Agaat (6 page)

You don't throw away your birthright, your mother said to Jak, that which your ancestors built up in the sweat of their brow, that you look after and that you live up to.

Yes, you said and winked at your father. You knew he knew, like you, what her next sentence would be.

Those were people who had to hack bushes and stack stones. There was no time for sweet talk and twaddle, you said, all three of you.

It was your mother's favourite expression.

You could see Jak glancing around, puzzled, not knowing what was happening.

It's in Kamilla's blood, you must realise, Jak, she steamed ahead. Her great-great-grandmother farmed there all alone for thirty years after her husband's death, way before the days of Hendrik Swellengrebel. There was a woman who could get a grip and hit home, blow for blow. She fixed Jak with a glare like a bayonet. If you can't do that, young man, then you'd better stand aside because then you won't do, then you're just a nuisance to others.

You were ashamed. You twined your fingers through Jak's and leant over him, so that your breasts rested on his shoulder while you were pretending to study the map. You knew the map by heart. Ever since you were a little girl your mother had slid it out of its long sheath to show you the farm that would be yours one day.

Jak heard her out meekly, his face expressionless. Now, as you entered the pass, he was openly mocking.

Once upon a time, long ago, when the world was young, in the time of the Lord Swellengrebel, he commenced, there was a great-great-grandmother Spies, a boer woman without equal . . .

He changed down to a lower gear on the uphill.

. . . And she called her farm Grootmoedersdrift after herself and laid out its boundaries with, can you guess with what? With lynx-hide thongs!

How does that sound for a beginning? He looked at you.

I particularly liked the bit about the woman who could get a grip and hit home, blow for blow. Tell me more about that.

You started rubbing his groin. The first time you'd ever done a thing like that. Jak lost his head completely, caught off guard, he took the pass as if were a race track. The car kicked up stones. It was still the old pass, in 1946, with narrow hairpins, nowhere a kerb. Every now
and again Jak would glance at you and you glanced back. If you had so many things in your head, you wondered to yourself, what must he not make of it all?

Slow down, Jak, you said, it's a pass.

What will you give me?

Anything you ask.

Don't you know?

I can guess, you said. You tugged open the buckle of his belt.

He looked at you in surprise, groaned.

So, and what are you going to give me in exchange? You wanted to know.

Anything you ask.

And don't you know?

I'm not as clever as you.

Well, in the first place you must slow down.

But you're making me want to get somewhere very fast!

You removed your hand. He took it back and you resisted, but not too much, so that he could put it where he wanted it.

Right, I'll slow down, he said, and in any case, it looks as if you've got a watermelon lorry on your side.

Some way ahead on the pass, with a long line of cars following, a lorry filled with spanspek and watermelon was trundling along.

No, it's you who has the watermelon on your side, you said, and pulled open his fly and put your hand inside.

My God, woman, Jak said, and threw back his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

Keep your eyes on the road, De Wet, you said.

That's what you said, but you thought: I'm the one who directs everything, the roughly ranked rock faces, the dark waterway far below, the curves in the road, the clouds far above.

So what problems are these that your mother talks of, there on Grootmoedersdrift? Jak asked with a charged voice, and swallowed.

He shook his head as if he were seeing stars. You had a firm grip on him, long-term promises in your grasp.

Tulips, you said, and sat forward so that you could work your hand in under his testicles. After that you could never get enough of it. The contrast between the silky shifting balls and the immense length of the erect flesh above. You were fascinated by it, surprised that you knew what to do.

There are wild tulips next to the river, and if the cows eat them and they drink water afterwards, then they die as if you'd fed them arsenic.
They're little bulbs. You have to take them out by hand. If you plough them they just multiply.

Well then, said Jak, sounds easy enough. What else?

It's too wet down there next to the river.

Hmmm, rather wet than dry, he teased.

The cows get sores and fungi and things on their hooves from it. The horses get mud-fever.

Mud-fever? Never heard of it. So what can one do, my handy farm wench?

Drain, drain extensively. In any case, you can't plant grazing on waterlogged soil.

Still doesn't sound like a disaster to me.

Well, and then there are the slopes on the dryland. It's too steep to plough there. It washes away. We need contours there and terraces. And run-offs must be stabilised and grass courses laid on for the drainage.

You turned towards him and fumbled open his clothing and pulled down his underpants and added your other hand and made a quiver with your fingers.

Stabilised. Jak forced the word out.

It's a surveyor's job, you said, and it will take months.

You reckon, Jak said. God, I can't hold out any longer!

He sat forward and accelerated, and with one hand folded your hands tighter around his penis. Between your legs it felt warm, your head was ringing.

You were only half aware of the road, the few cars ahead of you, the lorry.

Hold on, said Jak and started overtaking.

Jak, careful! You shouted, but you were feeling reckless, floating, a regent of the whole Tradouw, the near side and the far side of the mountain, in the valleys next to the rivers and over the roundbacked hills from the Heidelberg plain as far as Witsand. It swam in front of your eyes. Everything your domain. You felt your mouth, your throat, there was a tang on your tongue as if you'd eaten radishes.

In a shower of stones Jak pulled off the road in a lay-by on the mountain's side and pressed you to him and kissed you and stroked your breasts. You thought of stopping him, the car's roof was open and you were visible from the road. But you didn't really care. You had a fantasy that your mother would see you. See with her own eyes how ownership and history and heritage all were finding their course, as it was predestined, with the brute energy of a good start. That was your movie. As you'd always wanted it, as you thought your mother had wanted it.

What other problems? Jak panted in your ear. He was wild, out of control, he tried to mount you and get inside you but the gear lever was in the way and the space too confined.

Lynxes in the kloofs, you said. You bit him in the neck.

More?

Bearded vultures. They peck out the eyes of the newborn lambs.

You took your breasts out of your bra and pressed his head against them. You immersed him in them. He had to surface for breath. Something about his neck and head seen from above looked like that of a little boy. His mouth, the irresistible mouth of Jak, now desperate and trembling, endeared him to you. His voice was hoarse.

I will do everything, he said. Plough and sow and shear and milk, I promise.

And help me make a garden?

And help you make a garden.

Like paradise?

Like paradise.

And never leave me?

And never leave you.

You pushed him away gently. You stroked his head to calm him. You wanted to drive and get to the other side. On the other side of the mountain you would lie down for him, on your property, as it had to be in your story-book.

You helped him to arrange his clothing. Breathe deeply, you told him.

I don't have to tell him everything now, you thought, he'll get the whole picture in time.

You were the only child and heir of your mother, and your farm was the most difficult one. Your land-hungry cousins would inherit your father's farms. They claimed they wanted no part of the farm beyond the Tradouw in The Spout, as the area was known among the farmers. They were small deciduous-fruit farmers in the Barrydale district. They were intent on helping to put bigger and bigger sections of Pa's farms under irrigation for peaches and vine.

No thank you, they said when your mother wasn't around, Grootmoedersdrift is a nightmare. You'll end up on the bones of your backside there with all the capital outlay you'll have to make, the money you'll have to borrow, the time it'll take you to get the farm arable, and all the hay you'll have to make to pay your debts on top of it all.

You were pleased that your father's family wasn't present the evening of the engagement. All three cousins coveted your farm above all
else on earth. They could make life difficult for Jak. You'd told him that, too.

Now you want to feed me to those cousins of yours as well, Jak said when at last you got up from the table, your mother's bad enough. The house was quiet. Your mother's house was always filled with that dense, ominous silence. Jak stood in front of the mirror in the guest room and ran his hand over his face as if he wanted to make sure that everything was still in place after his confrontation with his new mother-in-law.

You stood behind him, flung your arms around his shoulders, you were just glad the evening was over.

I know everything about farming, you whispered in his ear, I grew up with it, I'll help you. I'll show you everything tomorrow. Now rest, you're tired.

You nestled up against him, but his body was tense. There was something in his voice, in what he said then, that you didn't want to hear, you thought you were imagining things.

Yes, he said, you'd better, I can't wait, tomorrow's the day, you'd better teach me and you'd better help me so that I can get the taste of it. And you'd better show me everything. I want to see where I'll be farming. I can't wait. Seeing that I've allowed myself to be set up in a golden frame here.

That was the day that you crossed the Tradouw pass for the first time with Jak de Wet, the great Tradouw, the deep Tradouw, the way of the women in the Hottentot language, as your father had explained to you when you were little.

You were a real woman now, a ring on your finger. Now the two of you just had to get to the other side. You were excited about it. So many times you had fantasised about how it would be to make love to him, to lie with him, to kiss him for endless hours, feel his back under your hands.

Oh lord, no, not again, Jak swore.

You were behind the watermelon lorry again.

That's what you get for canoodling in a lay-by, my dearest Jakobus, you said.

Now the blue fumes of the exhaust were in your face. It was a ramshackle affair, full of dents and scratches, painted over by hand, and patched.

Just signal that you want to pass, you said, then maybe he'll pull off at the next lay-by.

Jak hooted and gestured and flicked his lights, swore.

It happened very fast. The lorry swerved to the left. The load shifted.
Watermelons over the railing, bouncing all over the road, red flesh all over the windscreen of the Spider.

You were too close. You were going too fast. You grabbed the steering-wheel.

Don't brake, don't brake! you yelled, you'll skid, keep close to the mountain!

Old lessons from previous experiences, your mother's words.

The car jerked to a halt, cut out. Jak was stunned. You sat there for a while, watched the lorry driver trying to clear the road. Then Jak started the car again and you drove off slowly, stupefied with shock.

Fortunately, you said, you did the right thing.

You did, Jak said. He looked at you quickly and looked away.

Then he started.

I would have stepped on the brake and tried to pass on the right if you hadn't stopped me.

In his voice was the slightest undertone of a sulk.

You were wonderful, you consoled him, you drive well, I feel safe with you.

You shifted up your skirt and took his hand and pressed it between your legs so that he could feel how wet you were. All the way to Grootmoedersdrift he drove with one hand and touched you with the other. In your lap the homestead keys jingled as he moved his hand.

You closed your eyes, but you couldn't banish the image of the spilling spattering scattering melons from your eyes. The whole car smelt of it.