Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [276]
You went and sat on the bed, stroked your hands over the pillows, over the foot-rug to feel the textures. You remembered, Jakkie’s warm little body as you handed him to each other, wrapped in Agaat’s foot-rug when he went to sleep in front of the fire with her in the outside room. You remembered how you’d laid him down on his pillows that Agaat had embroidered for him so that he shouldn’t miss her too much at night, Jakkie’s little fingers as he felt over the pillows, over the rounded backs of sheep, over the shepherd’s staff, beside the flame of the replenished lamp.
How Agaat rubbed his head.
Sleep softly now, Gaat’s little one.
You got up and opened the windows. One of Agaat’s aprons was draped over the half-door of the outside room, she’d put on a clean one for the walk.
Jakkie’s jacket was over the chair. His diary, would it be in his inside pocket? But you didn’t look. You stood there and thought of Agaat’s letters to him that you’d intercepted. His case lying open. A book on top of the clothes. Polish poems translated into English. Zbiegnew Herbert. The poet was unknown to you, your son’s taste in literature an enigma to you.
You went looking for them in the old orchard, took along a cloth pocket for late oranges as alibi.
You entered by the furthest point of the orchard. The smell of rotten citrus in the sun was stupefying. It made you feel dizzy. Row after row you walked the orchard without seeing them. Near the quince avenue you felt their presence, but everything was dead still. You went closer, along the other side of the avenue, your footsteps camouflaged by the rushing water. They were sitting in the shade against the bank of the irrigation furrow with their feet in the water. Jakkie upended the flask in the cap, shook out the last drops, and drank. Agaat was looking in front of her. You could tell from her back that she was dejected and defeated. Jakkie screwed the cap back on.
So that’s the story, he said. There’s no turning back any more and I don’t know what lies ahead.
He looked in front of him.
They sat like that for a long time.
The sun was scorching your shoulders where you had lain down flat behind the bank. In front of you their backs were like closed doors. Perhaps they were talking softly without looking at each other but you couldn’t hear anything any more. Then Jakkie leant forward far over the furrow and turned his face at an angle to Agaat. Then you could read his lips.
What does the water sound like when the sluice opens in the irrigation furrow?
He answered his own question.
G-g-g-g-g-a-a-a-a-t.
He drew the a’s out, scraped the g’s gently against his palate.
Do you remember, Gaat? The sound of the sea in a shell? The sound of the wind in the wheat? Do you remember how you made me listen? And everything sounded like your name. Ggggg-aaat, says the black pine tree in the rain, the spurwinged goose when it flies up says gaatagaatagaat, the drift when it’s in flood from far away, do you remember?
Ai, you were still very small.
I always wanted to know where you came from, what your name means.
Yes, you were an inquisitive one, you.
I still am. You said you’d tell.
One day, not yet.
One day when? I’m leaving, remember.
One day when the time is ripe.
It’s time, the oranges are rotten!
Jakkie turned on his side and leant against the bank. He selected an orange from the basket, took a penknife out of his pocket.
Do you remember the knife?
Do you still have it?
I never throw away anything you’ve given me. Do you remember when you gave it to me?
Yes, it was when you turned nine, on your birthday. I had to ask nicely. Your father said you’d just get up to no good with it.
He said if I wanted a knife I had to be a man and a man can dock a tail. He forced me. You too, Ma too. My own hanslam you selected for it, would you believe.
Jakkie was speaking more loudly, vehemently,