But she felt no better even though he shone fit to burst. She was always worried about everything and always complained about everything. She complained about the earth and complained about the water and complained about the air and complained about the fire. Nothing was ever to her taste. She wanted her husband to right everything that she found wrong on their estate. The ploughshare and the sheep-shear and the stable and the table and the roof and the floor and the mincers and the pincers and the pens and the hens. She wanted him to be the master and control everything as she would do it herself if she herself could be good-looking and strong and clever and rich and be the master. Follow my drift?
Help me with this and help me with that, she whinged and carried on as if she had no hands. Even though she knew everything about farming she fancied that she could initiate nothing without him. She wept when he had to go on a journey and when he was with her, it had to be in such otherwise ways which he didn’t understand, that he got quite discouraged. Stuff me a teddy bear, whistle like a mackerel for me.
You don’t love me enough, you don’t care enough for me, she went around all day sighing and doctored herself with a glass of wine, with a sleeping pill, with cookies, with chocolate, with talking on the telephone.
And she was always full of complaints. My legs are heavy, my arms feel tired. And at night she sleep-walked through the house in her black shawls and with her fluttering eyelashes.
What strange behaviour, the man thought as he led her back to her bed. I give her everything, what else could she want from me? How can I ever make her happy? he wondered as he lay behind her in the dark until she calmed down. And thus he became a hero of introspection, without anybody’s suspecting it, a silent ponderer of his fate, but that’s best left there, dear members of the audience.
So what do you think happened?
Jak had found his stride. He looked at you and Agaat in turn. He opened the curtains and took a deep breath.
Wonderful, wonderful aromas of Grootmoedersdrift, he said, fennel and coriander, six of one and half a dozen of the other.
When he turned round, his voice was hoarse.
The man, he said, started thinking that he was not at all good enough. Not clever enough, not strong enough, not handsome enough, not rich enough. He thought he might just be the very worst farmer on earth.
And he was unhappy. But in truth he was angry. His heart was bitter.
And he, yes, sin of sins, he started manhandling his wife when she nagged. Slap, kick, shove, these three.
Jak held three fingers in the air, showed them in turn to you and Agaat.
He pushed her away when she begged that he should hold her. He scolded her, and despised himself that he could be so cruel with somebody that he loved. Ai, ai, tsk.
And guess what this man did then?
Jak, that’s enough, you said.
He ignored you, closed the passage door so that Agaat couldn’t get out there.
Guess what the wretched man did then? Here, Milla, have a little glass, don’t think I don’t know who drinks my brandy late at night.
The man trained to become stronger and farmed to become richer. The fool. He read to become wiser and bought the best clothes to look better in the mirror.
But all of this was of no use.
His heart was sore. And his wife just badgered him the more.
You’re going to leave me, she mewled, tomorrow you’re going to pack your bags and abandon me, I know it. When men turn forty, then they start cheating on their wives, all the psychologists say so.
What could he do? What does a man do with such erudite aspersions? The man protested for all he was worth.
Jak put his hand on his heart and looked at the ceiling. I shall never abandon you, what did I do to be distrusted like this? Woe is me!
And then his wife showed him her titties anew and lifted her little dress and pouted her little lips and praised him in front of the guests.
Behold, my husband, he is the best that there is and my husband says this and my husband says that and you should be glad that I’m sharing his wisdom with you.
His jacket that was hanging from a chair, Jak hooked over his shoulder, with his free hand he brushed a few crumbs from the table.
But flattery means nothing, that we all know, don’t we Agaat, your missis here also has nothing but good words, not so, about your service, and how she can depend on you, she tells it to all the neighbours’ wives, to her book club, no matter what she’s done to you in your life and how she treats you behind the scenes and all the things she suspects you of, hmmm? And you do your very best every day, don’t you, to show her how good you actually are, hmmm? Do you think you can convince her, my girl?
Jak, leave Agaat out of this, it has nothing to do with her, you said.
Jak struck himself against the forehead.
Oh dear, how could I ever make such a mistake?
When he resumed, it was softer, his eyes flickered to and fro between you and Agaat. He spoke rapidly.
But with the years the man ceased to trust his wife’s attentions. She started setting his teeth on edge. Teeth on edge, yes, finger in the sea anemone. Schlupp! Brrr! He knew that all her compliments were merely a plot to keep him with her, to get the spanner round the nut, as we say in the Overberg. And oh, the poor man, as luck would have it, he had been blessed by the good Lord with such a handy monkey-wrench. How does that poet of yours put it again, Milla? Why were we crucified into car mechanics? But that’s not the point. The point is: who else could siphon off his oil so expertly? But he knew that the siphoning was nothing other than hunger, and it froze him to the bone.
Pretty story, don’t you think? Aren’t you applauding yet? Anybody for film rights? Or an option on the material? For a learned case study? Jak made his voice deep and theatrical for the conclusion.
And so they lived. What could satisfy her hunger and thirst? His blood, his marrow, his soul? Was that what he had to give in exchange for her compliments? Compliments, yes, you heard aright. Not love? you ask, isn’t that what he wanted from her? Her love? Where then can the love be in this tale?
Jak cleared his throat, spoke in a sing-song voice, his hand to his side as if he were doing a folk dance, Oh no, no, no my Milla, no, self-love, I tell you, self-love, the malignant, the contagious kind, that unfortunately is what this tale is all about.
So I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear ladies. All that I know further is, the farmer got thin and his wife got sickly but they couldn’t do without each other.
Who would deliver them from their misery?
Their cattle?
Their stranger within their gates?
Their only-begotten son?
Their faithful maidservant, who worked for them?
To be continued, Jak said, and turned away to the front door.
Jak, wait, please, stay with me, let’s talk, it’s not true, you said, you can’t do this to me, Jak, don’t go. Jak, what’s to become of us?
His face was white and his eyes gleamed. You felt you as if you were going to faint. You clung to the edge of the table. You felt Agaat looking at you. Was there a trace of a smile on her mouth?
What’s to become of us? Jak echoed, he looked from side to side at you and Agaat. Is that what the two of you want to know? Well, all I can say is: Please be patient, your curiosity will be rewarrded. Otherwise, do use your imagination in the meantime, between the two of you you can calculate the precise degree of heat at which the earth will perish.
He went out and drove the bakkie out of the garage, drove into the night.
You stood on the stoep and watched him open the gate and close it again, first the white beam of the headlights and then the red glow of the brake-lights on his trouser legs. Would he have had it in his head by then already? He obviously had more in his head than you’d thought. You felt that he had plans. You felt that he was in resistance, you could see his desperation, from his body, from his eyes. You were shaky. Your heart was beating wildly. You told Agaat to mix you a sleeping-draught.