See? How does Treppie know she’s out of breath? She can see that’s what Lambert’s thinking, too. He takes the towel away from his face to ask Treppie how, but Treppie’s looking up at the ceiling as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen it. He blows smoke rings and looks up through the rings.
‘Look, Pop, look, Mol, look, Toby, see how the stars shine in the firmament,’ Treppie says.
All she sees are blobs. Pale blobs. Some are pale green and others are pale red.
‘What do you see, Pop?’
‘I can’t see that far, Mol!’
‘Ja, old dog,’ says Treppie. ‘It’s a pity they sit so high, hey, all the Great Dippers, fish dip, avo dip, garlic dip!’
Toby licks his lips. He looks at Treppie and then at the blobs, up and down, up and down.
‘Also curious, hey, even if you’re just a dog,’ Treppie says. ‘You’d also like to know how the young master created that universe, hey? Maybe she said to him the sky’s the limit and started throwing the fish around. And then maybe he asked her whether she fancied a pie in that sky and threw up the garlic and avo on high!’
‘Hee-hee.’ Quite funny.
She can see Pop’s also got a smile on his face now.
Toby too. ‘Tiffa-tiffa-tiffa’ goes his tail against Treppie’s crate. His red tongue hangs from his open mouth.
‘Garlic yourself!’ is all Lambert says. He’s drinking down the Panados with rose-water. Sis, he just chucks that rose on to the floor and then he empties the whole bottle, ‘ghloob-ghloob-ghloob’.
‘Hell, but you’re thirsty, hey?’
Oh shit! Duck! Here it comes, but it’s not coming at her, it’s sailing towards Treppie, not straight but in a slow arc. Treppie’s got lots of time to duck. He ducks in slow motion and then watches the bottle as it falls. He whistles, ‘pheeeeeeww!’ like a slow-motion bomb. ‘Boof!’ it goes against against the wall. Treppie wipes off his shoulders with finicky little fingers, like he’s flicking off little flakes of dust.
‘This Mary, could she at least duck?’ he asks Lambert.
Pop points his finger at Treppie. He must go easy, now. No, Treppie signals back at Pop, it’s okay, he just wants to get Lambert going again, just like she, Mol, said he must.
Poor Lambert. He really looks like he’s had it. But she says nothing. If he has to suffer, then so be it. Just look at the house! And she’s the one who’ll have to do most of the cleaning up, as usual, even with three men in the house, or maybe one should say two, ’cause Pop can’t do anything any more. She’s got to cut the grass and she’s got to wash the car. And when Lambert goes wild, she has to pick up the pieces.
Like Treppie’s saying now, it looks like they were doing a bit of kickboxing here in the den, fridge-kicking and chair-kicking. He says it depends on your taste, but some people get turned on by the strangest things – Chippendales, crinkle cuts, fruit salad, fridges, frescoes, kick-boxing, you name it.
She pushes Pop. ‘Frisco, not fresco, Frisco. Tell him.’
‘No, Mol,’ Treppie says, ‘fresco, it’s not instant coffee, it’s paintings that they do on wet cement, on the walls of churches, about the so-called beginning and the so-called end.’
She catches Pop’s eye. Here we go again.
‘Pay attention, Mol, otherwise you won’t ever learn anything. You remember that story about the sixth day, when God felt a little lonely up there among his carp and his cactuses and things, and he made people so they could keep him company?’
No, she doesn’t remember God feeling like that. He’s God, after all. He always feels good.
‘Always is a very long time, Mol. And don’t forget, even God has a problem ’cause it’s the devil who finds work for the hands of the bored.’
‘The hands of the idle, Treppie, not boredom, idleness.’ It’s Pop. He must be so tired of correcting Treppie. He’s been doing it all his life.
‘Same thing,’ says Treppie. ‘Now watch nicely.’
What’s he doing now? He’s shaking and jerking Lambert’s mattress.
‘Hey, Lambert, you want to see some fireworks, my man? You can’t sleep now, life’s too short, too valuable!’
Treppie holds his two forefingers together, the one pointing and the other limp.
‘And so the Great Idler, sitting around during his Sunday rest, schemes up a little ploy to amuse himself. Suddenly he’s the Great Electrician in the sky. Bzzzt! He jump-starts little Adam right out of the earth!’
Open, closed, open, closed, the limp hand responds to the charging finger. Then suddenly he meshes the fingers of both hands so hard that the joints crack.
Hey! It looks sore.
Pop just shakes his head here next to her.
‘Founding the nation!’ says Treppie. ‘Refreshment station. Off you go, now you can paint him on your wall, your Adam. Fit for small talk till the end of his days, dust to dust, tall stories, world without end!’
No, hell, man, now she doesn’t understand so well here. Pop looks like he understands some of it but not everything. He tells Treppie God will punish him but he doesn’t say what for.
Treppie pretends he doesn’t hear a thing Pop says.
‘I wouldn’t like to guess what he’s feeling now,’ Treppie says.
Who’s feeling what now? Adam?
‘Never mind, Mol,’ says Treppie. ‘Feeling is feeling. Whether it’s the Creator or Adam’s sister’s wife or the painter or the poet’s distant hellbent family it cuts no ice, ’cause it all started at the same point and it all boils down to the same beginning in the end – the smoke that thunders!’
What’s Treppie on about now? Pop just sits and smokes here next to her. He’s dead-quiet.
‘Waterfall,’ says Pop.
‘That’s it! Ai, Pop, I’m so glad there’s at least one person who understands me here today. We are the waterfall, hey, and if a person looks carefully you’ll see it’s a never-ending story of evaporation and condensation. Liquids, gases and solids, an automatic cycle and a closed circuit. Perpetual motion!’
‘Well, I think I’m going now,’ says Pop. Yes, her too, if Treppie wants to sit here and tell stories to prolong the agony then he can do so on his own. Life must go on and you dare not slow down if you don’t want to be left on the shelf. That’s what Old Mol always used to say. Shame, Old Mol had such high hopes for her. She said men would be men and in the end it was the women who took most of the strain, no matter what the men said, and never mind if they did have the whiphand, pretending they were experts on everything. That’s what Old Mol always used to say when Old Pop started drinking and talking politics at night while she had to sit there and stitch the shirts, patch their clothes, cook the food and pack Old Pop’s lunch-tin, all at the same time. At nights, long after they went to bed, she would hear Old Mol say, from behind that sheet: ‘Oh hunted hart with trembling haunches who from the huntsman did escape.’
Shame, Old Mol would turn in her grave if she had to see how things were going with her now – not on the shelf but underneath it. And that’s where she’s remained, even though she kept on trying. As for the hunt, she’s never gotten away.
Just listen to Treppie now. No, he says, they mustn’t go, it’s still going to get jolly here in this den of iniquity today. Lambert’s going to tell them a story or two. They must just give him a chance. It will be a story, he says, to comfort and to edify them and to make them long for the days of their unprofaned youth.
Unprofaned.
Ai! God help us!
Look how Lambert’s sitting there and looking at them, his head moving left-right, left-right. He supports himself against the pillows, arms on either side. She can see he doesn’t know which way to go ’cause the whole lounge is inside his den now, chairs and all. Everyone’s got him in their sights. And she can see he hasn’t even got a plan, never mind a story. He can’t even focus properly. And now Treppie’s on to him like a swarm of mosquitoes. Bite here, sting there. Won’t let go until he’s finished, she can see that. Tr
eppie’s smelt blood and, if you ask her, he smelt it back there on the koppie already. Now he’s followed it all the way here to the den. He looks like he knows the death blow is close, but whose death it is, she doesn’t know.
‘She was nice,’ says Lambert. ‘A nice piece.’
‘Aha!’ says Treppie. ‘At last. Pop, come, come sit up nice and straight now, here comes Lambert’s story, at last. Right, you old tomcat, you, everything from the beginning, hey!’
‘We talked. We talked a lot!’ Lambert doesn’t sound like he’s so sure of his case.
‘Ja-a-a-a,’ says Treppie.
‘That was just the beginning, the talking.’
Treppie’s waiting to hear if there’s any more. But there isn’t. Lambert slumps on to the cushions. He looks sick.
‘Shot!’ says Treppie. ‘Glad to hear it. You hear that, Pop? And remember we agreed that if we brought Lambert a girl she’d have to be a talker, a real companion, one made from the rib. A girl who can guess the word that’s on the tip of your tongue. Ja, someone who can pick up your broadcasting, wireless, or who you can wire into if you need to get totally enmeshed!’
Cochrane’s wire.
‘Pof!’ Treppie slaps Pop on the back. ‘Come on, Pop, don’t you want to know what the kids were talking about all night long?’
‘What were you talking about?’ Pop asks. She can see Pop’s only saying it ’cause Treppie’s pushing him. And Pop can’t push back.
‘What about what?’ Lambert doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He looks at her, as if she should know, but how’s she supposed to know?
‘The topic, Lambert. What you talked about, you know, the subject of your discourse!’
‘Well, um,’ says Lambert. He tries to straighten himself against the wall. It looks funny. It looks like his head’s in the postbox and Van Riebeeck’s talking into his one ear with Klipdrift, while Harry’s talking into the other with Coke.
‘And, um, she asked what I thought would happen on the twenty-seventh.’
‘I say! And then?’
‘Then I asked her, why?’
Treppie nudges her. And he nudges Pop.
‘Hey, you two, bladdy good question that, don’t you think? Why indeed?’
Treppie leans forward on his crate. He wants to hear some more.
‘And then?’ he asks Lambert.
Lambert rubs his eyes as though he’s got dust in them. Must be those little white crumbs from the burnt-out beer.
‘Then she said how can I ask why, it’s a turning-point in our history!’ Lambert’s face looks funny. It looks like he first has to think who said what.
Treppie cups his hand behind his ear, as if to say, come again?
All you hear is ‘tiffa-tiffa-tiffa’ as Toby scratches his ribs. Lambert looks at Toby like Toby must please tell him what to say next. No, hell, let her light a cigarette here. This isn’t funny. And Lambert mustn’t start picking on her now, either. She’s not a dog. Why’s he looking at her like that? She hasn’t done anything.
‘Close your legs, Ma,’ he says. ‘And wipe that stupid grin off your face. Now!’
As she says, she never escapes.
‘Yes, Mol, wipe that grin off your face. There’s nothing to grin about.’ It’s Treppie.
What her legs and her grin have got to do with the price of eggs, she doesn’t know. She looks at Pop but Pop doesn’t look back. He just takes her hand and then lets go of it again. That means she must accept her lot. She knows this from the way he takes her hand. Sometimes it means ‘never mind, it’ll pass’, and other times it means ‘don’t worry, it’s not your fault’. But this time she must accept her lot. Heavens above!
‘Turning-point. How come?’ It’s Treppie. He’s trying to get Lambert back on track now, ’cause Lambert’s clearly lost it again.
‘Then I told her, that may be the case, turning-point and everything, but it’s fuck-all compared to the way I can turn on a point. I’m the turning-point of Triumph, I told her, just watch how nicely I can turn! Corkscrew!’
Corkscrew. What’s so funny about that now? But Lambert thinks it’s very funny. ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ he laughs at his own joke. Treppie laughs with him. ‘Hee-hee-hee-ha-ha-ha!’ Treppie shows with his hands how Lambert turns on a point. ‘On a pin,’ he says, ‘neat as a pin in Triomf!’
‘And then she wanted to dance as well.’
As well. Hmph! Lambert’s telling lies here, she can see it on his face. He thinks he can lie to Treppie. Treppie looks like he can see the dancing before his very eyes. He’s putting on a helluva big show again.
‘Classy girl, hey, and then you two rock’n’rolled until the legs fell off these chairs, hey?’
Treppie’s up in a flash. He sings:
‘When I was a little bitty baby
My mamma would rock me in the cradle’
Out comes his foot now. He pretends he’s dancing, but he’s not dancing, he’s kicking. He kicks the bed’s leg, ‘crack!’ It sags slowly on to its one side.
‘Whoof!’ says Toby.
‘Oh, shit, sorry, old Lambert. Just a little accident,’ he says. Just look how sorry he looks.
First he sprayed beer and now he’s kicked the bed, but it’s all just a little accident. As if there isn’t enough of a mess in this place already.
Lambert mustn’t worry, says Treppie, if he just gets off the bed for a second he’ll shift a crate underneath. Then everything will be fine again. There, see? No problem at all. And if it wasn’t rock’n’roll, then what kind of dance was it?
‘It was a slow dance,’ says Lambert. Mol can see he’s holding himself back. She saw how long it took him to weld that leg back on to the bed. He doesn’t sit down again. He props himself up against the wall.
‘It was a shuffle,’ he says. ‘On Highveld Stereo.’
That’s just what Treppie wants to hear, ’cause now he’s standing at the ready with the radio that he just picked up from the floor. The radio’s in its glory. Its insides are hanging out on the one side.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Cheerio, Highveld Stereo!’ he says, throwing the radio down on to the floor with a ‘crack!’ and then kicking it under the bed. Toby thinks it’s for him to go fetch. All you see is his tail wagging as he dives under the bed, chasing after the radio.
Does Lambert remember what song it was? Treppie wants to know. The song they were shuffling to.
No, says Lambert, he can’t remember so clearly now, but it was a Jim Reeves song. A Golden Oldie. Oh yes, she can see a thing coming now, now Treppie’s head’s working like a clock.
‘Soft guava!’ he shouts. Doesn’t she and Pop also think this calls for a demonstration? There he goes again. No stopping him. Pop sinks deeper into his chair here next to her.
‘Mary, marry me,’ Treppie sings. He makes his voice deep and smooth, like Jim Reeves. Too many voices in there for one voice box, she always says.
Now Lambert is moving. He unsticks himself from the wall, bends down and grabs that broken leg, swinging it at Treppie.
‘How do you know it was that song? You fucken bastard! How do you know? Did you fucken stand outside and listen?’
Treppie stumbles backwards over the newspapers. ‘Hold it, hold it!’ he says. It’s all just a coincidence. They all heard the song on the car radio, and if Lambert really wants to know, he should ask his mother, she’s the one who wanted to listen to the radio. She wanted to be with him in spirit, she said, and there was nothing like love songs, she said, to transport her spirit.
‘She said!’ Sis, Treppie! It’s not her who’s been looking for trouble here. Why’s he doing this to her now?
‘Not so, Mol?’ Treppie asks. Now he stands there looking all innocent. But he doesn’t really want her to say if it’s true or not. He wants to sing. He’s holding that little heel-less shoe tightly, with both hands, in front of his heart, and he puts on a face of love and yearning. He sways on his feet, like a little tree in the wind.
‘I hear the sound
&
nbsp; Of bugles blown.
Far away, far away.
‘Tate-raaaa-tate-raaa!’ he blows on his trumpet inbetween the singing.
‘Lambert,’ Treppie calls between his singing. ‘Come show us quickly how you shuffled, man, or we’ll start thinking you’re telling lies again!’
‘I’m not lying!’ Lambert shouts. ‘We danced the whole fucken place to a standstill, man!’
Well, then there’s no need to be so modest, says Treppie, then he must come here and show them. God, what now? Now Treppie’s got Lambert round the neck and he’s making rude movements. He’s pushing his hips between Lambert’s legs.
‘Where’s the guava, where’s the guava? Oh shit! No guava and no cucumber either!’
Sis, Treppie, sis!
Toby jumps up against them. This looks like a nice game. If she’d been a dog she’d have thought so too. But she isn’t a dog.
Lambert shoves Treppie so hard that he almost lands with his backside in the fridge.
‘My goodness, Lambert, are you trying to send me to the cooler, old boy?’ says Treppie, as if honey’s dripping from his tongue, but he’s up on his feet again, ready for more. If only Pop would do something.
Well, says Treppie, if he’s not good enough, then Lambert must try his mother. ‘Nothing like a mother’s touch!’ he says. Treppie plucks her clean out of her chair. Now he’s putting that wig on her head! Here she stands, and no one’s even helping her! Pop just looks at her with those dead eyes of his.
‘Woman, behold thy son,’ Treppie shouts.
He shoves Lambert right into her. She feels Lambert’s arms going around her. He squeezes her so hard her voice goes ‘eep!’
‘La-la-la-eep!’ Treppie sings.
‘Shuddup! Shuddup!’ Lambert shouts.
Lambert’s pushing her across the floor like a wheelbarrow. Newspaper and glass under her feet. Lambert’s barefoot. Doesn’t he feel anything?
Triomf Page 53