Agaat (72 page)

 

I must write the commission as Dominee helped me to clarify it today. My task and vocation with this. Now I no longer feel so alone with it. And I must write up the beginning, the beginning of everything, before I forget the feeling, of how I found her and knew she was mine.

P·R·A·Y I make Agaat spell. P tap R tap A tap Y tap, that's right, P·R·A·Y.

I do it with the left eye. It's the only one that can still blink. The other one, the right, has started staring, overnight. Or a few nights ago? How long have I slept?

I no longer know. I drift off without knowing, I dream I come to and it's another day's evening or two afternoons later. All that I know is that the winking-reflex is gone in my right eye, all that I feel is a faint spasm now and again round the eyeball, but the eyelids no longer move.

Now Agaat comes and with the fingers of her small hand she presses the lower lid up to keep the eye moist. But I know what she thinks would be preferable. I can see it in her face, that jaw. She'll stick down the staring eye with a wad of cotton wool and a plaster.

Nobody can want to wink someone else's eye for her.

Enough is enough.

How to make peace with one eye, an unfathomable interpreter and the alphabet? If peace it can be called.

Can I make it with her?

We could make a flower garden. She dug up a photo here that Dawid still took of us, when the trellising for the rambling roses was put up. Our faces, Agaat's and mine, elated with working and planning. We're standing there amongst the holes and the trenches and the heaps of soil, but we look as if we can already see everything in flower.

Could one hope for more, after all?

I smell the gillyflowers, the wild pinks through the open door.

Would that have to be peace enough for us? The paradisiacal garden?

Next to me is the large hydrangea arrangement. How long have I been sleeping? Two days? Three? Four? This morning she gave the flowers a
look that I know but too well. Past their prime. One day more. Then they have to get out of here. Onto the compost heap. Ready to be dug in.

Pray, she repeats my first word of the talking-hour. A light touch of disbelief I discern there.

She steps back from the board, places the duster in the corner. There's a red streak of dust on her sock. Her cap is skew. Where was she again in the night? She turns to the mirror. Arms by the sides. Then she lifts her hands. But they don't go to her head. It's not to pin her cap straight. She regards herself with her hands in the air. Outnumbered, it says. Surrender.

P·R·A·Y, I asked. It's the only opening I can devise to initiate what I want to plead for. Don't throw them out. Our blue-purple hydrangeas. Don't throw yourself out, and me neither. Hold us for a while yet. There is beauty also in flowers that fade. Their last hour provides stuff for contemplation. Contemplate it for me. For whom do you in any case want to refresh the vase? It's our last flower arrangement with a history in this room. Remember, you salvaged the vase. And stuck it together. And it never leaked.

She reads to me from the Bible every evening. Lamentations. How is the gold become dim! How is the most fine gold changed! The stones of the sanctuary are poured out in the top of every street. And then she prays. The
Our Father
. The safest prayer under the circumstances. Forgive us our trespasses.

Now it's morning. The curtains are open. I've been washed, she's dripped three drops of tea with a dropper at the back of my tongue, wiped out the inside of my mouth with a sponge, cursorily. The tea was cold. She'd forgotten to add sugar. The sponge was rough, bitterish. Aloe. Wormwood. The peppermint's run out, and why buy a new tube at this stage?

Last night, was it last night? Or the night before last? The squabble about Jakkie? I could still blink with both eyes.

She spelt out everything I wanted to say. Not a word in reply. Stepped forward and back with the stick, kept on her glasses so that I couldn't see her eyes. Looked at what I was blinking, tapped short and sharp with the duster handle, let me have my say as fast as she could, her voice neutral in repeating my questions for me, said nothing in reply. It was worse like that than when she imitates my intonation. That's been her style the last few days. Cool and casual. But there's a rumbling somewhere inside her.

I feel the tea trickle out of me. Would it be warmer now than when it went into me? Sweeter? Or salty? Or sad? I feel devastated by my
outburst and spelt out like that I don't even have the excuse that I lost my temper spontaneously, I wanted to get at her.

D·I·D Y·O·U R·E·A·L·L·Y H·A·V·E M·I·L·K W·H·E·N Y·O·U L·E·T J·A·K·K·I·E D·R·I·N·K F·R·O·M Y·O·U, question mark. W·H·Y D·I·D Y·O·U N·E·V·E·R T·E·L·L M·E T·H·A·T Y·O·U H·A·D S·E·E·N T. B·L·U·E E·M·P·E·R·O·R B·U·T·T·E·R·F·L·Y I·N T. F·O·R·E·S·T, question mark. I W·A·S T·H·E·R·E B·E·H·I·N·D T. R·O·C·K F·I·G I S·P·I·E·D O·N Y·O·U I S·A·W E·V·E·R·Y·T·H·I·N·G, exclamation mark. S·T·O·L·E H·I·M F·R·O·M M·E , exclamation mark. T·O·O·K H·I·M O·U·T O·F M·E F·U·L·L O·F B·L·O·O·D + S·L·I·M·E + W·R·A·P·P·E·D H·I·M + T·O·O·K H·I·M + N·E·V·E·R R·E·T·U·R·N·E·D H·I·M B·U·T Y·O·U S·A·W W·H·A·T C·A·M·E O·F I·T , colon. H·E W·H·O B·E·N·D·S T·O A H·I·M·S·E·L·F A J·O·Y D·O·T·H T·H·E W·I·N·G·E·D L·I·F·E full stop. D·E·S·T·R·O·Y, full stop. S·L·E·E·P·I·N·G P·I·L·L·S I·N H·I·S W·I·N·E Y·O·U C·O·U·L·D H·A·V·E K·I·L·L·E·D H·I·M T·H·A·T F·I·R·S·T L·E·T·T·E·R O·F H·I·S T·H·A·T S·U·P·P·O·S·E·D·L·Y A comma, A·R·R·I·V·E·D A M·O·N·T·H A·F·T·E·R H·E L·E·F·T, comma, S·L·A·N·T·E·D L·E·T·T·E·R·S F·O·R·W·A·R·D + B·A·C·K T·O question C·A·M·O·U·F·L·A·G·E Y·O·U·R H·A·N·D·W·R·I·T·I·N·G question mark. H·E K·N·E·W N·O·T·H·I·N·G O·F I·T H·E W·O·U·L·D N·O·T H·A·V·E U·S·E·D P·O·S·T O·F·F·I·C·E T·H·E·N + H·I·S C·O·N·C·E·R·N·E·D L·I·T·T·L·E C·A·L·L·S N·O·W·A·D·A·Y·S, question mark. D·O Y·O·U I·N·V·E·N·T·A·L·L T·H·A·T A·S W·E·L·L A·S Y·O·U A·L·W·A·Y·S D·I·D , question mark. I·T·S Y·O·U·R F·A·U·L·T T·H·A·T H·E L·E·F·T L·I·K·E T·H·A·T, exclamation mark. W·H·A·T A·L·L D·I·D Y·O·U T·E·L·L H·I·M I·N T·H·A·T P·L·A·N·E T·H·A·T N·I·G·H·T O·F H·I·S B·I·R·T·H·D·A·Y, ques tion mark. I·T·S Y·O·U·R F·A·U·L·T T·H·A·T J·A·K C·A·M·E T·O G·R·I·E·F N·O·T T·H·A·T I M·I·S·S H·I·M, accent mark, N·O·T I·N T. L·E·A·S·T, exclamation mark. B·U·T T·H·E·R·E = A·F·T·E·R A·L·L S·U·C·H A T·H·I·N·G A·S G·R·A·T·I·T·U·D·E, exclamation, D·I·S·G·R·A·C·E, exclamation. S·E·A·R·C·H·E·D W·H·O·L·E H·O·U·S·E C·R·O·S·S E·X·A·M·I·N·A·T·I·O·N·S + Y·O·U B·E·H·I·N·D T. K·I·T·C·H·E·N D·O·O·R L·I·S·T·E·N·I·N·G H·O·W Y·O·U·R P·L·O·T·S D·I·S·T·I·L, exclamation exclamation exclamation, M·Y O·N·L·Y C·H·I·L·D, exclamation D·O·E·S H·E K·N·O·W I A·M D·Y·I·N·G H·E·R·E, question mark. W·H·Y D·O Y·O·U K·E·E·P M·E I·N T·H·E D·A·R·K, swearword, A·B·O·U·T H·I·S P·L·A·N·S, exclamation question mark.

When I'd done, she came and stood by the foot of the bed, untied her apron, unbuttoned her dress in front, bared her small crooked shoulder in front of me and folded her hands in front of her. At first she talked, but the words had a cadence, a kind of songspeech it was, full of archaic expressions.

I closed the eye that could close. I couldn't look upon the crooked shoulder any longer, the expression on Agaat's face, her mouth twisting as if she were weeping the words.

I could close one eye, that's right, now I remember, that was the moment, that was when it happened for the first time, the other eye remained staring. And still I had to endure it, the incantation, on the pattern, so it sounded to me, of the aboriginal lamentations on Jakkie's tape.
it was stuck, totally unyielding in its socket and I had to keep looking at her. I relaxed my focus, tried to haze out the image. But under the white cap the brown smudge of Agaat's face kept looming, distorted, rippling, like an underwater statue singing.

When the song was done, she wrenched back her arm into its sleeve and went and sat in the Redman Chief, strapped herself in, clicked shut the buckle and started reading from a blue booklet. Only her lips moved. When she saw I was looking at her, she pressed the knob, grabbed the steering column and turned the chair, a soughing right-about turn. Only the high black back I could see, the chrome grips on either side, the deeply treaded black rubber of the back wheels. Only a whispering I heard from time to time from behind the backrest, moaning sounds, as if the chair had a life of its own.

Could I have dreamed it all? The snuffling, the forward and backward manoeuvring of the chair, the leisurely turnabouts, first this way round and the other way round? The fluttering of pages, the tearing sounds, the groaning, the sighing? The backward recline setting, the forward incline setting, the automatic rocking function, at a small angle, just lightly to and fro, to go to sleep? To relieve the bodily aches of the seated?

Did I think it all up? Such a bare shoulder you could surely not dream up? Such a chair? There it looms in the middle of the room, a throne of black leather and chrome, the embroidery heaped up on the seat. Like a burnished throne.

I'm not dreaming now, I'm wide awake. It's morning, I smell the garden, I see the hydrangea arrangement. I remember. Over there in the corner stands the duster where Agaat has just put it down.

P•R•A•Y , I spelled.

Pray, she repeated, with the trace of a question in it. She's waiting for me to speak more. How can I explain why I want a prayer to be said? A way in it is, a snare. How else am I to find out what she's turning over in her mind? Where she went to in the night?

Three times I was aware of her standing next to my bed in the dark. After the last time I heard her go out at the back. But I didn't hear the outside room's door open. It was the door of the storeroom. I heard something fall, a clattering of spades and tools, a muffled exclamation. And then nothing, only the wind, and floating on it a rumour, an image, an intimation of discord, of lamentation, of a beating of the breast, the white cross straining across shoulders, screams in the night, against the red stones, in the red dust of summer, a shaking of the firmament, a star shower, a dark glow from the mountain, a weal across the eye, across the cheek, a burning grey bloom, but not my own tears. Old as the bloom on black-ripe Christmas plums it was, soft and powerful. I heard the dogs bark, in the distance, high up, from across the river, from the direction of the mountain. Boela's bark, Koffie's bark, upset, deranged, a barking after whatever possesses human beings.

Pray for me, Agaat, pray for whatever possesses human beings. Pray for the last plum season that I shall live to see.

You can't prescribe people's prayers.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation. And forgive us our trespasses.

How simple that sounds, but who leads whom and who trespasses against whom here?

Why create a temptable human being?

Forty days in the wilderness! Here it is, marked down for me in the calendar. 6 November to 16 December. The calendar is clamped fast to the reading stand, over the commission, over the symptoms and their futile bygone treatment.

Forty days. All the kingdoms of the world, if thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine. That she read from the Bible. When? Yesterday afternoon?

If thou therefore wilt worship me, shall be thine? What's that supposed to mean? Does she think she's Beelzebub?

I have two days left to make a full forty. How many quarter-hours is that? I can't count any more, the dark and the light hours, the ray of sun on the altar. Sixteen December is circled. The Day of the Covenant, the Day of Reconciliation.

An affirmative calendar! Can anybody be so deliberate! So pathetic? So literal! Or is it pure coincidence? Is everything that's happened here pure coincidence? Is it only I who dreamed up the causes and the effects, the reasons and the grounds? And she who rearranged them? Because without that one cannot live and cannot die?