Triomf Read online

  Treppie kept on telling them they must fix Small Gerty up, ’cause he didn’t want to be stuck with a brood of kaffirdog descendants here on his property. He needed the space for his fridges, he said. The fridge business came with them from Fietas, and in those days Treppie still had big ideas. Watch carefully, he said, Triomf was the place where they’d still get rich.

  But they never did, and they never fixed Small Gerty either.

  And now Gerty – the daughter of the daughter of Sophiatown’s Old Gerty – now even Gerty is over the hill.

  Before they fixed Gerty, she had Toby, who was the size of three dogs in one. They usually kept Gerty inside when she went on heat, but one day she slipped out and a policeman’s Alsatian cornered her. The Alsatian got stuck inside her so bad that Pop had to pull them apart. Gerty was screaming like a pig.

  The Alsatian’s policeman still lives just one street away, in Toby Street. And that’s also how Gerty’s puppy got his name.

  From the start, Toby was a rough beast who suckled for too long and then wanted to get fresh with his mother before he even had hairs on his chest.

  So they eventually decided to get Gerty fixed up.

  But what about Toby? she still asked, and then Treppie said no, a dog without balls wouldn’t go chasing after kaffirs, and the way things were going they needed all the protection they could get. Then Lambert said yes, he agreed. So in the end she left it.

  Mol’s glad Toby came along, and that they kept him, balls and all, ’cause he keeps them young. He’s a jolly dog, even if he does pee in the house sometimes. And he’s also good company for Gerty, although he still tries to mess around with her, as old as she is. Dogs need dogs, she thinks. People are not really enough for them.

  People also need dogs.

  That’s ’cause people aren’t enough for people. She and Pop and Treppie and Lambert aren’t nearly enough for each other. They’re too few, even for themselves. Without Toby and Gerty they’d be much worse off. Dogs understand more about hard times than people. They lick sweat. And they lick up tears.

  When Lambert gets so dangerously quiet in his den, then she can say to the others that she’s just quickly going to look where Toby’s got to and why he’s so quiet today. Just to put her mind at rest, ’cause with Lambert you never know.

  And when there’s too much going on in her head and she can’t get her thoughts up and running, then she can say to Gerty, so, Gerty, what you think, old girl, will Pop make it to Christmas? You think we’ll be okay after he’s gone? And when I go, one of these days, you think Treppie will look after Lambert, or will he leave him to make or break as he pleases, without checking that he doesn’t bite off his tongue?

  It doesn’t matter that Gerty never answers. She’s just a dog and she’s happy to play her little part, and at least Mol gets to think things through a bit, with that little dog-breath right here next to her. And those little eyes looking at her with so much dog’s love. Shame.

  Sometimes, when things get too much for her in the lounge, or when Treppie’s had too much Klipdrift and his shoulder begins twitching so, and he starts looking for trouble again, or when Lambert gets wild about something, or there’s another one of those speeches on TV, and people start shooting, this side and that side and all over the place, with bullet holes in cars and blood on the seats, then a person can just say: I’m taking Gerty outside quickly; or, It looks to me like that Toby wants to pee against the wall again. Come, Toby!

  It’s easy. And no one thinks anything funny’s going on.

  Then you’re outside on the lawn, under the stars, and you can take a couple of deep breaths, or smoke a few cigarettes. Or you can look up and down Martha Street to see what’s going on. Even if you see nothing, just the lights in the dark, it still helps. Or when she’s not in the mood to see the inside of Shoprite, all the trolleys and shelves and people who can’t make up their minds ’cause there’s just too much stuff, or the light’s too bright and the music sounds like asthma buzzing in her ears; when just the thought of that Shoprite fish-smell mixed with Jeyes fluid makes her feel sick to the stomach, then she can say to Pop, after he’s finished parking on that parking lot with stripes, no, you and Treppie go, I’ll stay in the car with Gerty and Toby.

  Then she can quietly light up a smoke and watch everything with the dogs, ears pricked as the shoppers go inside with empty hands and then come out again with bags full of stuff, back and forth, back and forth, in and out of the different doors of Triomf’s shopping centre: the café, the chemist, the material shop and the Roodt Brothers Forty Years Meat Tradition.

  Mol lights another cigarette.

  ‘You think I’m talking a lot of rubbish, hey, Gerty?’ Gerty looks at Mol and wags her tail once or twice.

  ‘Let’s go inside and see what everyone else’s doing, hey, Gerty. Let’s ask them to take us for a ride, hey, how’s that sound for a change?’

  Gerty knows the word ride. And Mol says it in a way that Gerty understands. The little dog gets up, takes a step backwards, then a step forwards and then she starts wagging her whole body along with her tail. Her ears are pricked and her eyes glitter.

  ‘Yes, Gerty, ride, ride, ride! You like a ride, hey! Just let the missus quickly finish her smoke here, then we can ride!’

  Gerty goes and sits down again, right next to Mol’s feet. Mol is sitting on the old Dogmor tin, leaning her elbows on her knees. She looks at the yard. Winter has made the grass look like straw. There’s only one patch of green, right next to the kitchen drain.

  She won’t be able to keep up with the mowing again one of these days when the rains begin to fall. She wonders if the lawn-mower’s been fixed yet. There’s always so much trouble with that thing, God alone knows. She stands up and moves away from the house. Some of the roof’s corrugated strips have come loose. Every year a few more. She’s going to have to put down empty tins and buckets all over the show again. Leaks. Just leaks all over the place.

  And then there’s also the overflow that keeps on dripping. So bad, all the wood’s peeling off. Here and there the wood’s rotted through completely. Loose pieces hang from the roof.

  At least the fig tree behind the house is still standing. She told them to leave it when it first started growing, ’cause it was the only shade Toby and Gerty could find. And that’s the only reason the tree was allowed to grow.

  Mol walks around the house to the front, with Gerty here under her feet all the time. ‘Oops!’ she says to her.

  That’s the other thing about dogs. When something’s broken or missing, or if something’s dangling or dripping or it’s causing a lot of trouble and you want something done about it, but you also don’t want to start something you can’t finish, then you can say: Hell, Toby, just listen to that overflow dripping on to our roof again tonight; or, Gerty, where do you think the missus’s bath plug has got to again?; or, Come now, Toby, don’t lean against that sideboard, it’s only got three legs and the fourth is a brick, and that brick’s got a crack in it; or, Calm down, you two, not so wild here in the kitchen, the missus is just getting the empties together, so many empties, we mustn’t leave them lying all over the floor like this, hey?

  Then everyone gets to hear what’s bothering you and they can do something about it. And then, if they say what rubbish are you talking now, you can just say, no, it’s nothing, you’re talking to the dogs and they must mind their own business.

  Mol’s at the front now, looking into the postbox. Lambert’s postbox. When they go out in the Volkswagen they always put the key for the gate inside the postbox. Then it’s easy to find again.

  Here comes the Ding-Dong. The Ding-Dong’s also a Kombi, like the Members’ one. It sells soft-serve, with a stretched tape that plays false notes, the same little song over and over again, up and down the streets of Triomf.

  There it goes faster now, around the bottom corner. When it goes faster, the tune plays higher notes. Treppie has different words for that tune, depending on what kind of mood he�
��s in.

  Most of the time his words go like this:

  Oh the sun it rises up,

  and it sinks again into its pit

  and then the bloody lot of us

  sink deeper in the shit

  Oh the sun comes up and sinks again

  into its goddamn pit

  and then the bloody lot of us

  dissolve like ice cream in the dirt.

  Sometimes it goes like this:

  Oh the dogs they’re sitting in a ring

  it’s ’cause they know here comes a thing

  oh the dogs they’re crying in a ring

  it’s cause bad news to them you bring.

  There’s no end to Treppie. Once he gets going, you can’t get a word in sideways. Only he can stop himself – when he’s had enough or when he runs out of rhymes.

  Here comes Toby now, running from behind the house.

  ‘Whoof! Whoof!’ he says. Old yellow thing with a curly tail.

  ‘Whoof!’ Mol replies. ‘You also want to go for a ride, hey, Toby?’

  Toby and Gerty run in circles on the grass. Then Toby lifts his leg and pees against the fence.

  When Toby comes charging out like this, Mol knows it’s actually Pop who’s looking for her. She stands quietly at the wire fence with a little smile on her face. She knows exactly what’s going to happen next.

  ‘Oh, so here’s the missus, hey. We were just wondering where’s the missus now, and meanwhile she’s out here all the time,’ Pop calls out from behind her.

  He puts his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘So what’s the missus doing out here, hey? What’s so interesting here in Martha Street today?’

  Toby’s jumping up against them. Gerty sits at Mol’s feet, shivering.

  When people tune in their voices to the dogs like this, the dogs know they’re part of the company. That’s a nice thing for a dog to know. And it’s nice for people too.

  ‘So, Gerty,’ Pop says, ‘tell me why the missus is spending so much time here in the yard today. Tell the old man.’

  ‘Gerty’s wondering if she’s going to get a soft-serve today.’

  Pop smiles like he knows something they don’t. He feels in his back pocket.

  ‘The Kombi went round this way,’ she says, pointing to where it’s busy turning at the bottom of Martha Street.

  Pop turns and walks to the Volksie parked under the little side roof next to the front door. Lambert calls it the carport.

  ‘Get in!’ Pop says, opening the driver’s door for the dogs.

  Mol signals with her eyes to the lounge: what about them?

  Ag, let’s not worry about them, Pop signals back.

  ‘We’re taking a chance, hey – it could mean trouble,’ Mol says softly.

  But Pop shakes his head. She mustn’t worry. He gets into the car.

  Pop starts the car. Mol opens the gate.

  Toby jumps into the dicky at the back. ‘Swish-swish-swish’ goes his tail as he wags it against the seat. Then he jumps out of the dicky again, on to the back seat, and then back into the dicky. In and out, in and out.

  ‘Sit still, Toby, you’re going to piss in your pants if you carry on like this!’ Pop says gruffly. Toby quietens down. Gerty sits on Mol’s seat in front, shivering and pawing.

  Pop swings out and waits for Mol to close the gate. He wants to drive down Martha and then turn up into Gerty so he can catch up with the Ding-Dong.

  Mol gets in and shouts: ‘Go!’

  But it’s too late.

  ‘Hey! Where d’you think you’re going? Hey, wait!’

  It’s Lambert. He’s standing on the little stoep in front, in his green T-shirt, which is stretched over his fat belly, and his black boxer shorts, which keep falling down his backside. He’s up to his elbows in dirt from digging his hole.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ Mol says to Pop.

  Pop turns down his window. ‘Bring me a litre Coke and twenty Paul Revere,’ Lambert shouts.

  ‘Okay,’ shouts Pop.

  ‘Okay,’ shouts Mol.

  ‘Whoof!’ barks Toby through the window, right next to Pop’s head. Gerty jumps up and down on Mol’s lap to see what’s going on.

  Here comes Treppie too. He marches across the lawn towards the little front gate. His back is stiff and there’s a spring in his step. A stiff spring. When Treppie walks like this you know there’s shit to play.

  Mol rubs Gerty’s back.

  ‘There goes our soft-serve,’ she says.

  ‘What was that, hey, Mol? Hey? Hey?’ Treppie’s past the gate now. He shoves his head through Pop’s window.

  ‘I was just talking to the dog,’ she says.

  ‘So why you sneak out like this without even asking a person if he wants anything, hey?’

  ‘What is it you want, Treppie?’ says Pop.

  ‘I said, why you sneaking out like you’re on a secret mission or something, hey?’

  ‘Kaboof!’ Treppie thumps his fist on the Volksie’s roof. ‘Whoof!’ says Toby.

  ‘Ee-ee-ee,’ says Gerty.

  ‘Just going for a little ride,’ says Pop.

  Pop lets go of the wheel and takes his cigarettes out of the top pocket of his khaki shirt. He lights up. The Volksie goes ‘zicka-zicka-zicka-zicka’ as they all wait there in the hot sun.

  Toby licks Pop’s ear. Pop reaches back and scratches Toby’s head. ‘Just going for a little ride, not so, my old doggies,’ he says, looking straight ahead. ‘Just a little afternoon ride, hey, just for a few blocks.’

  Treppie straightens up next to the car. He lights up. He’s taking his time.

  The sound of the Ding-Dong gets fainter and fainter down the streets of Triomf.

  Mol looks straight ahead.

  This could go on forever. Nothing to be done.

  Just wait and see, that’s all.

  She looks at the big old tree at the bottom of Martha Street. It’s the only shady tree in the whole of Martha Street, indeed in the whole of Triomf. Pop says it’s an oak tree.

  He says he thinks that tree’s easily three hundred years old. Much older than him. He says it’s very interesting that they left it alone when they bulldozed Sophiatown. Oaks are special trees. They’re supposed to live for hundreds of years. Pop says it must have taken a special kind of person to plant that tree, someone with a feeling for the future generations. And it must’ve been a special kind of resettlement officer, Pop says, who told his men to leave that tree alone – someone with a feeling for trees.

  ‘Switch off,’ says Treppie. ‘I’m standing here in the fumes. Sis!’ He waves his hand in front of his nose. Pop switches off.

  ‘So, Gerty, what you think Treppie wants, hey? Hey, Gerty, what does he want us to get him from the café?’ she asks.

  Treppie sticks his head through Pop’s window again.

  ‘Peppermints,’ he says. ‘Wilsons Extra Strongs. Two packets.’ He holds up two fingers.

  ‘Right!’ says Pop. ‘Two.’ He starts the car.

  Pop reverses Molletjie’s tail slowly out into the street while Treppie walks alongside. When Pop pulls away, Treppie slams the roof – ‘kaboof!’ – one more time.

  ‘Whoof! Whoof! Gharrr!’ Toby snarls at Treppie.

  ‘Grrr!’ says Gerty.

  ‘That’s it, tell him,’ Mol says to Gerty. ‘Let him have it, old girl.’

  ‘Tell him his backside, yes, tell him,’ Pop says to Toby. ‘Treppie’s backside. Him and his sulphur breath. All he needs is a pair of horns!’

  Pop revs the Volksie hard through first and second, looking back in the mirror as he takes the turn at the bottom of Martha Street, just past the oak tree. Mol turns round.

  There stands Treppie in the middle of the road, with his hands on his hips, glaring at them. Lambert too. He’s standing at the front gate, also with his hands on his hips, for all the world to see how dirty he is.

  Pop sticks his arm out of the window and slams the roof – ‘kaboof!’ – just for fun.

  M
ol smiles. Pop’s in a jolly mood today.

  ‘Where you think that Ding-Dong’s gone?’ she asks.

  ‘We look till we find it!’ says Pop.

  They drive up and down Triomf’s streets, looking for the Ding-Dong. Up Gerty, down Bertha, up Meyer, down Gold, up Millar, down Smithsen, right to the end of Triomf, past the PPC church.

  ‘Maybe it was that priest who got all mixed up with the kaffirs here,’ Mol says.

  ‘Maybe it was what about him, Mol?’

  ‘Maybe it was him who planted the oak tree at the bottom of our street.’

  ‘No, Molletjie, you’ve got your sums all wrong, old girl. That priest must be about the same age as me, but that tree … that tree’s as old as Adam.’

  ‘Or Jan van Riebeeck?’

  ‘Ja, Jan van Riebeeck!’ Pop takes her hand and smiles. He turns back into Thornton.

  ‘Sorry, old girl, it looks like our luck’s out. That Ding-Dong’s gone with the wind.’

  ‘No ice cream for you today,’ Mol says to Gerty.

  She always eats her soft-serve three-quarters of the way down and then lets Gerty lick-lick with her little pink tongue until it’s completely flat. Then she gives her the cone, too. But Toby also wants some, so Pop has to give Toby his cone. Pop likes the cone, so all Toby gets is the little piece at the bottom without any ice cream.

  Lambert and Treppie eat theirs all the way to the end. Stingy bastards. No heart for a dog.

  Now there’s no soft-serve for anyone today.

  They stop at Ponta do Sol. A blackboard outside says DISCOUNT ON VIDEOS FOR POLICEMEN. It’s the kind of café that’s got just about everything.

  ‘Coke, Paul Revere, Wilsons,’ Mol says, as they stand at the counter where it reeks of fish and chips.

  ‘We still got bread?’ Pop asks. Suddenly he feels hungry.

  ‘Better get some,’ she says. ‘Polony too.’

  ‘And you, Molletjie,’ Pop says to her, ‘you want anything?’

  She can see Pop’s feeling sorry for her ’cause she missed out on the Ding-Dong.