Triomf

by Marlene van Niekerk

  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.

  ‘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.’

  ‘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.

  16

  THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND

  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.