Marlene van Niekerk - Agaat

I agree, you exclaimed. You were in full flow now, you could hear you were preaching, but you kept at it.

You can’t take more out of the soil than you put into it, you said. And here we are now, a little group of people at the southern tip of Africa in the process of totally destroying this national asset within the space of a few decades. All the fertiliser crops may make you rich, but it’s not a long-term investment in the soil. Fallow is the answer. It’s a tradition born of respect for nature. In a state of pseudo-death you restore your substance. Even a frog knows that.

Hear hear! the people shouted.

Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, red-faced Flippie sang with a suggestive fillip to his voice.

A commotion erupted.

Beatrice looked at you dumbfounded.

Milla, please, stop, you’re making a fool of yourself, Jak said under his breath, his voice hoarse with irritation.

Give her a chance, chaps, Gawie shouted, such an opportunity you won’t get again soon!

You fixed their eyes as you spoke.

It’s the rhythms of nature that you have to respect as the Creator determined them. That’s what agriculture should be based on. This new greed is barbaric, it’s a form of sacrilege.

And then a thought came up in you and you said it before you thought about it. Perhaps the sips of wine together with your exhilaration had gone to your head.

If a farmer clears and levels his land year after year it’s as good as beating his wife every night. In a manner of speaking, you added, but the words were out and they had been spoken.

You saw Beatrice gasping for breath and putting her hand in front of her mouth.

A heavy silence descended.

Gawie came to your rescue.

Food for thought, chaps, definitely food for thought, let’s hear what Thys wants to say, he looks as if he’s going to burst a blood vessel if he’s not given a turn.

Now it’s enough, Jak hissed, now we’re leaving, you and I.

At the door Gawie greeted the two of you. You he kissed on the cheek and pressed your shoulder.

Congratulations, Jak old friend, you married a first-rate wife, look after her well.

He shook Jak’s hand emphatically, but Jak didn’t know what it was all about. He released his hand quickly.

He got into the car and slammed his door without opening the door for you. Of that he normally made a big show in front of other people.

It was rally-driving all the way home.

Good God, you, Jak swore, think you know everything!

At home he staggered out of the car and urinated against the first tree. He swayed on his legs, he was so drunk.

Your mouth is too big! he shouted as he entered the front door.

You went to your room, heard him pour himself a whisky from the carafe in the sitting room. He came to look for you in the bedroom, came to stand in the doorway, and glared at you.

Jak, I have something to tell you, you said.

So, and what could that be? That you have something on the go with Tredoux?

Jak, he’s our friend, he was just congratulating you.

And on what, may I ask? On your speech? What gives you the idea that you can sit and preach to farmers on how to cultivate their lands?

What must they think of me? You and your mother, you’re tarts of one crust, you think you know it all. How am I supposed to show my face ever again at the fertiliser company?

Jak, I said, I can’t help your feeling like that.

Come here, you said to soothe him.

He stood in the middle of the room plucking at his clothes.

And that soil is like a woman whose husband beats her! What kind of crap is that, I ask you? You’re looking for it, you know it, you’re looking for me and you’ll look for me till you find me!

Yes baas, you said to him.

He wasn’t used to that. You stared into the slap without ducking, straight into his eyes.

Jak, you can’t do that to me any more, you said.

He shoved you back onto the bed.

If you want to be my soil, I’ll do on it as I want to. Slapping is nothing! Shoving is child’s play! Now tell me, pray, what kind of soil are you? Clay, perhaps? Dirt? Shale? A bloody rock-ridge? Come on, you’re supposed to be the expert here! Grade yourself for us, perhaps it will be of use to the man who has to plough you!

You got up from the bed. He knocked you flat again.

What does one do with soil, eh? What does one do with it?

You drive a post into it, you grub it, you quarry out a dam! Or you dig a hole for yourself and fall your arse off into it. That’s what happened to me!

He approached threateningly. You held your arms around your stomach. You saw him noticing it. You altered your gesture, you stroked your abdomen.

Jak, you said and put your foot on the arm of a chair, you pulled your dress up into your groin and started undoing your suspender, won’t you please undo my zip?

Do it yourself, he mumbled.

But from his tone you could tell that you had him where you wanted him. You didn’t even have to look in his direction. He stood rocking on his legs, glared at you with bleary eyes.

You undid the zip and stepped out of the dress, unfastened your other stocking and slowly rolled it down your thigh while you looked at him. You slid the straps of your black petticoat over your shoulders and went and lay down on the bed.

What does one call that? So spread open? You wanted to feel it, his powerlessness. It excited you to wait for it. You felt you had the advantage, for the first time.

He was very rough. He just unzipped his trousers and half pulled you off the bed. On your knees against the bed he forced you. He tore your petticoat and gripped your wrists. You turned your head to see it.

Look in front of you! Look in front of you! he yelled and slapped you against the head.

Jak, you should be ashamed of yourself, you said. But you heard your voice. There was a kink in the words. You were in it together, in the shame.

Whore! Jak shouted, whore!

You laughed, that was what you did. You thought you saw a movement in the mirror but there was nothing. There were only the two of you. You and your shadows, it was the red cummerbund, it was the rags of black petticoat over your white shoulders.

What are you looking at? he shouted.

He grabbed a footstool with one hand and threw it at the mirror and shattered it.

He rammed himself into you.

You fastened your hands around the back of his hips and pulled him deeper into you. You dictated a rhythm. For yourself.

Come now, you whispered, you’re still the best, come now. We’re made for each other!

That was what you heard yourself say. You wanted to feel it. Dry. Sore. Good. You had him where you wanted him, you were done with him, he was good only for decoration. To know that, was the reward.

I have something to tell you, you said when he was done.

He leant against you in a daze.

I am pregnant, Jak, you said, and if you ever lift your hand against me again, I will sell the farm and leave you and take your child with me and you will never see him again.

He was too numb to answer back. He half-crawled over you onto the bed and drifted into sleep. His penis dangled out. It looked like a piece of intestine.

A son, he mumbled.

He flung his arm across the pillow and straightened his legs, foot on your face where you were lying at the end of the bed.

You pushed his feet out of your face. You looked at yourself in the shattered mirror until he started snoring. Then you went and ran a bath and lay in it for hours adding hot water. You listened to the sounds of the house.

Before going to sleep, you picked up the shards of mirror and gathered your torn clothes in a bundle and threw them away in the bin in the backyard. The side panels of the mirror were undamaged. You turned the panels towards each other and inspected yourself from one side and the other. You couldn’t get enough. After twelve years of despoilment you, Milla de Wet née Redelinghuys, were going to be a mother.