Agaat (80 page)

Jak peered at you, his gaze unsteady with alcohol. Or what am I talking? MiIla my pilla oh so silla? Are you also saying nothing tonight?

You didn't look up. Jak got up unsteadily from his chair and struck his breast.

It's my tragedy this, Agaat. You're standing there with your lip latched to your chin because you know, don't you, that your history has already been written up for you, day and date. Who would ever think of one day telling my tale? It wouldn't be for the mass market.

You two, you are the trashy novel, ladies' fiction for the airport.

The women of Grootmoedersdrift!

Agaat Lourier and Milla Redelinghuys, a tale that will rend the heart of every mother! Deep, I tell you! The stone and the bat! The silenced minority, the last domestic trench, the aborted revolution, now on the shelves for the first time! Mother Smother and Maid Overpaid!

That evening late you went to sit in the garden. You wanted to think, you couldn't understand what point it was that Jak was trying to make, whether he had a point. It must have been very late when you got up from the garden bench, a clear night, Orion had shifted across to the west already. The plovers called out in overflight, a broken scale, two notes, three notes, four. It was Easter and you could hear the new lambs bleating on the hills beyond the drift.

You wanted to go to your room through the stoep door. Jak's light was on. You heard movement, a sound, you went back down the stairs and went and stood on a terrace further on and higher up from where you could see into his office. Just the central rod, the upper halves of the weights, as he lifted them, were visible for a moment, then they disappeared, jerkily, dangerously fast.

You climbed onto the stump of the cut-down fig tree under his window. His face was upside down. At this angle it looked like a mask. He was naked except for a truss of synthetic material around his waist. His
chest was heaving, the sinews in his neck thin with straining, the muscles in his upper arms quivering. The weights were clearly too heavy. Between the grunts you heard other sounds. Only then could you make out the expression on his face. Tears down his cheeks. Bubbles of mucus under his nose.

You wanted to go in to him. I am part of this pain, you wanted to say to him, but you couldn't. You leant your head against the window sill and listened till the sobs died down.

When it was still, you looked again. He was curled up there on the carpet. Around him the shiny rods and the round iron disks were scattered. His arms were around his head. There was a moth around the light, large loose shadows flapped in the room. From the gleam of the red midriff support you could see his breathing. He wasn't sleeping. His jaws were moving as he muttered.

Jak's tale.

Agaat's tale.

Selvage and face.

You had eavesdropped on them both. The tales that were clenched back behind jawbones, those that were roared into the wind, into the reeds, into the blowing bluegum tatters, those that were broadcast through the chimneys, those that were distilled from the depths of the bottle, those that were declaimed on the dust roads of the dryland, those that were muttered into mouthpieces.

Was there somebody on the other side that day when you heard Agaat talking on the phone? Or had it been designed specially for your ears? How could you know? You had been her teacher.

You were standing behind the door in the kitchen where you knew she often stood listening when you were talking on the phone.

Yes, Jakkie, Agaat was saying, that's not news to me, you know, I know, everybody knows your mother and your father, they're not easy people, but we all have our faults. And they'll always be your mother and your father.

No, I'm not defending them, I'm just saying.

Stop it, what do you want me to say? They've always been nothing but good to me.

What do you mean? I have food, I have clothes, I have a house . . . and everything . . .

No, you can't say that, no you can't.

Jakkie, stop it, your father would never say anything like that. You're making it up because you're very angry with him.

No, Jakkie, they look after me and they're my people.

No, I'm not hiding it, why would I now stand here and lie to you?

Your mother has a hard time with him, he's difficult, but she's also difficult.

No, Jakkie, it's not that bad either.

No, I don't know what he said to you and I don't want to know, if he has a complaint, he can tell me about it himself.

No, I don't interfere.

No, that's their business.

No, I'm not playing dumb. And I'm not playing innocent.

That's not true. I know everything and see everything.

No, I say nothing to nobody. Why should I? They don't do me any harm.

No, you don't know what you're saying.

Never mind. Never you mind now, Boetie, why are you so obstreperous this morning?

Of course I want you to stay!

Of course! You're my brother. You're the only little brother I have.

No, you needn't worry about me, I can look after myself.

I'll miss you, yes, more even than I miss you already.

Of course I'll write. I'll write even more.

I will, every week.

About the clover.

About the rain too.

About the drift, everything.

I will.

About the wind.

About the smell of my fennel, they say it's sprung up all the way to Mossel Bay!

I'll give you seeds to take along.

Of course I love you, terribly much, you don't know how much.

No, you don't know, you can't know. You're my child too, you know that, don't you? But first come to have your birthday with Gaat. I'm making everything that you like. For one last time. Your sheep's neck and sweet pumpkin, your lovely chicken pie.

No, you can't possibly want to pull out now.

No, it's all been arranged, Jakkie!

No, it would break my heart, listen to me!

No, go on, come now. Your mother and I are gardening for you for August.

Sowed yes. Namaqualand daisies. Bokbaai vygies. Your father's even rented an aeroplane for you.

Never! Oh no! Just forget it!

No, I'd be far too scared.

No, I'll never. Not a damn. Over the Kapokberg? Oh heavens no, Jakkie.

Over the plain? To the rivermouth?

No! Not why not, just not.

The y of the why and the double-u of the trouble-you.

Yes, Boetie.

The tip of the fern.

Never mind now, I know it's hard.

Yes, I know you must. You must talk, yes. I want to hear it all.

No, I won't shut my ears to it, I'm not stupid, I know what I know.

I read the papers, yes, I hear what they say.

Yes, Jakkie, don't cry, come, hush, hush, don't cry any more, I know it's hard, I understand, you're angry.

No, I won't and I don't want to.

It's not my place, that's why.

No, that's not true, I do have a place.

No, Jakkie, don't carry on like that. So what do you want me to do then?

I'll never leave her alone. She needs me. I have an obligation.

Are you starting that again? You came along and found me here when you came to your senses and that's that.

No, I don't want to.

Where would I have to go? Who would want me . . . as . . . as I am?

No, Boetie, you know that's not what I'm talking about.

No, Boetie, not yet now, perhaps one day. When I'm old one day, when I'm grey.

I will, I promise. Everything I'll tell you, one day.

No, Jakkie, that's right, you must do as your heart tells you to.

I'll take care, whatever happens. You know I will.

Well, they take care of me too. I'd honestly not be suited to any other place. I don't have a choice.

Then that's the way it is.

So then they have only me. It's better than nothing. And so then I only have them. That's also better than nothing.

Yes, you will be happy, of course you will.

Don't say never, Jakkie, that girl was just not your sort, that's all.

No, I know, the young fellows too, unpolished as your mother would say, whoever would want to eat sheep's head and drink vaaljapie with them?

No, you'll find someone, you're such a handsome chap, and so learned, a chip off the old block.

Yes I will. I always think of you. I pray for you.

No, Jakkie, you mustn't talk like that.

No, go and read your Bible like a good boy. To every thing there's a season, a time to stay and a time to go. In Ecclesiastes, you go and read it, it will comfort you.

Do you still have your bookmark?

The one I sent with your mother when you got your medal? In a white envelope?

Oh well, then I don't know, I'll just have to make you another.

If I was there? No, but they told me it was a very swanky affair, only your mother's new shoes hurt her.

No, I'll ask her about the bookmark. You must bring along your cross of honour so that I can see it, your father says it's eighteen carat gold.

 

Then you could stand it no longer. You emerged from behind the door.

Agaat held the receiver away from her ear, glared at you.

You wanted to take the receiver from her hand. Without a goodbye she got up off the stool and smoothed her apron. You grabbed at the telephone in her hand. Agaat let go, the receiver swung against the wall. When you got hold of it at last, there was only a dialling tone.

You followed her to the kitchen, grabbed her by the front of her dress and shook her back and forth.

Who are you? How many thousands of devils are you? For what do you pretend to be a holy angel of light? Dear, good Agaat of Grootmoedersdrift who doesn't grumble and doesn't grouse no matter what! Who'll take care, who knows her place, who doesn't interfere! Who's only too grateful! Who's so very religious! Who are you trying to bamboozle? You're a Satan! It's my child! Mine! Mine! Do you hear me! So why don't you just tell him what's happening here? Or do you want to entice him away further and further? With your milksop of mealy-mouthed flattery? Is that your plan? He knows you're lying! He knows! He knows! You think up a different story for each of us here according to your convenience. Witch! You're a witch and you're witching us here! If I'd only known, if I could only have known what I was doing that day when I took you in here. A curse you are. I hate you.

You struck her through the face. You remember your hands plucking at the collar of the uniform, a button popping, your fists hammering, on her breast, on her shoulders.

She stood stock-still absorbing the blows without moving a muscle, without retreating by a single step, without any retort.

Until you lowered your hands and averted your face.

You sank into a chair, with your head on your hands on the kitchen table. A whimpering came from you. You couldn't stop moaning. Vaguely you were aware of movements, a kettle being filled, cups rattling, water starting to boil.

There was only the sound of rubber soles on the linoleum, then the smell of tea before your nose. You lifted your head. Agaat's strong hand was adding sugar to the cup. One, two, and a little bit more. With great assurance. Sweeter than you ever took it. She stirred it. There was something specific about the stirring. It wasn't impatient and it wasn't fast. It was businesslike. It was reassuring. Did that signify peace? The teaspoon was back in the saucer.

Then, from the fingertips of the small hand, two disprins.

And then she was out by the back door.

There was a rumbling in the yard of the lorry delivering the marquee tent and the clanking of poles and ropes and pegs being unloaded.

And amongst the male voices, Agaat's voice issuing orders:

Put it here! Here! Put it up, there!

Her voice warning. Not through my flowerbeds! Careful with the little trees, their tips! It's their growth points! If you injure one of them!

Her voice threatening: That one, he'll get the horsewhip!

 

You were shaky for days after the falling-out. Migraine, a pressure on the chest, a muscle twitching in your eye.

Agaat carried peppermint extracts to your darkened bedroom, cloths with mustard for your headache, eucalyptus extract for steaming over a bowl of boiling water.

For days after the incident she herself looked a shade greyer of face. Her cap was wilted as if she'd lost her knack with the starching and the ironing.

It would be fatal not to seek reconciliation. And you were the one most deeply in the wrong, you had most to be forgiven for.

She had you exactly where she wanted you.

She desired more than just a functional settlement, she wanted you just right for the feast. Cheerful, gentle. For Jakkie's sake she wanted it. For the neighbours and the community. She wanted to keep her household together, and you had to help her with it.

And she wanted it, in spite of years of training in dissembling, and for the sake of a good farewell, all candid and sincere as well. For that
not one of you was equipped.

She knew it very well, even though all her preparations proceeded according to plan. A grimace of chill chagrin was around her mouth, her crooked shoulder was skewer and sharper as she bustled about.

You couldn't help her. How were the two of you to break through it? Table settings, words of welcome, pluming fountains, the prescribed dishes carried in steaming at the prescribed hour. That was the order of Grootmoedersdrift, the tradition, an annual institution, the swank party for Jakkie, the only child, the heir, the eternal to-do about him.