Marlene van Niekerk - Agaat

So what do you think happened?

Jak had found his stride. He looked at you and Agaat in turn. He opened the curtains and took a deep breath.

Wonderful, wonderful aromas of Grootmoedersdrift, he said, fennel and coriander, six of one and half a dozen of the other.

When he turned round, his voice was hoarse.

The man, he said, started thinking that he was not at all good enough. Not clever enough, not strong enough, not handsome enough, not rich enough. He thought he might just be the very worst farmer on earth.

And he was unhappy. But in truth he was angry. His heart was bitter.

And he, yes, sin of sins, he started manhandling his wife when she nagged. Slap, kick, shove, these three.

Jak held three fingers in the air, showed them in turn to you and Agaat.

He pushed her away when she begged that he should hold her. He scolded her, and despised himself that he could be so cruel with somebody that he loved. Ai, ai, tsk.

And guess what this man did then?

Jak, that’s enough, you said.

He ignored you, closed the passage door so that Agaat couldn’t get out there.

Guess what the wretched man did then? Here, Milla, have a little glass, don’t think I don’t know who drinks my brandy late at night.

The man trained to become stronger and farmed to become richer. The fool. He read to become wiser and bought the best clothes to look better in the mirror.

But all of this was of no use.

His heart was sore. And his wife just badgered him the more.

You’re going to leave me, she mewled, tomorrow you’re going to pack your bags and abandon me, I know it. When men turn forty, then they start cheating on their wives, all the psychologists say so.

What could he do? What does a man do with such erudite aspersions? The man protested for all he was worth.

Jak put his hand on his heart and looked at the ceiling. I shall never abandon you, what did I do to be distrusted like this? Woe is me!

And then his wife showed him her titties anew and lifted her little dress and pouted her little lips and praised him in front of the guests.

Behold, my husband, he is the best that there is and my husband says this and my husband says that and you should be glad that I’m sharing his wisdom with you.

His jacket that was hanging from a chair, Jak hooked over his shoulder, with his free hand he brushed a few crumbs from the table.

But flattery means nothing, that we all know, don’t we Agaat, your missis here also has nothing but good words, not so, about your service, and how she can depend on you, she tells it to all the neighbours’ wives, to her book club, no matter what she’s done to you in your life and how she treats you behind the scenes and all the things she suspects you of, hmmm? And you do your very best every day, don’t you, to show her how good you actually are, hmmm? Do you think you can convince her, my girl?

Jak, leave Agaat out of this, it has nothing to do with her, you said.

Jak struck himself against the forehead.

Oh dear, how could I ever make such a mistake?

When he resumed, it was softer, his eyes flickered to and fro between you and Agaat. He spoke rapidly.

But with the years the man ceased to trust his wife’s attentions. She started setting his teeth on edge. Teeth on edge, yes, finger in the sea anemone. Schlupp! Brrr! He knew that all her compliments were merely a plot to keep him with her, to get the spanner round the nut, as we say in the Overberg. And oh, the poor man, as luck would have it, he had been blessed by the good Lord with such a handy monkey-wrench. How does that poet of yours put it again, Milla? Why were we crucified into car mechanics? But that’s not the point. The point is: who else could siphon off his oil so expertly? But he knew that the siphoning was nothing other than hunger, and it froze him to the bone.

Pretty story, don’t you think? Aren’t you applauding yet? Anybody for film rights? Or an option on the material? For a learned case study? Jak made his voice deep and theatrical for the conclusion.

And so they lived. What could satisfy her hunger and thirst? His blood, his marrow, his soul? Was that what he had to give in exchange for her compliments? Compliments, yes, you heard aright. Not love? you ask, isn’t that what he wanted from her? Her love? Where then can the love be in this tale?

Jak cleared his throat, spoke in a sing-song voice, his hand to his side as if he were doing a folk dance, Oh no, no, no my Milla, no, self-love, I tell you, self-love, the malignant, the contagious kind, that unfortunately is what this tale is all about.

So I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear ladies. All that I know further is, the farmer got thin and his wife got sickly but they couldn’t do without each other.

Who would deliver them from their misery?

Their cattle?

Their stranger within their gates?

Their only-begotten son?

Their faithful maidservant, who worked for them?

To be continued, Jak said, and turned away to the front door.

Jak, wait, please, stay with me, let’s talk, it’s not true, you said, you can’t do this to me, Jak, don’t go. Jak, what’s to become of us?

His face was white and his eyes gleamed. You felt you as if you were going to faint. You clung to the edge of the table. You felt Agaat looking at you. Was there a trace of a smile on her mouth?

What’s to become of us? Jak echoed, he looked from side to side at you and Agaat. Is that what the two of you want to know? Well, all I can say is: Please be patient, your curiosity will be rewarrded. Otherwise, do use your imagination in the meantime, between the two of you you can calculate the precise degree of heat at which the earth will perish.

He went out and drove the bakkie out of the garage, drove into the night.

You stood on the stoep and watched him open the gate and close it again, first the white beam of the headlights and then the red glow of the brake-lights on his trouser legs. Would he have had it in his head by then already? He obviously had more in his head than you’d thought. You felt that he had plans. You felt that he was in resistance, you could see his desperation, from his body, from his eyes. You were shaky. Your heart was beating wildly. You told Agaat to mix you a sleeping-draught.

clear out! clear out! the whole caboodle is up for auction then you who remain behind can start afresh from scratch throw out the silver hand-bells for the table-summons for whom would you want to ring it anyway? the red copper and the brass the ornaments without reason throw them out! porcelain dogs! dark-brown diana with the wolves at her hem! reading nursery couple on the half-moon table, what a misplaced idyll! the silver coasters engraved with canadian swamp cypresses where in god’s name does it all come from? the drift the vlei the mountain pictured oval mirrors stuck-together vases woven hangings birth-plate of delft blue take it give it to him when he comes or wrap it in foam and bubble-wrap and post it to the north gathered lamp-shades blown-glass necks of preening swans framed portraits the talcumed bloom of my great-grandmother my great-grandfather’s waxed moustache mustard-yellow curtain tassels pewter ashtrays copper indian shoes cast-iron doorstops compotiers on precarious stems behold all this work of their hands cast cavities forged fillings riffled textures ornate weights leather upholstery chintz velvet macramé nests where spider and mite and self-satisfaction breed dense banal things that give a name to nothingness clear out the wardrobes! court shoes shift dresses wrapover skirts culotte pants double-breasted jackets bat-sleeve coats cable-pattern jerseys button-front cardigans raincoats windbreakers church hats beach hats pantyhose maidenform cross-your-heart bras step-ins panties don’t give it to the servants they’ll just fight about it select for the kitchen the essentials do away with the multitude of mixing-bowls the meat-mincer the dough-paddles endless breadboards sharpening-rods redundant knives wooden spoons plates from broken sets with autumn leaves empty bottles under the sink old pyrex dishes blackened pots the thick-lipped lieberstein cups the cracked römertopf the stained porcelain the worn gilt edges the faded glazing the lidless soup tureen the stopperless carafe the old enamel jugs the buckets and the cans and the zinc tubs with the slow leaks the sixty labelless frisco tins the brasso and the silvo with nothing as last dregs throw away the plastic bands and pieces of string and used sheets of silver foil the bags full of bags full of bags plastic paper string I must die in a year