That’s the argumentation, the sophistry of spices as she’s sprinkled them for me and mashed in with a fork: the cinnamon, the cardamom, with the butter, the sugar, to a perfect pumpkin puree.
I smell for all I’m worth to get all the messages. If I could, I would have sniffed loudly to say: I understand, Agaat, your meaning is crystal clear to me. Mashed potatoes with meat sauce, sweet pumpkin with cinnamon, red jelly with custard. What more could one want? It’s a whole story on its own, Sunday food on Grootmoedersdrift.
But it’s not Sunday.
What day is it? I ask with my eyes on the calendar, I can’t see that far any more.
Agaat puts the tray down on the trolley. She picks up the hand-bell from the floor where it’s been lying for three days now, it looks strange in her little hand, the gesture with which she puts it into her apron pocket contains an element of self-chastisement.
Monday eleven November, the year of our Lord nineteen ninety-six, she says, the fields are white with wheat.
What would she want me to say if I could talk? Would she ever have said something like that to me when I could still talk? She sometimes says such things with a straight face and uninflected voice as if it’s the most ordinary thing, as if she’s talking to herself. The fields are white with wheat. Must I become something that I am not yet?
Dawid got hurt, she says, she doesn’t look at me, she sterilises my teaspoon in a glass of boiling water.
Got a cut on his hand from a combine blade that broke and I had to bandage it first, that’s why I’m late today. You must be hungry by now.
Clink, she puts down the teaspoon in the saucer, tests the temperature of the potato with the back of the little finger of her left hand. Still too hot.
She talks with her back to me while opening the curtains and the lace linings wider. Her movements are less curt, she trains her voice to moderation. The purple glow of the bougainvillea rushes into the room.
Hay is strong this year, she says.
There is an unevenness in her voice, she clears her throat.
Grains are swollen out, we’re winning more than five bags of Sterling per morgen. I made Dawid grind a sample and I baked a small loaf and it, it, rose right out of the. . tin.
Her voice fades away towards the end.
Did you smell it? she still manages to add.
I see her vividly, standing over the mixing of the sponge at first light, over the dredging of the table with white flour, sprinkle-sprinkle with the little finch of the right hand that knows to snatch dab-dab with gathered fingertips in the flour bag, I see her mix and knead, knead and knock back with the palm of the strong hand, fold over with the small hand, knead and knead till the dough springs back, then the covering in a cool quiet place for the first rising, the knocking-back, the proving and the kneading-through, I see her at the shaping in the tins, at the putting into the hot oven and an hour later bending for the testing with the steel knitting needle, the tapping on the back of the small brown rabbit, the turning-out on the old bent wire rack. How many loaves, how many cakes, have been turned out on that little frame? That she would not have thrown away, absolutely not.
And the eating, Agaat? The slicing and the buttering and the apricot jam and the tasting all alone at your set place when you’ve done with me here in the front of the right wing?
Of bread I am told.
Hunger is imagined for me.
Light is granted me.
Time.
Colour.
Life flows through me as if through a transfusion rigged up between her and me. She monitors the rate of flow.
The bougainvillea scorches my eyes. Agaat stands in front of the door and looks out, she hangs there, she hooks herself in place there for strength.
It’s flowering as if it’s being paid, she says, took a long time, but now it’s found its feet at last.
I look at her back with the cross of the apron bands.
Turn round, I want to say, look at me, forget about it, it’s over now. You do everything you can. I want for nothing. It’s not your fault. You are the best nurse one could wish for. We’ll try a different route. How, after all, can you be expected to guess what I want? The day will come when you will think of it yourself, of your own accord. Then you’ll come in here with the maps under your arms and with triumph on your face.
And I know what that mug of yours will look like then, your jaw-bone will be all the way out there, you’ll suppress your smile but the mole on your cheek will be an exclamation point. So you can come away from the door now, it’s not all that bad.
Sometimes when I stare at her back hard enough, she feels it, then she turns around. Brave, as open as possible to receiving everything transmitted to her.
Today I can tell from the shoulder perched at a slight angle that she’s not ready yet. But it’s lower than it was yesterday, than it was this morning. And she’s talking about bread.
I mustn’t stare, I must let her be.
Agaat’s talking shoulder.
I wait, I look in the mirror. The green of scraps of tree, the varied greens of the ornamental cypresses and the water-berry and the honey-bread tree, red flecks in between from the weeping bottlebrush that has sprouted again after she had it pruned at the end of winter. A shiny shard of the roof of the shed, a haze of hills further along, everything framed by the dark purple of the bougainvillea clambering over the trellis on the stoep. And in one corner, one could easily miss it, Agaat’s profile. She doesn’t know I can see her front, from the side only, but enough to read it. There’s a frown on her face, as if she cannot comprehend the bougainvillea, as if she’s trying to fathom the bread.
Like Christmas, it’s flowering, says Agaat again.
She lifts her hands, pat-pats at her cap.
Right out of the tin. .
I make room, I give her a chance. I look at the reflection in the mirror, look with Agaat who doesn’t know that I’m looking with her. She will see the whole garden, framed in the purple. For me it’s carved up and jumbled together in fragments in the three panels, bits of the flowerbeds. The central panel is brighter than the other two. The one that broke long ago. For eleven months now the mirror has been standing in the same position with its panels at the same angle. I know the content of the reflections, I try to imagine the bits left out, the avenues of agapanthus that must by now be in full bloom, the borders of gillyflowers and wild pinks and snapdragons and purple and white petunias that Agaat sowed and had planted in the late spring, in the early summer, so that I might still experience it, and the people who will come for my funeral.
She came in September and held in front of me the packets of summer bulbs and seeds.
Choose, she said, I’ve bought ten packets of everything and ordered 500 bulbs from Starke Ayres.
Everything, sow everything, I gestured, sow everything, it’s my last garden.
There I was right, I could see, she wanted to sow everything, her eyes shone. She blinked quickly and turned round and for three days on end sowed seeds and planted bulbs and walked singing and whistling round the house so that I could hear where she was working, and at mealtimes came and told me three beds of white gladiolus at the back and purple dahlias in the middle and right in front purple and white sweet alison. And in-between fennel for fragrance and for the fine feathers of foliage and for the yellow flower-heads that will mitigate the strictness of dahlias and gladioli and break the purple and white.
Tobacco flower, Californian poppies, and common poppies, and Queen Anne’s lace for delicacy, and in the dry beds sunflowers and zinnias and painted ladies high and low. Would she not have drawn a plan? Would she have done it free-hand this time? Somewhat more carelessly, extravagantly, more higgledy-piggledy than usual? For the music? For the departed?