At that point she wished she was a Catholic so she could’ve crossed herself against Treppie’s terrible Satan words, ’cause Treppie began swearing hellishly terrible words inbetween every other word he said, above and below and on each side, so much so that she and Pop were wiping his spit from their necks after a while.
All Pop said then was, honour thy father and thy mother, and she recited the rest, ’cause that was all that came into her head: ‘“That thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”’
That was the last straw.
‘Honour, for what should I honour him – all that’s left of me is a drop of blood, a wet spot with some skin around it struggling for breath. A lump of scar-tissue with a heart in the middle.’
Suddenly Treppie told them they must switch on the inside light. He plucked up his shirt and pushed his pants down over his hips so they could see his scar-tissue.
‘Krrrt-krrrt!’ she heard as Treppie scratched around here above her head to get the little light on, but it didn’t want to work.
So they had to use their lighters to look. Toby jumped right over the back seat – he also wanted to look – but Treppie let fly and smacked him so hard he didn’t even make a sound. His head just went ‘doof’ against the door. Shame, the poor dog.
‘Hold closer!’ Treppie yelled, and she and Pop turned around completely in their seats, lighting up his stomach.
Then she saw how terribly those blows had set into Treppie’s skin. She hadn’t known. She’d thought people outgrew things like that. Treppie’s stomach and hips were covered with nicks and grooves, as if he’d been tied up with ropes and beaten over and over again.
Treppie must have seen on her face she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. So he said she mustn’t come and act holier-than-thou all of a sudden. Didn’t she remember what he looked like that night when they dragged him out of the train? ‘Marked for life!’ he said, prodding his finger into the nicks and scars on his skin.
What could she say? So she lit up a cigarette – her lighter was burning anyway – and said: ‘Shame.’
That was also not the right thing to say.
Fuck shame, Treppie said. That’s all that she and her mother could ever say, shame this, shame that, and shame everything else. But they never stood up for him, not once, when Old Pop screamed at him so terribly and hit him for no reason at all. Not once did they take his side.
It was then that Pop said he could explain to Treppie why Old Pop used to beat him up so badly. It was something she and Pop had known when they were still small.
Treppie was a chip off the old block, Pop said. Of all of them, it was Treppie who took after Old Pop the most. Yes, he said, it was ’cause he had the same light blue eyes as Pop and the same stuff-you look in his eyes, too.
Then she felt Pop take her hand and let it go again and she knew they were both thinking of Old Pop. There they sat, looking at Treppie in the glow of their lighters, and it looked almost like Old Pop sitting there in front of them, just smaller.
The same short fuse, the same moods, the same delicate constitution, Pop said.
And then she remembered how Old Pop also used to struggle to shit, but she decided not to mention that ’cause Pop had already mentioned more than enough similarities. ‘Chip or no chip off the old block,’ Treppie shouted, ‘it’s no excuse for smashing up your own flesh and blood.’
He was one to talk, she thought, but she kept quiet. Treppie knew what she was thinking. He thumped her seat from behind.
‘Tsk-tsk-tsk!’ Pop said.
Then Treppie suddenly wanted out of the car. So bad that he didn’t even wait for her to get out. He just shoved her forward in her seat, almost climbing right over her.
She and Pop also got out, and she suddenly felt a chill, not from the cold air but from the height. That tower reaches up very high into the sky and its little head on top looks like it wants to bend down and fall over. Toby also wanted out, but they made him stay in the car. They could hear him going ‘ee-ee’ from behind the window. Then it was quiet again for a long time. They just stood there, looking at the lights and passing around the Klipdrift.
And then Pop started again. She’d thought he was finished, but he actually went and started all over again. About the forgiveness that Treppie had to find in his heart and that he’d thought Treppie had already softened when he gave Lambert all his stuff and helped him so nicely with the fridges. That, Pop said, had looked to him like a kind of forgiveness, and forgiveness was infectious. If you forgave the small things the big ones followed. Or the other way around, forgive the big ones and then the little things would begin to look like small fry.
Pop tried so nicely to get through to Treppie there on the koppie. She took his hand again and said, yes, if Treppie could make a circus and play the fool like that, then he couldn’t really still be so angry with Old Pop, then deep down everything was surely okay.
Treppie didn’t have to chastise himself so, Pop said. She didn’t have much time to wonder what chastise meant ’cause Treppie suddenly exploded. His eyes went white with anger, lighting up from the inside. He was so angry he got the shakes. Up and down he paced, poking the air with those little bird claws of his, as if he wanted to grab on to something and pull himself up into the air, right out of his skin.
Fucken shit, he said, they were talking the biggest lot of shit under the sun. What did they know, anyway, fuck forgiveness, fuck it right into its glory. Phew! Her ears are still burning.
Then she thought, no, God, now she must get away in a hurry before he goes and murders her and Pop right there on the koppie. She looked around and saw she could run this way or that way, but no matter which way she went there weren’t any people, so what would it help, anyway. She looked in front of her and all she could see was the tower. It looked like it was growing out of the back of Treppie’s head. Up, above her, and all around, she could see nothing but dull lightning going off inside the clouds, big black bunches of clouds that were blowing towards them. She looked down to the bottom of the koppie and there she saw ambulances racing past, going ‘pee-poh-peeh-poh’ with their red lights flashing. A horrible accident somewhere.
Even though it was so dreadful and scary up there on the koppie, the thought crossed her mind that it was just like being on a stage. And that Treppie would probably even want to breathe his last on a stage one day, with lights and curtain calls and people shouting, ‘Encore!’
There he stood beating his breast like Charlton Heston in a Bible movie. He shouted, forgiveness be damned, no one was going to get forgiveness out of him. He was angry and he’d stay angry until his last breath and he was going to shove their noses in it so they would be forced to partake of his legacy of anger. And why, he shouted, should he be the only one who felt haunted? From now on he was going to do the haunting.
Pop still tried to stop him, but Treppie just went on and on. Forgiveness, he shouted, was just wallpaper. Like a drizzle after thirty years of drought. Who needed that? Then everyone posed for the Farmer’s Weekly but the ground water was still rock-bottom. All this time Treppie was drinking non-stop from the bottle, but he was spitting out more than he swallowed. He said if Morkels could they’d sell forgiveness together with their five-piece bedroom suites. That was why the Day Spring Church was so full of policemen every Sunday. It was a branch of Morkels – forgiveness at a special price. Hallelujah, praise the Lord. One down payment with the collection every week.
Then she said amen, from pure panic. It was all she could think of saying. Pop moved closer to her and said she should not say anything now, but Treppie had already heard. Yes, she must shuddup, he said, ’cause if anyone should know all about suffering, it was her, but for some reason she refused to understand it. She thought to herself, yes, he was right, suffering existed. That was all there was to it. Why should you also tire yourself out by understanding it – it was there, deep in your bones. But she didn’t even finish her thought before Treppie started
shouting again. If he had to suffer in his heart and his head, he shouted, then they had to suffer too. That was his hand, he said. That was his trump card!
She heard Pop say softly, ‘Joker,’ and she didn’t understand at all, ’cause the next thing Pop was standing up straight and grinning right into Treppie’s face. Pop normally sits with his head in his hands when things go mad like this. Maybe these were the very dregs. Maybe Pop thought he had to take it like a man.
And she thought to herself, if Pop could do it then she could do it too. So she said: ‘Sis man, Treppie,’ as if he’d only farted. She thought if she acted like his whole dreadful sermon was no more than a smelly fart, he’d maybe shut up by himself.
‘Sis man, Treppie, sis man, Treppie!’ he mimicked her.
At that stage she already saw foam bubbling in the corners of his mouth. Pop still tried to put his hand on Treppie’s shoulder, but he slapped that hand away like it had stung him. He grabbed Pop by his shirt and shook him so hard his head jerked to and fro. Toby was going crazy behind the closed windows of the car. He thought they were playing a game and he didn’t want to miss out on the fun. Then she remembered how poor old Gerty always knew the difference between fun and fighting. But what would poor little Gerty have done on this koppie tonight? It was more than just an argument, it was like Jacob wrestling with the angel, if she remembers her Bible correctly. Treppie began pushing Pop further and further backwards over the patches of grass next to the road. She could see them getting knocked over if they didn’t watch out. Careful, she tried to say, but there was no stopping Treppie.
‘Brother Addlebrain!’ he shouted. Shove. ‘Brother Stickdick!’ Shove. It was terrible. And then he wanted to know what Pop’s dick was looking like nowadays ’cause he thought it must be looking like a five-day-old Russian behind the counter at Ponta do Sol. That dick of Pop’s was the place where all the trouble started, he said. He had to suck Pop’s dick like it was a lollipop, remember? And he hadn’t understood anything, he was still too young, but when the lashes were dealt out he was always the only one who got them. And why had Pop always just stood there with big eyes while he got the hidings, while he got beaten to within an inch of his life? Would he just answer that one question for him? Would he, please?
Then, thank God, a car came driving up the hill, slowing down and shining its lights on Pop and Treppie. The car was full of people stretching their necks out the window to see what was going on. The three of them must’ve looked like wild buck or something with their eyes shining in the dark. It was a chance for her and Pop to stop Treppie’s shoving. Pop said he was cold and if they all got back into the car, he’d tell them a story.
Treppie, she said, the people are staring at us. She knew Treppie hated people looking at him. He’d rather get back into the car than be looked at. But this time she was wrong. Treppie showed them the finger and then he walked quickly towards the car, which was now idling on the slope. ‘Kaboof!’ He slammed the roof with his hand, so hard that the driver clean forgot how to pull off. You just heard gears crunching. In the middle of the crunching she heard Treppie screaming at them. They could watch if they wanted to, there was a variety concert here under the Brixton tower tonight, and if they stayed a little longer they could hear a story too, a story by Old Sweet-Sucker over here. ’Cause very soon the Benades would be flying off into their glory, anyway, and then no one would’ve heard their story. They must be on the look-out, next time he’d send out complimentaries for the famous Benade roadshow, ta-te-raa, the tallest story in the western suburbs, better than any cowboy movie they’d ever seen. Good value for money. Then that driver finally got his bearings and pulled off up the koppie. ‘Doof!’ Treppie kicked the bumper as it took off. Only then was he ready to get back into the car, but Toby first wanted to take a little walk. So they all stood there and looked on while Toby found a pole to piss against and a patch of grass on which to do his business. He bent his back and stretched his neck and pushed out a long turd, followed by a few small ones, ‘clip-clip-clip’, and then he did a few little back-kicks, making the stones fly out behind him.
Aaah, said Treppie, lucky dog. At least one of them had found some relief here tonight. They might as well get back into the car and listen to Pop’s story now. And it’d better be a good story, he was fed up with fucken fairy tales full of forgiveness, fed up with fucken ocean liners with forgiveness in champagne glasses on all three decks, allow me to top you up, sir.
See-saw. That’s what she says.
So, that was the end of Treppie’s sermon on the mount.
And only then was it Pop’s turn to preach. They should be grateful she isn’t one for sermons, ’cause then their bums would’ve all been worn down and they would’ve needed an interval, first. It makes her tired just thinking about everything that went on there tonight on top of that koppie.
Mol winds down the window. The rain has slowed down a bit. She feels in her housecoat pocket for her cigarettes. Only one left. She was smoking one after another there under the tower tonight, but she wasn’t smoking any of them right down to the end. She kept throwing them away half finished, ’cause every five minutes there’d be a whole new flare-up all over again. Now she’s struggling to get her lighter working. She has to turn it upside down before it takes. No wonder, after all that lighting up to look at Treppie’s scars. Lighters weren’t made for inspecting damage in the dark. She looks at Pop. The way he’s sitting there now you wouldn’t say he could string so many sentences together. His head is propped up against the window and by the light in the parking lot she can see the little hollow above his collarbone in front where his shirt hangs open. It looks like the skin on top of boiled milk when it goes cold – like fine little crinkles. She has to look long and hard before she sees the shadow of a pulse under his skin. When they all got back into the car on the koppie and Pop started talking, she prayed that he’d just keep going. He even held up his hand to show Treppie he didn’t want to be interrupted. Clever old bugger. He started by buttering Treppie up. More than butter. Toffee! He said it was true, all of them would’ve come to nothing if it hadn’t been for Treppie. As it was, they were little more than skin and bone, but without Treppie they wouldn’t even have cast a shadow. Then Pop stopped talking ’cause he couldn’t find the exact word to describe how important Treppie was in their lives. By now she’d caught on to Pop’s plan and she thought, let me quickly chip in here. She had just the right word for him: ‘Vital ingredient’. That was exactly the word, Pop said, winking at her to say thanks. Treppie was their vital ingredient, he said, and he wasn’t really talking about Treppie’s job at the Chinese either.
Of course not. Treppie says he does odd jobs for them, servicing their fridges and writing up their menus in English, but she thinks he just sits there and gambles. Gambles and plays the horses. Sometimes he’s suddenly flush and then for weeks on end he’s broke again. So she agreed with Pop, it wasn’t really a matter of working at the Chinese. Pop said what he was really talking about was wiring. Treppie kept them wired up with his stories ’cause Treppie always had an angle on a thing. He always saw a corner or a twist or a side or a colour in a thing, no matter how flat and white and nothing that thing was.
Then she saw Pop’s eyes starting to shine like in his younger days when he had a plan. She could see he was getting right into the heart of his sermon now. And so she also began to feel stronger.
But that was only one side of the matter, Pop said. Yes, she said, it was just the one side, and then she threw in one of Treppie’s favourite sayings: ‘It takes two to tango.’ Spot on, she was spot on. Pop squeezed her hand a little so that Treppie wouldn’t see and he said, spot on, now she was reading his thoughts. Spot on.
The point was, Pop said, and he turned around in his seat, pointing his finger to the back, but she quickly took that finger out of Treppie’s face. She knew that was another thing Treppie couldn’t stand. A finger pointing in his face.
The point was, Pop said, if Treppie h
adn’t been stuck with the rest of them, who were nobodies, and if he hadn’t had their never-ending bullshit around him all the time, the pointless bullshit, the insignificant bullshit, if he, Treppie, hadn’t had that, then he’d also have been nothing, ’cause that’s what kept him going. It was he who stomped and kicked and lied and went wild in that bottomless pit, Pop said, until he began to see some sparks inside there. If Treppie didn’t understand him, then he’d explain it to him in his own language. They were like a system with a dead earth. And if he got some spark out of them, then they got charged up like a turbine. Pumped up like a power plant. You could say, Pop said, that if you managed to connect them up properly you had power for Africa.
Pop isn’t the only one who understands Treppie’s language, so she slipped in her own word: ‘Generator.’ That’s what Treppie was, she said. He was their generator.
Now she’d really hit the nail on the head, Pop said. Through thick and thin, in sunshine and in rain, until death do them part, high current, dead earth, hand-in-glove, the one couldn’t do without the other.
Pop took a deep breath and she also took a few. The car was blue from all the smoke and they both turned around to take a good look at Treppie in the back seat. But he just sat there with his head down.
Now Pop came to his second point. If Old Pop hadn’t beaten Treppie to a pulp, he said, then Treppie wouldn’t have been the man he was today. Then he’d have been just like anyone else and he would have been at peace, not giving a damn. So, in fact, Treppie should be grateful to Old Pop, ’cause without him Treppie would have been nothing.
Treppie just sat there and mumbled, with his head hanging down like that, so you didn’t know if he was saying yes or no. Pop lifted his finger again, and this time she left it, ’cause she saw this was his third point, and it wasn’t just any old point. The only true peace Treppie would ever find, Pop said, was the peace he made with himself, ’cause peace wasn’t something you just got for nothing. Pop said if Treppie made peace in his heart with Old Pop, he might stop shorting out all the time. If they didn’t mind, Pop said, he wanted to use the language of electricity again. His theory was that Treppie was scared of making peace with himself ’cause if he did he might unplug himself and lose his spark completely.
Triomf Page 48