Agaat (66 page)

Flat rib, suitable for pot-roasting, may be rolled.

Prime rib, suitable for pot-roasting, may be rolled.

Mid-rib, suitable for pot-roasting, may be rolled.

Silverside and topside, suitable for corned beef, pot-roasting, biltong. Shank, may be roasted, but more suitable for salting and boiling.

Thick flank, may be salted and boiled or stewed.

Cheek, can be stewed.

Neck, for soup or stewing.

Collarbone, for soup.

Brisket, best suited to pickling and boiling.

Bones, are generally sold to kaffirs.

Tail, soup and stew.

Hoof and shin, brawn.

Pauper's rib, for soup and stew.

Do you want to hear about the cuts of the birthday hanslam as well? Agaat asks, the nice fresh braai chops for the nice fresh kitchen-skivvy? The two of them, skivvy and lamb, both cut up much better than an old tough cow, let me tell you that!

She falls in with her stick. Oh Japie is my darling she sings, so early in the morning.

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.

A C·I·R·C·U·S ! Agaat's voice sounds the letters. There's a pause before she recommences. I see the trailing-stitch on her cap, white on white violence.

It wasn't easy. Nothing was easy about your whole story, let me tell you, it ruined my marriage. And look what I have to show for it now! A C·I·R·C·U·S, A C·O·U·R·T O·F L·A·W!

Agaat straightens up, she stands back, my ear feels cold without her
warm breath. What will she reply to her own ventriloquism?

Didn't know you were so interested in the little old books, Ounooi, but not now, I'll read to you again tonight. Useful bits and pieces of all kinds.

She tidies up the blue booklets on the pile. For the first time I see the embroidery book and the Handbook and the orange FAK on the dressing table. Exhibits. Chapter and verse.

The lid of the bouillon pot, sings Agaat, must be removed overnight otherwise the bouillon will go off.

A recitative from the Farmer's Handbook? What's that supposed to mean?

She looks at me.

It doesn't have the desired effect on me. I flicker at her: Go ahead and pronounce it now, Agaat! Stop your unfathomable parables. Go ahead and pronounce it all for me so that you can come to your senses, perhaps it will help if you can hear yourself say out loud what you think I think! What you think I ought to think! Mind rape, that's what it is!

Again she bends by my bed, this time on the other side. Must my ears take turns in this devilish business?

Why do you torture me on my deathbed?

Is Agaat whispering that? In my ear? Am I hearing aright? Her voice is emphatic.

Why do you let me be ravaged by itching, push and pull my limbs, screw open my mouth, taunt me, threaten me with enemas and suppositories, dig in my ears as if you think I have ear-mite, have holes punched into me, shove tubes into me, cut my hair so that I look like a prisoner of war? Why?

She stands back. She answers from her own corner, a smile as if she's ascending unto heaven. She opens her mouth wide.

When meat is cooked for the kitchen-maid or kaffir, she sings, or even for the house, it's good to boil it in the bouillon pot for the first hour or so, to extract as much nutrition as possible into the water.

Again her lips are at my ear, I feel the moistness of her mouth.

Then why do you still leave me hanging? she whispers. Why do you come and stand by my bedside in the dark? Do you want me dead? What prevents you?

Sulphured fruit must not be eaten raw, comes her reply, a floating contralto, but first boiled again to drive off the sulphur.

How many voices has Agaat?

Calm down, Ounooi, she says, close your eyes now. Think of other things. You're wandering again. But it's not serious, just relax, I'm here, I'm staying with you, I'm not going away, here I am, right here.

She moves in behind the bed, above my head I hear the words that well up in me, lisping they drip from Agaat's tongue.

And the slops you feed me! I'll choke. And that will be too soon for you. You still want your pound of flesh from me, remember! Living flesh. What satisfaction would a dead liver give you? A dead heart? You want to pluck me out of the hole with a wire. Like a mole. Well, keep your wire! Soon I'll be in a hole where even you won't be able to get at me. Except if you dig me up to chew my bones. Bone hunger!

Agaat appears next to my bed. She looks at me.

How are we doing? she asks. She goes and writes something.

Who marks the day high up there on the calendar? The thirteenth of December, I recall and I remember. Could I have imagined it all? Am I dreaming?

She looks at me, smiles, writes something again.

Abracadabra, she says, twirls a little circle next to her head with her index finger.

Could she mean that I've lost my wits? I'm raving? It's not me, witch! You're the one who's raving, you're the one who's trying to rave my rave for me! Not a word past my lips for three years now. The mute cannot rave! But they can hear!

There, there, Ounooi, don't be scared, she says, it's just the little light, it's going on and off now. In your head.

That's a good one! Interprets me to the brink of Babel, to the threshold of death. But there are limits! Back! Stand back! You're too close! My death is of me! And my bed! There are boundaries!

Agaat goes to stand by the door. She clasps her hands round her body, the knuckle of the small hand in her mouth.

Take the stick, take the stick, I signal.

She comes nearer, takes the stick.

T·H·E·R·E A·R·E B·O·U·N·D·A·R·I·E·S, I spell, B·O·N·E M·A·G·G·O·T.