Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [154]
You opened the kitchen door quietly, held the screen door so that it shouldn’t slam behind you. Peered through an opening in the outside room’s curtain. There was Jakkie in front of the fire in his pyjamas. Agaat in her nightdress busy in front of her two-plate stove. Water on the boil in the big pot, the lid turned upside-down, a plate covered with another inside the lid. She was wearing her cap for the operation. The glow of the fire shone through it as she passed to and fro in front of the fireplace. It threw a long pointed shadow on the walls, the shadow shrank and twisted in the corners as she moved. Then she brought a white cloth and unfolded it on the floor in front of Jakkie, a glass of water on it. A plate. A spoon. In the air in front of his nose. Wiggle waggle. Sorry it’s the only cutlery I have. Off with the covering plate. Steam. Agaat’s supper. Jakkie’s wing, the pope’s nose, the back portion that had lain longest in the gravy.
Softly they spoke while he was eating. You couldn’t hear. You could only see the faces, the cautious opening-up after the terrors of the day. When he’d finished she handed back the pocket-knife. In his palm she put it and enfolded his hand with hers. Jakkie pointed at her forearm. She rolled back the sleeve of her nightdress. Together they bent over the bite wound. He took a roll of plaster out of the top pocket of his pyjamas. No, it must remain open, Agaat explained. She bethought herself, took a pair of scissors out of her needlework basket, cut off a length and allowed him to stick it on.
Suddenly Jakkie pressed his head against her body. His face distorted. Agaat pressed him close to her with both arms. For a long time they sat like that. She rocked forward and backward gently with him. After a while she whispered something in his ear, got up, took the spoon to wash it, came back, set an enamel milk-bowl full of trifle in front of him.
You turned round. You couldn’t look any longer. The faces in the soft light of the fire. The confidence. The ease. The forgiveness, asked, given, sealed. The soft bodies in the night-clothes. You didn’t recognise your child, nor Agaat’s body, the curves you could see silhouetted against the fire in the nylon nightdress. You saw her folding open her bedclothes for him. You turned back from the window, pushed your fist into your mouth so that they shouldn’t hear you groan.
clear out! clear out! throw away! bequeath! burn! sheets and pillowslips how many guests are expected for the funeral? mattress protectors the ruttish bleeding sweating sleepers don’t they long for rest? antimacassars where are the greasy heads of conniving patriotic sitting room-sitters? behind what ant-hill will they regroup? kitchen curtains checked floral striped prissy fashions of yesteryear why should kitchens have curtains? steam and splattering fat and dishes full let the hungry see them by all means curtains delay the course of history teacloths dishcloths oven gloves dishing-up is historical drying is scorch-marks are and plate-washing but who writes it up? traycloths tablecloths serviettes the wine the salt the remorse everything is now reckitt’s blue and white sobs of damask bath towels face towels guest towels facecloths the filthy living body its steaming dripping folds its unreflective splashing its lack of respect for decay nappies christening robe babyclothes why does one keep them? mommy’s child wring his neck tie a millstone round at the bottom of the dam ungrateful creature the son of mine don’t you think? embroidery-linen that you may keep that I leave to you to fill your days when I am gone hoarded trousseau whereto crocheted doilies with beads? what faith in the mothball! what idle fear of flies they live for a day and a night without