and trip a fuse today. Maybe he’s getting funny with her. She must try to get out of this thing.
‘My washrag. I haven’t got my washrag.’
‘We’ll make a plan,’ says Pop, standing there in nothing but his vest. ‘We can use this old shirt of mine.’ He picks up a bundle lying against the wall. It’s the shirt he took off this morning, before they gave Treppie a lift to the bus stop. The one with its front part torn out. Now Pop tears off the shirt’s collar too. He pulls off the buttons and puts them down on the cistern.
‘To keep,’ he says. ‘You never know when you might need a button.’ Then he rips off the shirt’s
collar. ‘See, now it’s nice and soft.’ He bunches it up in his hands. And now? Now she hasn’t got any more excuses.
‘A towel. There’s no towel here.’
She wants out.
Pop’s knees look like pointy things in flour sacks.
In the light of the candle, the bone in the middle of his chest sticks out. Under his throat, and on both sides of his neck, are deep hollows where it looks like there’s not enough skin. Just a thin layer, like the wrinkled skin of boiled milk.
‘Behind the door, in our room,’ Pop says. ‘My towel’s hanging there. Go get it. No, wait. I’ll do it.’
‘No, I will!’ Now she must be quick.
Pop looks at her. He sees right through her. She doesn’t want to look him in the eye.
‘What’s wrong, Mol?’
‘Nothing.’
But Pop keeps looking at her.
Then she says: ‘You’re a bit funny tonight.’
Pop lets his head drop.
Shame. Maybe he means nothing by wanting to bath with her. Maybe he’s just tired. When he came stumbling out through the smoke this morning, still half asleep, she could see something was wrong. And then there was all that running, round and round the house. He didn’t even get a chance to pull on his pants. And all the people laughing at him over the wall, pointing to his thin little legs sticking out under his vest. Maybe he wants to touch her so she’ll touch him back. Let her just be straight with him.
‘I’d rather not play around with you, Pop,’ she says.
‘I feel …’ Pop says. He points to his whole body, with hands that open and then close again. He can’t say what it is he’s feeling. But she knows.
‘Overload?’
‘Overload.’
‘Me too.’
‘Fused,’ says Pop.
‘Tripped out.’
‘That makes two of us,’ says Pop.
‘Poor us.’
‘Never mind.’ Pop stretches out his arms towards her. She takes a step closer to him. Then he puts his arms around her. He rests his head heavily against her body. She must be smelling sour and sweaty by now. It’s from today’s things, from the deadly panic.
‘I stink.’
But Pop doesn’t mind. ‘At least we still have each other,’ he says.
‘And a roof over our heads.’
She pushes him away. ‘I’ll go fetch the towel. You get in in the meantime.’
‘But you’re coming back to bath with me, hey, Mol? Please?’
‘Okay.’
‘It’ll do us good,’ says Pop.
She goes and fetches the towel in the bedroom, feeling for it in the dark. She doesn’t want to put on the light. Why, she can’t understand. Maybe the dark’s like warm water. And maybe that’s also what Pop’s thinking. Maybe he’s thinking it’ll make them feel better after this day. Each to his own. If she could have her own Guy Fawkes, then she supposes he can play with candles. Just like the dykes. She smiles at herself in the dark. Same difference, as Treppie would say. Every family has its own secrets. And no one’s any better than the other. Her eyes are getting used to the dark now. The small light in the bathroom seems to be lighting up the whole house.
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 t
he 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.
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