Agaat (5 page)

I resist. Give me a chance. Let me try myself, a self-portrait, an autobiography, life and times of Milla de Wet, her place of origin, her purlieu, on Grootmoedersdrift, her hereditary home. An honest likeness. From the mirror, over my feet, along the length of my paralysed body, all the way into my head. Between my temples, above my nose, behind the frontal bone, there.

In the marrowy pulp I feel for the beginning, for an inspissation, the graininess of a germ cell. I continue only until I can imagine fine threads in the uniform texture. I roll them between my fingers until they find a grip in my imagination. And then, carefully, so as not to disturb their vague beginnings, I start drawing them together in strings, until they're thick enough to plait, first three, then nine, then twenty-seven and so
on. Three hundred and sixty-three. Until I'm ready to feed the whole coil securely into the hollow of the brainstem, into the hole of the first vertebra. I wait, I hold everything together well, before I pull it through and spread it open on the other side like a sheaf. Finer and finer I imagine the filiations, a mesh just below the surface, until I'm sure that all points are served by my will.

I want to write.

To the string running down my right arm I devote particular attention. I imagine that it's dark brown. I gather it into a thick smooth bundle, shiny as kelp in the swell, an elegant tassel at the far end, long sensitive strings of seaweed with fine ramifications in each of the first three fingers of my right hand.

I wait for the right moment. Nothing to lose. Breathe in, send the signal, breathe out for the leap.

Write!

With precise electrical flashes I mark each bight of the current, from high up in the brain pulp through all the plaitings of nerves I've laid down in their circuits. With extra momentum I force the command down into my hand to the furthest extremities.

Write!

I manage to draw one leg of the m before the pen slips from my fingers and rolls over the bedspread and falls from the bed.

My hand lies in the splint like a mole in a trap.

The first time you slept with Jak was the day after he came to declare his intentions to your parents. He was eager to get away that morning after the engagement, eager to get away from under your mother's eyes after the sermon he'd endured from her the night before, and especially eager to get his hands on you.

You knew it, Milla Redelinghuys, you played him.

How did you experience him then? Can you really remember it?

Don't forget the keys, Ma called. She jingled the great bunch of keys to the Grootmoedersdrift homestead behind you as you walked down the steps of the stoep to Jak's red Spider.

Catch! She called and threw the bunch at him.

You were watching him closely all the time, that much is certain. He snatched the bunch out of the air with a flourish. Ostentatiously, from a height, he dropped it in your lap, showing off to your parents, seeing you off on the steps. Frail they seemed against the house and the sky. But you didn't want to notice that, you looked down at the keys
nestling between your thighs in the dip of your dress. You jingled with your fingers amongst them, you fondled the old worn key-heads. The front door, the kitchen, the loft, the outside rooms. You imagined how you were going to unlock all the doors.

Thanks for everything! Jak called and waved.

Old Sweet 'n Sour, he said under his breath.

Jak, please, she's my mother, show some respect, you said. But you laughed with him, because she'd been at her worst the night before. It started at dinner when Jak put the expensive engagement ring on your finger. Diamonds are forever, he said. Too expensive, you could see Ma thinking, too showy. It was a burl of a diamond set in gold. You could read her mind. That kind of money would have been better put to some practical use, something for the farm that had now become yours because you were getting married. But she said nothing. Because you who hitherto could never find favour in her eyes, would at last be complete. Somebody's wife. In the normal course of events, somebody's mother.

And then, money wasn't everything, work rather, toil and sweat and grit. There was a great deal to be done on Grootmoedersdrift before it could be called a model farm. That you never hid from Jak. And you didn't fool yourself either, from the start you expected him to get cold feet. He was no farm boy. His hands were soft, he was the only son of the GP in Caledon, schooled at Bishops to be a gentleman. He would have to learn everything from scratch. From you and your family he would have to get it, because both his parents had died young.

Ma was sceptical when you first told her about him. About how he accompanied you to music concerts and plays in Cape Town. Pure flimflammery, your mother said, show me the man who prefers music and drama to rugby. You wanted to ask, what about Pa, but Pa put his finger to his lips and you bit back your words. And it was true, Jak got bored after the second act. Your mother was adamant. After Jak had got his degree in law at Stellenbosch, she said, you had to see to it that he did a diploma at Elsenburg Agricultural College to prepare him for farming. Either that, or he doesn't set his foot on my land, she said.

You knew you had to manoeuvre things very carefully between your mother and Jak. And you had to make sure that neither felt they were drawing the short straw.

Did you think then of what you yourself could lose in the process? Can you remember it clearly now, after all that has happened? Then was different. Then you were a winner. Was there love? Enough for a start, you thought. Jak blossomed under your encouragement. You were in love with his pretty mouth, with his boyish way of doing things.
And he would grow with you. That was what you believed. You didn't doubt his desire, from the start of your courtship you'd really had to lock up your rubies.

I want to see your papers, young man, Ma said on the evening of the engagement, and I'll ask you a few questions myself so I can hear whether they taught you anything at that college. She glared at you both in turn.

I hope you're as sensible as you're attractive.

Jak was riled, even though you'd warned him beforehand, only one person had a voice in the house where you grew up, and that was your mother.

Your father got up and went and stared out of the window. You kicked off your shoes and under the table you rubbed your feet against Jak's ankles. After a while he took your hand under the table. You pressed your leg hard against his during the whole sermon on the correct way of working with sheep and wheat and cattle. You stared in front of you at the table, at the dark grain of the wood. You'd never been able to look her in the eye when she spoke like that. It was as if she were talking about more than just the demands of mixed farming.

You protested, laughingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Ma, you'll scare Jak off, talking like that.

He's man enough, she said. I thought you said he was such a good talker himself? But I'm glad to see he can listen as well. The expression on her face said: He'd better, otherwise what do you want him for?

What did I want Jak for? Wasn't it clear to her? He was rich, he was well educated, he was attractive, witty and well-spoken, and well-liked by people. He was everything that you felt you were not.

But even though you felt insecure at times, and even though you weren't exactly the most beautiful of women, you knew you weren't stupid. You had a BA with languages behind your name, with your extra music and drama subjects completed almost to licentiate level. In addition you had plenty of practical experience of farming. The two of you would be an asset to the Overberg, not only as farmers but also for the cultural life in the region. And you knew that he also thought he was getting a good bargain in you. He said you suited him, short but sharp and could carry a tune on top of it.

Your father observed it all ruefully. The most important thing is for you to be happy and healthy, my child, he said, the rest is incidental, and don't neglect your music. Once you've moved in and settled over the mountain, you must come over every Friday evening, then we can listen to music. Remember, my whole collection will be yours one day.

Jak listened to your father with wary respect, they didn't really take to each other, you could see that. However fond you were of your father, you were irritated with him that weekend with his sentimentality and his reserve, there was a new kind of energy running now, and new priorities.

You're not scared of becoming my farmer boy, are you, Jak, I said as you drove away through the main street of Barrydale in the direction of the pass.

You were on your way to show him the farm over the mountain for the first time. You knew you'd have to open on a high bid.

Your ‘farmer boy'! Jak snorted, but he looked down at the keys between your legs, and you knew he was snared, tail and trotters and all.

My Farmer then, with a big F, you said. You placed your hand high up on his thigh and leant over and kissed him in his ear.

You're a slypuss, he said. Move closer. I have my own schemes for you.

And you intend to tame me, if I understand rightly, you teased. You stroked his thigh.

So, Milla Redelinghuys, your story was launched. The situation provided you with an interesting kind of titillation. So here you have two fish hooked, you thought. A farm and a husband. But you didn't feel entirely at ease. Without the bait, would you have caught the fish?

So tell me again everything we're going to farm with, you and I? Jak asked.

You counted your words, you fed him a few trivial facts that wouldn't alarm him. You paddled your hand lightly, to the beat of the information you were feeding him.

Ma kept a couple of hundred merinos and a few Jersey cows on Grootmoedersdrift. There was a foreman on the farm, OuKarel Okkenel, of the Suurbraak Okkenels, and his half-grown son Dawid, who also lived on the farm. OuKarel was a widower, a respectable man, distant descendant of the Scottish mechanics who came out in 1817 under Benjamin Moodie. OuKarel sowed a few morgen of wheat for Ma every year for a share. She was worried that the farm was being neglected. After Pa inherited his land and they went to farm on Goedbegin, they used to go and check every week that everything was running smoothly on Grootmoedersdrift. Ever since you were small, she and Pa drove over the mountain at shearing time and lambing time and harvest time, and stayed on in the old homestead for weeks on end to keep an eye and to take things in hand. Often it was only you and Pa, those were your best times, he taught you opera arias and took you on
expeditions in the veld. Your father with his long stride and his perfect hearing, you couldn't believe that he had turned into the lopsided old gent with the shuffling gait.

They're getting old, you said to Jak, they can no longer keep crossing the mountain and manage two farms. We're getting married at the right time. We have to take over the wheat farming from the Okkenels, the local market is famished for fine white flour now after the war, we have to extend the sheep and cattle herds, there's excellent grazing next to the river for a dairy herd, we must make of Grootmoedersdrift what it can be, a textbook example of mixed farming, we have to live up to the name.

You moved your hand and massaged the inside of his thigh.

You're driving me mad, Jak said. He squirmed in his seat and accelerated even more.

Don't get carried away, darling, stay on the road, you said.

He tried to keep himself in check. He shook his head, brought up last night's conversation.

Lynx-hide thongs! What kind of story was that last night, he asked, I hope you don't take after that mother of yours too much, you'll finish a man off.

You laughed, you pinched the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

Well, I don't know who you take after, you teased back. You took a deep breath and said it, you were shy, but you said it.

You're very close to finished before I've even started, was what you said. With your eyes you gestured towards his fly.

You knew what the effect would be. He was the kind who liked off-colour comments. At times he said things to you that made you blush, but you never went too far when you were petting. You were a virgin and that was your price.

Good heavens, Milla, Jak exclaimed, tell me more!

There's a sentinel before my mouth, you teased.

Just you wait, Jak said, you'll end up with the sentinel in your sweet-talking mouth.

You weren't altogether sure what he meant but you laughed along with him.

Jak was right about your mother. She had finished off your father. He'd become ever more silent with the years. Must have been ill already the evening of the engagement. You could tell from his reticence while your mother took out the maps and spread the papers of Grootmoedersdrift on the dining room table. It had been her ancestral land for generations back in her mother's line, from the Steyn and the Spies
lines. They were the ones, according to her, who planted the wild fig avenue there and traced the foundations of the homestead with lynx-hide ropes.