Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [242]
And it was shining on something that crawled. It took a while for you to make out what it was. The head of a cow, half rotten, with white maggots writhing in the eye sockets and the ears and in the bloated-open mouth and muzzle in which nothing was visible of the gentle expression of the Jersey.
How did you get home? You wanted to escape from your own skin. You ran, a flare of stench.
You got your shoes off, rinsed yourself as well as you could under the jet of the garden hose. There was light in the backyard. You remained standing in the door of the kitchen. You didn’t want to go into the house in your dirty dress.
Agaat didn’t want to see you. She was pouring the milk from the cans neatly into the bottles. She was wearing a clean apron and a new uniform, a fresh stiffly starched cap on her head. The tea cups were set out, you could hear the kettle boiling. She extracted a bottle from the steaming bowl of water by the mouth with forceps and inverted it to drip dry. One, two, three drops in the bowl. Shake, shake, shake.
She looked up. Wooden eye.
Sis, what’s that stink, she said, I’m working with milk here. She looked down and tsk-ed at the bail of the can that kept on falling over her hand as she poured out the milk.
Bring a towel, you said, and my slippers and an old dressing-gown.
The towels, Agaat said with her head in the steam, are in the linen cupboard in the passage, your old dressing-gown is behind the bathroom door, your slippers are in front of your bed.
That was the first time. There had been other times, but never accompanied by words.
You charged at her, you wanted to shake her, you wanted to slap her right there where she was standing with the open bottle of boiling water held out in front of her.
Please, she said to you with a straight voice, her eyes on your cheeks, bring my stuff, please, Agaat.
Put it down, put that bottle down, now this minute, I’m not letting myself be threatened, not by you!
That was what you screamed, wanted to scream, but it sounded like a plea, like please, it’s not my fault.
Then Jak was there in his pyjamas, at the inside door. Agaat carefully placed the bottle on the table. She stood aside, her right hand clenched in the left hand in front of her.
Bravo! Jak exclaimed, bravo! Have we really still not had enough concert for one day? The madam, the maid and the milk. How-manieth act?
He walked to the fridge and poured a glass of milk, tasted and spat it out in the sink.
Sour milk on Grootmoedersdrift, he said, I wish you’d mark the bottles.
She, you said and pointed with your finger.
Jak went and sat at the kitchen table.
So tell the baas what’s the problem here, Agaat? he said.
Agaat remained standing, swayed forward and back on her rubber soles.
She, you said again.
No, Milla, not she, you, you stink something dreadful, look at your dress, where have you been?
The cow, the cow in the ditch in the poplar grove, you cried.
Yes, the stupid cow, walked where she shouldn’t have walked, fell and broke her leg. I had to shoot her.
Agaat moved closer and gathered the full bottles together.
Wait, said Jak, put down, I also want to recite my last lines of the day.
For a moment you thought Agaat was smirking.
My only advice, Gaat, is, don’t let yourself be misled, butter-fingers, a falling fashion, gets lost in the parking lot, gets lost on her own farm, it’s all put on. Mrs Helpless de Wet with the querulous bleat is a costume. Trying to attract attention, that’s all.
Because, and I’m sure you know this, but I’m just reminding you, actually she’s perfectly sure-footed, Queen of the Night, immortal, and she rules the world around here. But you wouldn’t think it, would you, because she always needs something and it’s never enough. Now too hot,