Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [21]
That’s how Leroux put it to us. Every mouthful a leap in the dark.
On that score, according to him, there should be no misunderstanding between us.
Misunderstanding.
He doesn’t know what he’s saying, the man.
I swallow once more.
That’s it, says Agaat, who dares wins. Concentrate, Ounooi, there’s another one coming. Third time lucky.
The third swallow exhausts me. I close my eyes, bit by bit I manage to filter it through. When at last it’s down, I open my eyes, I open my mouth and I try to say m. I know very well how it’s done. I must close my mouth, take my tongue out of the way, press my lips together and breathe out quickly, abruptly, through my nose, and open my mouth a soft nasal plop. A short, humming sound it must be, unvoiced, a vibration as brief as a second, a whimper of pain, a murmur of assent. M for map.
Gaat rushes to my aid.
Are you choking, Ounooi? Wait, wait, I’ll help you. Calmly now. Just a small breath now and then swallow and breathe out. Swallow, Ounooi, swallow, I’ll rub, come now, swallow just once.
I feel her fingertips on my throat. Lightly she massages, as Leroux demonstrated, only better because she’s fed countless little dying animals in her life.
Fledglings. Nobody who could raise them like Agaat. With bread, with raw wheat-pulp from her mouth, chewed with her spit. From pigeon to bearded vulture. All of them she brought through. Always. And let fly eventually. Out of her hand, into the open skies. Sometimes the more dependent kind kept returning for a while. She’d be flattered, would still put out food for the first few days, every day a little less, to wean them. Later she chased them from the enamel plates that she no longer filled with bread and seed.
Fly! Grow wild again! Look after yourselves now! she called and waved her arms in the air, the powerful left chasing away sternly, the puny little flutter-arm following.
Remove the food bowls, I used to say, otherwise they keep hoping.
Lightly, on the in-breath, all the way up my gullet she rubs in small circular movements, and with the exhaling she rubs down, down, trying to strengthen the last little bit of my swallowing reflex. To swallow, to cross a mountain, up on the one side, with effort, and down on the other, downhill but no easier. How false are the promises of the poets.
Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh’,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.
Why am I thinking of this now? The little old poem learnt by heart with Herr Doktor Blumer when I was still a student?
It’s not my time yet, far yet from fledgling-death.
I open my eyes wide, quickly. I’m not a shitling! I want to see a map of my farm! This domain enclosed in chrome railings, this sterile room where you’ve got me by the gullet, I’m more than that! I’m more than a rabbit in a cage!
Agaat takes away her hand quickly.
What now? Is there something in your mouth that bothers you? Let me have a look.
It’s a logical second, a familiar problem, food that can’t be swallowed and gets stuck to the roof of the mouth. That’s the drill.
Agaat presses my tongue flat with an ice-cream stick, she peers into my mouth. I try once again to get out my m, perhaps it’s easier now that the front part of my tongue isn’t clinging to the roof of my mouth.
If you want a nice surprise, open your mouth and shut your eyes, says Agaat.
I keep my eyes wide open to keep her attention. She looks. Like one standing in bright sunshine at the mouth of a cave, she peers into me.
I blink my eyes slowly, regularly, as encouragement.
Find it, Agaat, find the word in my mouth, find the impulse from which it must sprout, fish it out as intention, as yearning. The outlines of Grootmoedersdrift, its beacons, its heights, its valleys. You cannot deny me that.
M, I try again. Agaat’s mouth opens. I flicker rapidly. Now you’re warm, it says, now you’re on the right track. She flickers back. My heart beats faster. Now there’s understanding. Peering into each other’s throats is the name of the game, two throats in search of