• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Mumbling she follows her own routes, index finger on the lines. Helter-skelter amongst the various maps. She jiggles the sleeve back over the little hand. She look-looks at me. What’s the matter, Agaat?

Omkyk, she says.

Openmaak.

Soebattersvlakte.

Look round, open up, the plain of pleading. I plead with my eyes, come and clean me, I have finished now, I surrender, the white flag, you have overcome, please, then we can sleep.

That will be the day! says Agaat.

She is looking at the layout of the yard of Grootmoedersdrift, the house and garden plans. She aims up and down, forward and back. Here comes an outstretched arm, here comes a finger pointing, at me, at the plan. Here comes a stamping of feet. What is this coming here? Here comes something else. A salute.

She presses with her finger, presses, press, press, press so that it bends back, the forefinger of the strong hand, presses on all the places.

Load, powder in the pan, ramrod in the barrel, take aim, the old muzzle-loader, I feel myself coming into the line of fire. Perhaps it’s a signal-cannon instead. Who’s going to hear it all along the kloofs over the mountain to the Castle, Agaat?

Back room! Green door! Agaat thunders.

Huptebup, huptebup, huptebup. Here we have a goosestep with tuba thrusts, out of the sherry bottle, the legs lifted high, the toes pointed, the Third Reich come to Grootmoedersdrift, the head with the jaw surmounted by the cap turned sharp right and then left as she marches past to and fro at the foot of my bed, the duster a bayonet over one shoulder.

Mailslot! Lowroof! Candle-end!

Lockupchild! Without pot!

Shatinthecorner!

Shatupon!

Dusterstick on Agaatsarse.

Au-Au-Au!

Ai-Ai-Ai!

Neversaysorry!

Sevenyearschild.

And then?

Can-you-believe-it?

Backyard!

Skivvy-room!

Highbed!

Brownsuitcase!

Whitecap! Heartburied!

Nevertold! Unlamented!

Good-my-Arse!

Now-my-Arse! Now’s-the-Time!

How did the fire start?

Who made the rain fall out of the wrong wind?

What did Jakkie hear of what Jak said to you that morning in the garden?

And Agaat, what did she hear?

The school holidays had started and Jakkie would be coming home from Stellenbosch. You fretted about it as always. Agaat bustling about on the trot. Jak to and fro on the stoep, ready to launch another assault on some mountain or other. He wanted to leave with Jakkie that very Friday evening.

The tug-of-war over Jakkie. You could see on the child’s face how insecure it made him feel. Insecure and at the same time arrogant because he was everybody’s favourite and could twist everybody’s arm.

You went out onto the stoep.

He’ll just want to arrive in peace and enjoy eating what Agaat’s prepared for him, you said to Jak. You can go to the mountains after the weekend, can’t you, otherwise what do I see of him? And, after all, Agaat would want to talk to him a bit, she’s missed him so.

Jak said nothing, just tug-tugged at the mountaineering ropes that he was rolling up.

You always give the child hell when he comes home, you said, you’ll be presented with the bill one day!

Jak’s head was shaved as always before going on a mountaineering trip. It made his features look sharp. He looked at you wordlessly.

Things were deteriorating badly between you. After that first mountaineering trail with Jakkie in the Tradouw you had broken down. You’d never seen two such battered people. They were both of them exhausted to the point of death, full of dried blood from cuts and scratches. Fell upon their food like wolves and crawled into bed immediately. Neither of them would tell what had happened on the mountain. At last you started screaming.

You grabbed Jak by the shoulders.

Are you trying to kill him? Will you be satisfied then? If you could let his flesh rot off and pick his bones and join them together again with hinges and make yourself a boy-machine with greased gears and tinkling bells that you can throw off cliffs to your heart’s content and hoist up with ropes and hooks?

All Jak wanted to do was gather his wits