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.