Marlene van Niekerk - Agaat

Next? she asks.

V·E·R·Y F·U·N·N·Y, I spell.

She waits for the follow-up. Doesn’t bat an eyelid. Lets me spill my guts. Fills me in. Tops me up.

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

Agaat stands back from the chart, the wall full of fluttering bits of paper. She presses against her cap. She places the duster in the corner. This time her answer is taken from the embroidery book.

Shadow-work, she says, is a form of white embroidery that is within the reach of all because the technique is very simple. It is suitable for table linen, bedspreads, pillow covers for babies, bridal veils, blouses, christening robes, children’s clothes. Shadow-work is done on transparent cloth and from Italy we get special fine linen for the purpose. It can however also be done on silk organza or a good-quality Swiss organdie. Artificial fibres are not recommended.

M·O·C·K, I spell.

Mock turtle, says Agaat.

D·I·D Y·O·U D·R·O·W·N·T. K·I·D T·H·A·T E·V·E·N·I·N·G O·F T. F·I·R·E, question mark. + W·H·Y, question mark. B·E·H·I·N·D M·E·S·A·T·A·N, exclamation mark.

You’re really jumping around this morning, says Agaat, I can’t keep up.

She pulls her cap lower on her head, she stands alert for my next instalment.

W·H·Y D·I·D Y·O·U D·I·G‧U·P‧T. L·A·M·B E·A·R F·R·O·M T·H·E‧B·I·N, comma, W·I·T·H W·H·A·T S·U·P·E·R·S·T·I·T·I·O·N·S D·I·D Y·O·U I·N‧F·E·C·T J·A·K·K·I·E, question mark.

It was my own hanslam, says Agaat, her voice uninflected. She looks out of the glass door.

What hanslam? Agaat always had nurslings, lambs, pigs, meerkat, every kind of nursling.

Sweetflour, says Agaat with her back to me.

Sweetflour? I remember Sweetflour. Discarded. One of a triplet. Full-milk Agaat fed her with extra cream and a teaspoon of clean slaked lime, from the bottle, eighteen times a day, at blood heat as her book says, reduced to six times a day, until she started eating oats and lucerne by herself. She was five months old and she came when Agaat called her. The one we slaughtered that day was a nursling wether with a fat belly.

Agaat turns back from the door. Her eyebrows on question marks. I blink at the board, show I want to spell something. She takes her stick.

Y·O·U L·I·E, exclamation mark, I spell.

I would surely never have made her slaughter her own hanslam? I would have checked up first. But did I? That ear wasn’t marked. That I remember, and Dawid had called I should come and have a look when he’d caught the lamb, but I didn’t go, I wanted to keep an eye, Agaat was busy ironing her first double sheet on her own that morning, I showed her how one folds it along its length on the ironing board, how one sprinkles water on it.

And, says Agaat, on top of that it was my birthday, twelfth July, you’d very kindly taught me that that was the day on which the Lord gave myself to me as a present. So then you forgot it in your hurry to get me out of the house. Then you pretended the outside room was heaven.

Agaat stuffs the knuckle of her small hand into her mouth as if she wanted to push in a stopper so that nothing more can come out of there. She regards me over the hand, for a long time. I see the entreaty in her eyes: Please, Ounooi, don’t force me to get angry, I’ve long since given up being angry, I don’t want to be angry, you provoke me, what is it you want from me? Tell me and I’ll give it to you, whatever you ask, if it’s within my power.

She stands ready with the stick.

H·Y·P·O·C·R·I·T·E, exclamation mark. D·O·N·T M·A·K·E T·H·O·S·E S·O·P·P·Y E·Y·E·S A·T M·E, exclamation mark. H·O·W M·A·N·Y T·I·M·E·S M·O·R·E A·R·E Y·O·U G·O·I·N·G T·O C·O·N·F·R·O·N·T M·E W·I·T·H I·T, question mark exclamation mark.

It’s going too slowly. I think too fast. I only get the odd word out.

W·H·Y A·R·E Y·O·U O·N T. S·C·E·N·E S·O S·O·O·N A·T E·V·E·R·Y D·I·S·A·S·T·E·R W·O·N·D·E·R A·B·O·U·T Y·O·U·R T·R·U·E C·O·L·O·U·R·S S·I·C·K·C·O·M·F·O·R·T·E·R F·I·R·E E·X·T·I·N·G·U·I·S·H·E·R S·L·I·M·E·K·N·O·C·K·E·R D·I·S·T·R·U·S·T D·E·V·I·L.

Agaat composes her own sentences from the words. I compose mine. They’re quite different, the versions that emerge.

That’s enough now, Ounooi, you’re just upsetting yourself. I can’t understand you. She puts down the stick.

I insist.

She picks it up again.

Y·O·U D·O·N·T W·A·N·T T·O U·N·D·E·R·S·T·A·N·D M·E, exclamation mark. Y·O·U P·L·A·Y D·I·R·T·Y, exclamation mark. D·O Y·O·U T·H·I·N·K Y·O·U A·R·E G·O·D W·I·T·H Y·O·U·R S·T·I·C·K, question mark exclamation mark.

By nature utterly indisposed, disabled and made opposite to all good, and wholly inclined to all evil, says Agaat.

H·O·W D·I·D Y·O·U G·E·T T·O T. D·A·M S·O Q·U·I·C·K·L·Y T·O P·U·T T. P·A·R·C·E·L W·I·T·H T. C·H·R·I·S·T·E·N·I·N·G R·O·B·E T·H·E·R·E, question mark. W·H·Y S·O D·E·V·I·O·U·S, question mark. Y·O·U K·N·O·W I C·O·U·L·D·N·T D·O A·N·Y·T·H·I·N·G A·B·O·U·T T·H·E W·H·O·L·E M·A·T·T·E·R, exclamation mark.

Agaat puts down the stick. Now I’ve got her. I know how angry she was about that.

Trailing-stitch, she says, morning glories, pomegranate pips, ai where are the days. Conceived in sin, I’d say. You too, you always imagined your hands were tied, with everything. But the work of my hands you were strong enough to pick up and throw into the dam! Tsk, I’d rather not think about it!

She lifts up my sheet. For a moment I think she’s going to pull it over my head. She folds it back neatly, pulls it up under my chin.

You think you can wrap me up here, I flicker. You think you can tidy up and finish off this whole story as you do with everything, but you can’t, it’s not in your sovereign power, you need me for it!

Whiter than snow, says Agaat, she strokes my hair.

I roll my eyes to the open books with the folded-back pages on the chair. She follows my eyes.

And she takes my eyes and she reads me direct, she no longer spells with the stick.

She bends her head, I feel the hard cloth of her cap against my temple. Softly she interprets my thoughts for me. She whispers in my ear with her sweet rooibos breath, I smell the borax in the starch.

I listen to myself. Would that be what I would say if I were suddenly to have my tongue restored to me? Can I believe my ears?

What do you think you’re going to achieve by rubbing my nose in what I’ve written in the diaries? the voice asks in my ear, a perfect imitation of how I talk.

It’s your story, it’s for your sake, so that you may have something in your old age to remember how you were rescued from destitution. How I made a human being out of you. You were nothing, you’d have stayed nothing, if I hadn’t taken a chance with you. I’m not saying I did everything right, I constantly made mistakes, I hurt you, I humiliated you, but by what example was I to measure myself? You know what it was like in those days. Your case was highly exceptional. But I tried, under the circumstances and by the light that was available to me, I tried. Now you’re making a circus of it.