Could get the smell from where I was sitting behind the trunk next to the rock fig. Then they waited & I waited. Half an hour later an hour so that my legs started cramping but I couldn’t budge so dead quiet was it only a kokkewiet calling.
But when is he coming? asked Jakkie. Be quiet you’ll hear him approaching up high there in the leaves said A. I could see Jakkie was getting restless. What do you think we’re waiting for? asked A. For the emperor of course said Jakkie what does he look like? Black like the dark moon from outside said A. but all blue November-sky from the inside no not powder-blue rather wet-blue silvery & when he unfolds himself you look into the eye. What eye? Jakkie asked & he blink-blinked his eyes at A. No, it doesn’t work like that she said. He folds open his wings & it’s the Eye of Everything. But when they’re closed, there’s nothing. Like hip up hop down? asked Jakkie. Yes, just like a fire like great love it’s all & it’s nothing & your soul perishes in the flames but the story is told from generation to generation. Shhht I can hear him! He’s coming!
Had heard the fluttering earlier. Always thought it was the forest thrush.
Close your eyes said A. to Jakkie. Bring him nearer with your will.
So there we sit the three of us with closed eyes & I add my will to theirs to make a miracle happen & there it happens!
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Jakkie’s face with a shiny spot reflecting from the lid onto him. But it’s not only shiny it’s blue as if a little window has opened on his forehead. There the butterfly is poised on the shiny lid & eats banana with its wings spread wide so that the one side shows blue. Apatura iris the giant purple emperor butterfly. There the two of them sit with the sun on their heads & the blue reflection leaps from Jakkie’s forehead to A.’s cap & the butterfly opens & closes its wings & it flies away a hip hop jewel & then it descends again for more. Between the lids he to-&-fros. The span of its wings greater than you can imagine. As large as two open hands with crossed thumbs. Nymphalidae the family of the carrion eaters.
11 November 1965
They still haven’t told me. Jak asks at breakfast this morning so what secret have the three of you got now do tell me too? Then I see A. looking at me from where she is bringing Jakkie his porridge but I pretended not to know anything & I ask: What did you see yesterday in the Keurtjiekloof? He puts his finger in front of his mouth & gives A. a secret look & says riddle me ree the night is black & the day is blue & the soul is closed at first & then folded open what is it? Eat your porridge says A. with a straight face & I see she hu-uhs at him with her eyes not to let out anything. It’s time that you went to school said Jak you’re becoming far too smart here under Gaat. But he’s so inquisitive he comes & grabs my diary here from under me to see what I’m writing but he can’t make out my writing just as well I’m always in such a rush. Let go I say it’s private. Then you should rather not sit & write it up in public he says, it’s like lifting your skirts & peeing in the main street.
September 1966
What can it all mean? Sometimes so overwhelmed by what I experience every day I’m crying as I sit here & write. Don’t know exactly what it is. Not sadness rather gladness & fear. Envy perhaps? but why? & of what?
Have just been to look for Jakkie & A. then I saw them playing in the orchard by the pear trees — snow-white in blossom — their latest game. Jakkie has discovered the airplane that Jak built for him way back under the lean-to only a skeleton & the paint is all peeled off but it still has wings & wheels. He made A. drag it out all the way down to the irrigation furrow. She fixed the head of an old fan to the front for a propeller. He sits in the seat & she sits in the grass with her back against the fuselage & looks in front of her. They pretend he takes off & flies away. Went & sat on the edge of the irrigation furrow behind the pomegranate orchard to hear.
How high are you now? asks Agaat.
As high as the mountains! says Jakkie.
Do tell me everything that you see.
I see a bird!
What kind of a bird is it?
I don’t know!
Well then, ask him what kind of bird he is!
I can’t!
Put your hand out & catch him & bring him home, then I’ll ask him
what kind of bird he is.
There he flies away!
Fly after him!
I can’t he’s gone!
Then I know what his name is!
What?
I’m not allowed to say it out loud, I must whisper it in your ear.
But I’m up here!
Well then come down again!
I’m coming! Here I come!
Come down, I can see you already! Here you come! Look out for the
tower silo!
I come! I see you, here I am!
Then Jakkie jumps from the little plane into A.’s arms & she rolls in the grass with him & laughs they sit up & he holds his hand behind his ear & she whispers a whole long story into it & his eyes widen in surprise & she pulls her head away & he shakes his head for no & she nods her head for yes & he wants to ask something & she lays her finger on her lips & he lays his finger on his.
12
I’m itching.
Possibly because I couldn’t laugh. The theatrics with the neighbour’s wife yesterday, perhaps that was too macabre. Milla, the drama queen. Jak’s name for me. What in heaven’s name would he have said if he’d seen me here like this? Or done?
Closing scene. She-devil with shingles. Perhaps he would have emptied a bucket of water on me and lowered the curtain.
Thursday 3 December 1996. Twelve o’clock.
Itch.
Nobody who knows it or to whom I can say it. Possibly not a drama. Something for the stage, though, Jak. Art in miniature. The Scourge of the Seven-Year Itch.
This bed. A chrome railing. Covers up to my chin. Under that my skin heaving with the itch.
Where is Agaat? When is she coming?
Itch.
Not a word that one could sing, except in a hotnot song perhaps, words for Agaat’s St Vitus’s dance with which she keeps the demons at bay. I hear the servants talk of it, the to-and-fro-ing over the yard at night.
The Sunday morning
The Sunday morning
I didn’t care
My mommy’s words keep
Fresh in Tupperware.
I can scratch myself — that would have to be the message of the Gospel.
Where is Agaat?
Job itched.
But he wasn’t paralysed, and he had a potsherd.
Could it have been itching that caused the creation? They say the stress of isolation causes people to scratch their heads.
Why is Agaat not coming?
Who led the Bear out into the firmament? Who swathed the sea in a mantle of mist? All too pretty. Who clothed man in skin, made him susceptible to itching?