Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [244]
In front of me! While I’m there! Praise the Lord!
Taught her one doesn’t play with fire, only when I’m there is she allowed to strike the flintstone or light a match. It may help to exercise the lazy hand because you can’t operate the tinderbox with just one hand. Taught her you say thank you when you’re given a present. And if you can’t say it with your mouth, then you say it with your eyes. Slow blink with the eyes, once and a small bow of the head means ‘thank you’ I teach her. Thank you for jelly, thank you for food and clothes and a house, thank you for a tinderbox. Solemnly went and squirreled it away in her hessian sack.
Phoned home. Could have known what the reaction would be. Watch out, says my mother, everything you put in there, will come back to you.
25 February 1954
Made a fire again! This time with a magnifying glass from Jak’s office. Will have to get him another one, he looks at the maps with it. White-hot outside. I got burnt blood-red on my neck from sitting still in the sun with the lens. A newspaper fire. Go and fetch grass, I say, go on, go and fetch twigs. Gone and back in a flash she was. Knows about making a fire, it seems. Then believe it or not she holds out her hand for the lens. How does one ask? Please, you say. Otherwise you look straight in the eye of the one who must give and you blink twice quickly with the eyelids. We practised till I was satisfied. Big please. Pretty please. Then again thank you, thank you very, very much with the eyes, close the eyelids slowly and nod forward with the head. She put the lens also in the sack with her other things. Must get her another bag, or a little suitcase, the sack stinks.
27 February 1954
A third fire! Agaat thinks I can do magic. With a flat bit of softwood, half mouldy with wood-mite, and a straight stick. Next to the river in the shade. It took hours, later the sweat was pouring off me, you can’t let go, otherwise you have to start all over again. Twirl, twirl, twirl in the little hole. Up and down, my hands burning after a while. First you smell it, the first little curl of smoke appears, up from the base of the stick. Agaat on her knees, looks as if she wants to stare it on fire. Blinks the eyes, looks at me, blinks the eyes, blinks at the turn-stick, blinks at the flat piece of wood. Please! Please! Fire fire in my hand, I say, who sees the first spark in the land? When the smoke was curling properly, I took out the stick, here comes the little hand with the smallest, finest threads of dry straw. As if she’s done it often before, as if she knows exactly how, she sprinkles a few shreds into the hole, blows with pursed lips, could hardly believe it, anther shred she adds, blows with the gentlest breath, until the little flame leaps up. Wherever did you see it, Agaat? How do you know so well to start a fire? Who taught you?
Then she looks over my left shoulder, I look round, see nothing, then she looks over my right shoulder, I look round, still nothing, then she looks on the ground, then in the air, then in the palm of her strong hand! And I fold it open nicely and make a show of looking and see nothing. All prim and proper she looks at me!
I think that’s the first joke, the first tale that she’s told me.
Who taught you about fire?
The Nowherewoman, the woman without name, who is everywhere but who can’t be seen, she taught me about starting a fire.
Then I continued the tale: Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to learn how to start a fire, and I watched her closely to see if she’d give an indication, hot or cold, but she doesn’t let herself be read.
Perhaps there were concrete and specific circumstances when she was still very small, many more, far worse than one could dream up in a fairy tale.
4 March 1954
Agaat is a closed book. Sometimes I think she’s wiser than she is. Sometimes I think she’s retarded. When you have to communicate through