Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [188]
Three thorough rinses I heard, a stirring and a shaking and a splashing in the bath. This afternoon I got the smell, mercifully braised in butter with onion, a shred of bacon if I can still trust my nose. An hour ago the Braun started singing in the kitchen, at the high pitch of the puree setting. Zimmm-zoommm. Six, seven eight batches. I could hear the wet spinach slapping up in the jug, could see the slurry ooze down on the inside. Who does she think is supposed to eat it all? She’ll get three teaspoons into me, maybe four. And she won’t eat any of it herself.
Now she has enough for a constipated army. Perhaps she wishes she had a whole hospital of casualties to care for. So that she could repeat her ministrations from bed to bed. So that a Revolution of the Shitting Classes could erupt. Which she could suppress with a counter-offensive. Bored to death she must be. Three years long the same routines, over and over, the washing, the feeding, the pans.
In fact I know what she wants to achieve with her noisy preparations. She wants to attract attention. She wants to build up tension. She wants me to know that she’s advancing. With a ruffle of drums. Tralalee tralaley!
Is it for my sake or for hers? Perhaps by this time she can’t believe that she’s held out so long with me so ill. Three years’ dying. A lifetime’s diaries. Perhaps she herself feels like a ghost by this time. Perhaps I’m sustaining her with my dependence.
The one old ghost had a very hard time and the other old ghost did its bit. Long live the two! Tralalee tralaley! Tralalee tralaley!
Who then thought up this pretty little song?
Two geese brought it over the sea.
Mach Toten lebendig.
Macht Kranken gesund.
The Farted Bride. The Three-cornered Pan.
What would Agaat be without her overtures?
The prunes have been stewing since early morning. I heard her take the packets out of the grocery cupboard, one, two, three. I heard her plop them in the water to soak before she put them on, heard her squeeze out the pips, plinks, plinks, into an enamel bowl.
Here they come, Mrs De Wet. Thou shalt behold thine prunes. More nourishing than sour grapes.
Perhaps she will relent. Perhaps she’ll make a souffle. Just for the beauty of it. Would that be the reason for the march-tempo that I hear approaching down the passage? A risen light-green puff of a spinach souffle in a white dish?
No. She’s selecting a tape. Thwick thwock, she pushes it into the player. Volume. Balance. Not a souffle. The Slave Chorus. The Grand March. Va pensiero.
I know this, this out-of-the-blue music-making. Accompaniment to the meal if she doesn’t feel like talking to me.
Camouflage, the music is at times. When there are visitors. To chase them away she deliberately chooses the chickle-chockle on little drums and tin guitars that interests Jakkie so much. So that I shouldn’t hear what she’s discussing with them in the sitting room. But what’s this all of a sudden that I’m not supposed to hear when all day I’m allowed to hear spinach pureeing and prunes plopping? I prick up my ears. Tchick, I hear under the music.
And another tchick. Open with the sideboard and shut.
What could it be? Whatever it is, it proceeds at a leisurely pace, to the beat of the music, down the passage.
I mustn’t hope for it. Fantastic timing it would be.
What do I see?
Yes I see. My eyes are open. I must believe them. With the rolls of maps held out in front of her on her arms she marches into the room solemnly. An offering. She stops just inside the door for me to take good note. She drags up a chair with one arm. Her face absolutely straight. She gets onto the chair. One by one she takes the rolls, hangs them by the loops from the picture rail. Doesn’t open them. Everyone rolled up and still secured with little bows.