Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [113]
At the front door he pressed a transparent blue plastic case full of blue and red pamphlets and brochures into my hands, also a book on all kinds of atrophies and publicity magazines on appliances, and folded my thumbs around the handle for me.
Do take well-informed decisions now, Mrs de Wet, he said, fortunately I know you are of a practical bent, somebody who wants to be in control at all times. And you are a farmer. Illnesses and suffering are a farmer’s daily bread. And fortunately you have no dependants at this stage who could hamper you . . . er . . . whom you have to concern yourself about.
The self-correction was half lost in the thunderous bang of the back door.
Grootmoedersdrift is situated in a draught. That was what we always said to one another at that time of year.
And wait, he said, it almost slipped my mind.
Three paces and he was next to his car. A big white plastic bag appeared.
On appro, he said, the newest appliances on the market, I thought I would do some shopping for you in the meantime while I was in town. Try them out, see what works, we can settle later.
He pressed the bag into my arms on top of the case.
A sheet of paper fluttered to the ground, he snatched it up and stuck it on my chest on top of everything else.
Oh, and then there’s this table, the whole profile at a glance, he said, symptoms, medicine, therapy.
Bedside manner in the Overberg, I thought, physician heal thyself.
And as he drove out at the gate, I thought: Milla has all of it.
Only now do I realise what I was trying to think that day. Because now I almost have it all behind me.
To make of nothing an all.
That was what Agaat made of me. The lamer, the more nothing I became, the more she put into me. I never had any defence. It was her initiative. To make me a lucky packet of myself. The person who has to wither so that the book of her life can be filled. As in like manner the great God had to shrink to make room for his creation. Or something to that effect. Even now I still can’t quite get a clean grip on the idea. It’s a sort of sum with varying balances but with retention of all the contents, only distributed in very specific packagings.
I went to lie down on my bed until Agaat rang the bell for supper. She had cooked specially to celebrate my return: Lamb pie, green beans with onion and bacon, stewed peaches, potatoes, boiled, floury as I like them, a ripe red tomato salad with onions. Damask. Candles. Flowers.
Welcome home.
Even a bottle of wine from the cellar.
Eat, she said, it will give you strength.
She served me, poured wine for me. The meat in the pie was finer than usual, so that I didn’t have to cut it. I was hungry. I was melancholy with feeling what hunger felt like. I wiped my eyes with my napkin. She pretended not to see it. While I was eating, she talked softly, gave me an edited-for-the-sickbed version of what had been happening on the farm in the meantime. She made me at home in my room afterwards. Hot-water bottle, new bedsocks, softest wool, look, I knitted them for you while you were away. Waited for me to speak, pleaded with the eyes, please, I’m Agaat, I’m here, with you, speak to me, tell me what is happening.
Another time, I indicated with my hand.
She switched off the light.
Sleep, she said in the dark in my direction, then you’ll feel better.
Later I became aware of a murmuring and got up to go and see. I listened in the passage. It was her voice.
Dys-pha-gia, can’t swallow, dys-ar-thria, can’t talk, sia-lor-rhoea, incessant drooling.
She was sounding the words. I peeped through the chink of the kitchen door. The plastic case and the white bag had been unpacked. Papers and brochures were spread out on the kitchen table. Agaat was studying my illness over her supper. On her hands were two grey palm socks to which a clumsy knife and a fork with three prongs had been fixed.
Spas-ti-ci-ty, she read on the