Pretty Jak de Wet is a dog, Beatrice, you said. A Doberman if you like, fine of build with a beautiful muzzle, but a dog nevertheless.
Then you told her about Jak, about how he treated you. She listened.
You told her everything about the painting of the cabinets and the dragging across the cement and the scratches and the bruises and how it had gone on over the years, and how he had withdrawn into himself, a time-bomb waiting to explode. She’d always thought there was something wrong, she said. The more you told, the less she wanted to hear, but you kept her there.
Why did I marry him, Beatrice? you asked, who is this man? The more I stare at these photos to try and understand, the more the mystery deepens.
Perhaps, Beatrice began, you could see she was hesitant, perhaps you wanted to share in his. . in his. .
Beatrice looked away. You waited for her to continue.
Perhaps you’re dependent on his. .
She took her handbag, left her sentence hanging in the air. You changed the subject.
No, you said, don’t go yet, it’s your turn now, you talk to me now, I also guess my guesses about you, you know.
And then you saw it, how she clammed shut, how the defensiveness came over her, over her mouth and into her eyes. More than defensiveness, disgust, judgement. Of you, not of Jak.
I shall never talk out of the house, Milla. Marriage is holy and it’s private. Everything depends on that. Thys has his faults but he’s a good human being, a good man, and I stand by him through thick and thin, as I promised before the holy Lord.
On her heel she turned and walked out. You went and sat on a chair there in Jak’s room, in his display case, as if his displayed wares had to forgive you for what you’d let out of the bag. What dark mood was it that drove you out of there? You took his camera that was lying on his desk, and went looking for him.
You found him in the implement shed with the new ripper. You walked across the yard slowly, your body was big, it was a month before Jakkie’s arrival. The plough had been delivered that very morning by the agent of International Harvester. You had a good reason to go and look for him because lunch was on the table. The shed was dark, you stood still for your eyes to adjust. Jak was standing caressing the seed hopper of the new plough. His lips were moving.
Soilmaster, you heard him say. The word sounded clearly in the shed. He squatted into the backside of the plough, his eyes closed while he played his hands up and down over the teeth.
You wanted to turn away and leave, you held the camera behind your back, but he’d already seen you.
Milla, he called after you.
Come and eat, you wanted to say, but then you said something else.
Then you said to him, move the plough out under the wild fig, I want to take photos. And you walked back to the house with your heart filled with dark feelings and you paged through his wardrobe until you found an olive-green shirt.
This will show off the red of the plough more clearly, you said, they’re complementary colours, red and green.
And then you posed him, like this and like that, and you aimed from below and from above, from near and from far, full and half and quarter profiles.
Smile, you said. Pensive. Say cheese, sing, happy days are here again, sing, I talk to the trees.
The farm kids also wanted to be in the photos. They swarmed all over the plough like bats and fiddled and fidgeted everywhere as if they might find something edible there. And then Jak said abruptly, that’s enough, he was tired now. Certainly the first time that you’d heard him say that of a photo session.
When at last you were seated at table, he looked at you, pale-faced, said he felt terribly exhausted, he hoped it wasn’t his heart, and then went to lie down without eating.
You sat there for a long time over the cold food, a taste of iron in your mouth.
easter it is easter I want to say let us bake a cake for the twins for the triplets and for the quadruplets of the four we shall gather the tiniest the little one who was last the one lying with her muzzle just above the clover her we shall gather in our arms I want to say a name we shall give her of clouds a name of rain a name of autumn that drifts in quince trees she who is one of a quatrain of heaven earth god and mortal sweet we shall call her sweetling sweet-flour spit of mercy I want to say but I get mired my tongue up against my teeth eggs on the ground quips I say and queep and speet in stead of sweet and eater instead of easter and instead of honey money how did it come about? so it came in my mouth like the next minute like a thief in the night like the slow inclination of the underground clover-flower to place her seed next to her foot in the ground like the nocturnal rising of dough in my body it came like yeast the sleeping seed the dodder plant the white lamb that pushes out of me and disempowers me.
12 July 1960 11 o’clock at night
The more I think back on the day the more I feel I should perhaps have done the whole thing differently first talked & explained everything but how does one ever explain everything to a child?
She wasn’t at all at ease after the sheep-slaughtering this morning just stood there in the kitchen door right sleeve stretched smeared with blood & looked straight at me. Arrange your face I said we still have lots to do I thought take no notice take no nonsense but she stayed there chin on chest & and put one foot on top of the other & fist in the mouth. There, go & wash yourself I said see what you look like & stand up straight & take your hand out of your mouth & go and take off that jersey one doesn’t walk around like that. Next thing she throws her arms around her body the one arm over the other & I grab her by the shoulders Saar shakes her head & sucks her teeth as if I’ve now done something wrong don’t you meddle here I say & go & fetch my old red jersey in the bedroom she can’t walk around any longer in that blood-stained thing. And then A. doesn’t want to take it off in front of me so much for gratitude! So I gave her a piece of sunlight soap & said go & take it off yourself outside at the tap & soap it in so that it can soak & I gave her a bucket because I didn’t want her to go into the house then but she mustn’t go into hr outside room either. That would spoil all my plans right there & there she stands & she refuses flatly. I have another jersey like this one she says where’s my jersey I want my own jersey it has the right sleeve.
Simply had to talk over her objections because hr case with hr clothes was already in the outside room. So I had to think quickly to put hr in hr place & I quickly pushed my hand into the pocket of hr dress in front & this sheep’s ear? what’s it doing here? I don’t want to see any superstitions in you & then I threw the ear into the bin & then she looked so sad so then I said when you’re clean come & have tea there are ginger biscuits you were very good about learning to slaughter we all have to do things in this life that we don’t like & then I gave her my red jersey to take with her and to go and put on behind the house in privacy.
After lunch she polished the stoep & I instructed Saar to help hr next thing there they are singing together. Good sign after the business of the morning.
If I have a whip I must have a yoke
Hard at work’s the name of my yoke
Don’t let slip’s the name of my whip
Looksmart’s the name of my cart
Pair-of-socks is the name of my ox
Spick-and-span’s the name of my man