Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [104]
Folded on a chair it lay aside then, the great rainbow.
And here it hangs now.
A straight inside section of the body of the rainbow. All over the cloth. The yellow of the spectrum runs off into creamy white, then pure white. The veld gradated so subtly that my eye reels, that I seek for a stay inside of me, for the blue-green of the Waenhuiskrans horizon, for yellow-green shoots of self-sown oats, water-green pineapple drink, lime peel, sunflowers, orange cannas, a dust-dimmed sun over stubble field, a harvest moon blood-red, a watermelon’s flesh. And Geissorhiza radians, Babiana purpurea, amongst dark bracken the seven other purples of September. Swift effulgences, pleats of light.
But here is neither place nor time. It’s an embroidery of nothing and nowhere. What Agaat must have imagined to lie behind the tender despair of defenceless creatures, behind the firefly, the evening star, the poppy, the blond lad in his corduroy pants. Everything that slipped out of her grasp, Jakkie’s whole childhood, replaced with this embroidered emptiness.
Around me Agaat is clearing up the battlefield. She thinks she’s distracting my attention with her rainbow. The buckets with the swabs full of phlegm she bustles away first, the kidney-shaped dish with the gouts of wet cotton wool, the sponges, the cloths, the water that smells of Milton and lavender. Swiftly she works, before her work of art’s effect on me evaporates.
But I hear the screwing of the lids of the jars and tubes, see the sure-handed strokes with which the trolley is wiped, the quick snatch with which the slimy sponge on the bridge is grabbed away, the jingling assurance with which the brand-new rigging of oxygen tubes and snorkels and mouthpieces is rolled up. That, all the movements conspire to assert, now belongs to the past. Now we are in another safer place. The rainbow has been brought in for you. A complete colour chart. The origin, the fullness, the foundation of all.
What am I supposed to do with it all? It’s the wrong medicine. Completeness. The death of the song, of the small dusty tale.
Rainbow of death.
Is it meant to hypnotise me?
Perfection, purity, order. Adversaries are they all, the devil’s own little helpers.
How my heart burns to tell her this! Now that I can see it. Now that it’s too late.
Friday 23 September 1960 nine o’clock in the evening.
A. is terribly excited about Jakkie’s christening in a week’s time. Have just gone out at the front door & surreptitiously walked round the back of the house & peeped into the kitchen window to see what she’s getting up to there. Wouldn’t she close the kitchen door after supper & tell me I’m not allowed in now she’ll come & call me when she’s done. Looks like at least two cakes & a savoury tart that are under construction there as far as I can see. The whole table is packed with stuff & there’s a hectic beating & a mixing & a singing at the top of her voice all my recipe books open in a line bowls full of batter & icing-sugar & grated orange peel & plates full of chopped bacon & onion & parsley. Everything for the dominee & his elder who are coming tomorrow morning to discuss the arrangements for the christening.
Saturday 24 September quarter past eight morning
Have just had to go & do inspection. A. came to call me to come & see if everything’s right. Fresh flowers arranged in the sitting room (she’s been up since crack of dawn) & her cakes have risen beautifully orange & chocolate covered under netting on tea table & the best cups put out & cake plates & forks the savoury tart is all ready to be baked everything is ship-shape. I did think this was all rather a to-do, & the eyes shine & the chin juts all the way out & then it came out: Seems she wants to carry Jakkie into the church. I ask you! Won’t I big-please get the dominee’s permission.
Now obviously this is totally out of the question! Couldn’t bring myself to tell her this on the spot, what with all the trouble she’s gone to with the baking & all. Oh good heavens.
To