Agaat is nice and grown up, isn’t she, he persisted, I thought that was why she came along today specially, and it’s high time, stands drying up in the stable like an unserviced mare.
Hey chickelay chickelee, Jak sang, and swayed his body behind the steering wheel, come sit by me, chickelay chickelee!
You didn’t know how he’d come upon the little song all of a sudden. With such an expression too, as he looked around at Agaat. Even when you were young, he’d never looked at you with such an expression, not even as a joke. And this was no joke. You were ashamed, in three directions.
Come on, Agaat, he taunted, while he drove slowly through the clusters of coloured people, gave them a fright and made them scatter by accelerating unexpectedly, what do you say? Have you seen anything that interests you yet? I’ll pay him for you, you know, so you can crutch him, a real city goffel with long heels and a gap between his front teeth and a shiny shirt! You’re stuck out there on Grootmoedersdrift without any company, if you’re satisfied, we’ll buy him for you. You’ve got the whole day to try him out. On appro.
Jak took his hands off the steering wheel and twisted and rubbed his palms in the air in front of him.
Ride the woolly, hip-hip hay, hip-hip hay! he sang.
The people yelled across the shiny BMW in the sand there, they pushed their tongues through their front teeth at Agaat, swore at Jak, hammered their hands on the roof.
It was a mistake, you realised. Not one of you should have come along. Jak was ashamed to drive with the coloured woman in the back of his car, he was ashamed of you sitting next to him in your big blue hat.
Amongst the vast wastes of motor cars he at last found a parking place.
Sorry! you signalled with your eyes at Agaat as you got out. You took ten rand out of your purse and placed it on the seat.
Cooldrink, you spelt with your eyes.
Agaat gave you the dead eye. She had a long white envelope in her hands.
Give it to him, she said, don’t fold it.
You put it in your handbag. Between your gloved fingertips you thought you felt a slight thickening in the envelope, a texture.
It was terribly hot on the parade ground. The air above the tar shimmered. All the women in your block of seats were wearing hats. Only in the first row where the wives of the ministers and the brigadiers and the generals were sitting, sunshades had been put up.
The chaplain opened the parade with scripture reading. He prayed that the angels would guard over the brave soldiers who had to drive away the Philistines from our borders.
The Prime Minster made a speech. He pointed with his finger. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief.
The Minister of Defence spoke. South Africa has the best defence force in Africa, he said. He read the weapons off a list. They’re all here to be seen today he said, but they’re worth nothing without the well-trained youths manning them. We care for the injured. Our hearts go out to the friends and family of those who fell in the service of their fatherland, he said, it was the highest sacrifice that was asked, that was brought. Another list. The dead.
Then a salute was fired, the last post was sounded, the band played, the national anthem was sung.
After that the medals and the honourable mentions.
There was a stamping of feet, a waving of flags, a saluting. Jak cursed the heat. You were sitting at the back of the block. There were too many hats and umbrellas in front of you for you to see much. When it was Jakkie’s turn, you got to your feet. He looked just like all the others, small, there on the barren surface and under the wide white-blue sky. His medal was pinned on, he stepped back, saluted, you sat down. The applause in the open air sounded like twigs snapping.
Afterwards Jakkie came to greet you. You’d last seen him almost nine months earlier. He was a different man. Clean-shaven, creaseless, a guardedness in his eyes, something around his mouth that you couldn’t place.
Agaat, you wanted to say, but your mouth was numb. You wanted to take out the envelope. Your gloved fingers slip-slided over the smooth chrome clip of your handbag,
Jak flick-flicked his finger against Jakkie’s chest where his medal was dangling.
Eighteen carats, he said.
Agaat, you wanted to say, but other people joined you to congratulate Jakkie. A corporal with a guest list herded you into the brick building where the lunch was to take place. The air inside was muggy with food smells and an undertone of hot metal. The ceiling was high and the hall was dusky but it wasn’t cool. There were fans against the ceiling churning the warm air. You were conducted to your seats. The choir sang three little songs. From the welter of the ages, and then a medley with Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do and other songs, and, while the seafood cocktail was being served, a canon, Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, let these thy gifts to us be blessed. The conductor signalled to the people in the hall when to join in and sing along. You couldn’t identify Jakkie’s voice amongst the tenors. You couldn’t even recognise him there on the rostrum, they all looked alike. There were two other pairs of parents at your table. Jak had the wine opened, poured, asked for another bottle and started chatting to the men. You looked at the other women. What was in their eyes? Nothing. Made up with eye shadow and mascara. Just like yours.
Jakkie and two other captains came to join you at your table. They exchanged glances without talking.
Next was the buffet. You noticed too late that the other women had left their hats and handbags at the tables. Again and again men’s shoulders bumped and brushed against the rim of your hat. Your nose was sweating but you had the tray in your hands already. Your heels were burning in your shoes.
Give me your handbag and gloves, Ma, said Jakkie.
Was there impatience in his voice? He cast one look around and a junior materialised to take charge of them.
Your hat, madam? the little chap asked.
Jakkie gave him a look and he stepped back smartly and marched away with one arm pumping up and down and the bag and gloves on his flat hand in front of him like a cake on a tray.
Jak gave you a look. It was a hall full of furious eyes, you felt.
From the stainless steel trays you had pumpkin served for you, potatoes, cauliflower in white sauce, peas. You thought of Agaat in the hot car in the parking lot. In a flash you imagined a separate table, all seated with servants in black-and-white uniforms. Perhaps you’d have another chance at the table to give Jakkie her envelope.
Madam? the carver asked, pork, lamb, beef, or a bit of everything?
Come, Milla, said Jak, pushing his tray into your back, the queue is long.
Lamb, you said, just a small portion.
Jakkie ate nothing. I can’t fly on a full stomach, he said. He and the other two kept glancing at their watches. He was far from you. Why didn’t you get up and walk around the table and give him the envelope? You looked at his uniform. It didn’t have a pocket into which it would fit without a corner showing. You can’t have a piece of white paper sticking out of the neat blue uniform, can you?
Jak was in his element. He’d loosened his tie and taken off his jacket. He was showing off his knowledge of fighter planes. A third bottle of wine arrived. The other women didn’t drink and you were too shy to hold out your glass again. It would have helped, a bit more alcohol, you thought. How can I get out of here? you wondered.
You tried to grasp your opportunity when Jakkie excused himself.
I suppose I won’t see you again, he said. He shook Jak’s hand, squeezed your shoulder. You tried to get up. Are you coming home for your birthday? you wanted to ask, but you couldn’t. This wasn’t the place for it. He’d gone before you could pick up your handbag from the floor. You had an image of the white envelope there in the gloom of your bag. What could it contain?