Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [93]
You tried, you didn’t know how to say it, you so badly wanted to recover something of that youthful beginning with him, now that you at last had a child.
Jak looked at you, and looked away. Could not, would not remember it. He was nervous, didn’t want to be alone with you, phoned all the world and brought them into the room where you were lying and kept company with them. Ma was the one who put a stop to that. Milla is tired, she said, respect that.
He returned to the farm after two days, only phoned now and again. He kept himself apart from then on. He knew everybody was angry with him.
The Mercedes was sold without his trying to clean it. The upholstery was permeated, he said, with blood and stuff. The first night after you returned to the farm he got hold of you briefly. Half-angrily and deliberately. You were still sore, even though it was three weeks after the birth, but you let him have his way. Where pain was concerned your standards had shifted. He wouldn’t get the better of you any more.
For weeks you were tired and weak. You had problems with your milk. The little one was fretful and that got on his nerves.
In the first weeks he tried to build a toy aeroplane in the backyard. It wouldn’t come together. A few times he kicked it to pieces in frustration. You tried to bring him to his senses.
Jak, you said, surely you know by this time you have two left hands, just don’t get yourself so worked up about it, in any case it’ll be years before the child is big enough for a toy like that.
He wouldn’t give up. The whole backyard was eventually cluttered with pieces of plank and nails and open paint tins and clamps and glue-pots.
You had to keep shushing him with his electric planes and drills there under the nursery window.
Be quiet! you screamed at him, day-in, day-out you kick up a racket, don’t you have any consideration?
Then he took umbrage and went running in the mountains, only to return with a red face to start chopping and hammering where he’d left off.
You said, forget about the propeller, but he had to install a dashboard with flashing lights and build a propeller into the nose that could turn with electricity.
One day when he was out, you had the mess cleared up and sorted and carried under the lean-to next to the stables.
You’re in our way here, you said, go and play over there.
He looked at you, opened his mouth and closed it again, and walked away stiffly. Give me a break, his back said, give me a break, I’m also here. But you didn’t want to see it, your heart was cold.
Once you went to him under the lean-to, with a mug of coffee. Flat on his back under the fuselage he was trying to jiggle the electric leads for the dashboard lights through holes that had been drilled too small for them and trying to tinker the wires into place behind the propeller-head. The blades that he’d taken out of an old lawnmower and filed down to make an airscrew were too heavy for the little plane, they looked completely out of proportion. You pointed at it. He looked at you. You lowered your hand.
One evening he called you and Agaat from the bedroom where you were attending to Jakkie.
Come and see, he said, his voice exaggeratedly jaunty, bring that lad of mine along, we’re ready for our maiden voyage.
For the demonstration he’d dragged the little plane from under the lean-to to the middle of the backyard. There it stood under a piece of black plastic, ready for the unveiling. From under the plastic a thick white extension cord snaked out. It was supposed to be connected to the electric cord with the plug that was dangling out of the window of the nursery.
You stand over there now, he instructed you and Agaat, who was holding the child. You had to stand in front of the bathroom window on the closed-in side of the backyard for the best view.
All the doors and windows of the rooms facing onto the backyard were open. He switched on all