Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [86]
My mamma has a goat, you started reciting, because you hadn’t meant to sound that fierce, my mamma has a goat, she wants to have him shod. Come Agaat, what’s next?
One two three four five six seven, said Agaat, her voice was quavering, but mamma doesn’t know how many nails she’s got.
You watched the lay-bys as you passed them. You had to fight against the illusion that it was the car that was stationary and that it was the mountain that had wrenched loose out of its grooves and was gnashing past you, a merry-go-round of grey rock faces, rocky inlets. You knew them all, the stopping-places. You were aiming for the one by the waterfall. There was most space there, there were a few bushes to park behind.
Tradouw, you thought, a child of the Tradouw. Gantouw, the way of the eland, Tradouw, the way of the women.
You brought the car to a standstill in a shower of stones.
Agaat did as you said, placed newspapers and blankets on the back seat, with two doubled-over clean sheets on top. You had to lie down. It felt as if you were tearing apart, as if your spine was splitting.
Sing, you said, sing me something.
Breathe, said Agaat, you said I had to tell you to breathe, breathe, and blow. Blow! Blow!
She waited till you started breathing and blowing. Then she herself took a breath so deep it lifted her shoulders and struck up. Oh moon, Agaat sang for you, you drift so slow on your bright throne.
Her voice emerged too high, out of tune. She cleared her throat, started again. Firm this time, and low, nicely on pitch. The moon, kept on a short tow-rope, tight and low along the horizon. She pulled off your wet underclothing over your legs and covered your upper body with a blanket as you did with the cows in winter. She put a blanket roll under your head.
So calm so clear, she sang, and I so sad and lone.
Now wash your hands, you said. Pour the water into the basin, add two caps of Dettol, wash your hands again, wash me from below, take a cloth, take the red soap, wash well. Have ready the scissors, the knife, the floss, the string, the cloths, the sheets, the smelling salts, line everything up where you can reach easily. There’ll be a lot of blood, don’t get a fright, just do everything you’d do with a cow. And sing, carry on singing here for me, so that I can get hold of a rhythm. Sing something fast.
The boys are cutting the corn tonight, corn tonight, Agaat sang.
Her voice rose, you blew.
My love’s hanging in the berry-bush, berry-bush.
You felt pressure in you, downwards, outwards pressure like a tree-trunk.
Now push, she said, my love is hanging in the bitter-berry-bush.
Breathe! Push! Blow!
You bellowed.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, push Agaat said.
You felt her weak hand low on your belly, there it was feeling, this side and that side of the bulge it pressed, like a spatula against a ball of dough, and gathered you lightly from below your navel and stroked down over your lower belly, one two three times. As you had taught her to feel over animals, whether the lamb was lying transverse or the calf was breeched.
Push, said Agaat, he’s lying right, his head’s in the hole, I can feel him.
Look who’s coming in from outside out, she sang, on the intake of breath.
Breathe in, push, blow, blow, blow!
The other hand was inside you, you felt, the strong one, it reamed you as one reams a gutter.
Breathe in and blow, now you must push, Agaat said, he’s coming, I feel him, he’s hanging in the bush, he’s hanging nicely, he’s hanging like a berry, head first.
Now you must, now you must, Agaat coaxed. Softly, rapidly, urgently, the language that you spoke to the Simmentals that had such trouble calving. You heard yourself, your voice was in her. You heard your father with animals, when you were small, when you stood next to him in the old stable on Grootmoedersdrift, the language of women that he could speak better than your mother.
Now take a breath now, a gasp, a groan
get yourself up now little tradouw
little buttermilk stand ready
now I’m pulling your même her ears to the front
mother macree