Does a mirror sometimes preserve everything that has been reflected in it? Is there a record of light, thin membranes compressed layer upon layer that one has to ease apart with the finger-tips so that the colours don’t dissipate, so that the moments don’t blot and the hours don’t run together into inconsequential splotches? So that a song of preserved years lies in your palm, a miniature of your life and times, with every detail meticulous in clear, chanting angel-fine enamel, as on the old manuscripts, at which you can peer through a magnifying glass and marvel at so much effort? So many tears for nothing? For light? For bygone moments?
A floating feeling takes possession of me, to and fro I look between the shadow picture on the wall and the reflection in the mirror. A story in a mirror, second-hand. About what was and what is to be. About what I have to come to in these last days and nights. About how I must get there over the fragments I am trying to shore. I step on them, step, as on stones in a stream. Agaat and I and Jak and Jakkie. Four stepping-stones, every time four and their combinations of two, of three, their powers to infinity and their square roots. Their sequences in time, their causes and effects. How to join and to fit, how to step and to say: That is how I crossed the river, there I walked, that was the way to here. How to remember, without speech, without writing, without map, an exile within myself. Motionless. Solid. In my bed. In my body. Shrunken away from the world that I created. With images that surface and flow away, flakes of light that float away from me so that I cannot remember what I have already remembered and what I have yet to remember. Am I the stream or am I the stone and who steps on me, who wades through me, to whom do I drift down like pollen, like nectar, like a fragrance, always there are more contents to be ordered into coherence.
Through the open doors I smell the night ever more intensely. It permeates my nose like a complex snuff. Can one smell sounds? I hear the dikkops, from a northerly direction. Christmas, christmas, christmas, they cry in descending tones, christmas comes. The yard plovers cry as they fly up, a disturbance at the nest? The frogs strike up, white bibs bulging in the reeds. Under the stoep a cricket starts filing away at its leg-irons. Here next to my head something prays in the void. That I may be permitted to make the journey one more time, on stippled tracks for my eyes, pursuing place names that are dictated to me, the last circuit, a secret, a treasure that neither moth nor rust can destroy, a relation, a sentence hidden amongst words.
Suddenly I see Agaat. In the dark door-cavity with the tray in her hands. She’s watching me from the shadows, I can’t make out her face, just the cap, a small white tomb in the air.
Would she sometimes simply be curious, an onlooker at a fainting incident in the street, a visitor to a cage in which a snake is shedding its skin? How would I ever know? How could I hold it against her? How would I want her to look at me here where I am lying?
I close my eyes. I thought she’d already left for the kitchen. I wouldn’t, after all that, have dared look around again. Not if I had known she was still there. I hear her walk down the passage, turn round, walk back slowly. She’s in the spare room. She stands still.
I count to twelve before she moves again. I hear her put down the tray in the kitchen but then none of the usual, the sounds of clearing the tray on the work surface, of scraping leftovers into the bin, filling the washbasin with water, washing and drying and packing away dishes, taking her own plate out of the warming oven, the sound of the kettle being filled for her tea, pulling out and pulling up the kitchen chair and then, as always, the silence as she eats her evening meal. None of this I hear.
She walks around the house, every now and again she stops, a few paces to this side, a few paces to that, and then stops again. In the dining room, in the living room, in the sitting room, in the entrance hall I hear the floorboards creak and then again down the passage on her rubber soles she walks, tchi-tchi-tchi past my door, a glance at my bed, further along to Jakkie’s room, to the spare room, a hesitation before the walk to the back room, and back again down the passage and back and stop and carry on. I can hear her thinking. I can feel her looking for empty spaces. The already-cleared house that echoes lightly. Out at the back door now. Keys. It’s the big bunch. First the storage rooms in the back, then round the front.
What is she whistling for me to hear there where she is in the dark?
Oh ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road. .
What is that rattling under my bed? The cellar door? Here right beneath me in the right wing? What would she be looking for there?
Muffled from below the floorboards, under the concrete floor layer, the whistling sounds just loud enough so that I can make out the tune.
An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye’. .
The extra mile, Leroux said, that woman walks the extra mile for you.
night of resurrection sunday night one foot before the other slowly in front of my mirror it is I here I stand four limbs nothing that is wanting here roll away the stone before my foot I ask slowly until I stand in front of the pantry shelf flour bag in the palms sugar bag in the palms mixing-bowl in the palms milk jug in two hands god in heaven restore to me in your name the grip in my fingers six eggs one by one in each palm a cake is a manual exercise forgive me my trespasses sieve spoon pan oven I will I want I can the cock of monday morning crows a dent in the flour separate the whites from the yolks the first egg breaks wrong the second remains closed hopefully whole the third also falls and so the fourth to the fifth and the sixth there are seven shells in the flour.
12 August 1960 ten past eight
A. is going to give me grey hairs yet, I can see it coming. This morning when she brought in the coffee the dog prodded his nose into her again.
Smelt nothing just Mum & starch & a tiny line of mud on the seam of hr apron from hr nocturnal escapades but for the rest spotlessly clean everything.
Have just been to do inspection in her room. Old black umbrella standing in the corner & a paint tin on a sack tip-tip, it drips in the tin. There’s a patch of mould on the ceiling suppose roof must be rusted through will have to take it in hand. For the rest everything clean & tidy. Looked in hr cupboard she’s wearing the bras I see even though they are too big & the pack of Dr White’s has not been used further I suppose she doesn’t know how but I seem to remember one of the elastics to which it’s fixed was missing the evening when she disappeared with hr suitcase. I know that dog it does that with women who are bleeding. Had half hoped she would pick up the Facts of Life from the other servants but no help from that source. Leave hr alone she’s white I heard Saar say to Lietja. Had hoped that with the move to the outside room she would throw in her lot with the others — not altogether of course but just so that she can learn to know her place.
So I had hr called & went & spoke the necessary there in the back don’t know if it was enough you can’t be strict enough with them at that age. If you start bleeding between your legs every month I said to hr you’re a risk here on Gdrift you can bring to nought everything that we’ve done for you overnight & I know you wander about after dark & if I ever catch you in the labourers’ houses or discover you’ve been to D. & his crowd at night I’ll give you the boot in the blink of an eye where will you go then? Your place is here on Gdrift I said so see to it that you toe the line. She just stared at me. Don’t act stupid I said. You know what the bull does to the cow & what comes of it? just pain & suffering & you’re not quite right you’re deformed & they did bad things to you when you were small so you can’t have children in any case even if you want to & maybe it’s hereditary & you know what happens to the late lamb whose mother casts him off? We can’t go around raising them all as hanslammers it takes too much time & trouble.