‘And the ones that get bought – who buys those? I mean, who decides for the library?’
‘I do. And I take suggestions as well, based on what people around here would like to read.’
‘I see and … do you have anything … diverse.’ There was really no need to whisper.
‘You mean black?’
‘Aggie.’
‘We have a special section. In the corner over there.’
Marion nodded. She was picturing Hortensia being sent to a corner for the authors she preferred.
An old woman and a little boy came through the swing door. She had a cane and the boy dragged his school bag behind him, like a dog on a leash.
‘Hello,’ Agatha greeted them and they walked past the counter to the children’s section. ‘You were saying, Marion?’
‘Research. The historic materials. Remember I mentioned I’d come through … for the Beulah business. I thought I better get on with it.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s nice to have some interest. I stumbled on the materials when I took over and tried my best to sort them out.’
Agatha seemed excited. She rose off her chair to come around the counter. She had the walk of a heavier person, her steps suggesting a weight her bones didn’t carry. She put a hand to Marion’s arm by way of leading her.
They walked through the main room of the library, with its runs of benches and a few reading alcoves with dormer windows. The back room, a large storeroom, smelt of dank and mould. It was dark despite it being a bright day outside. There were two high square windows, but apart from that no natural light got in. One desk and a narrow chair waited for Marion.
‘You can sit here. Some are in files and some of the stuff is back there still in boxes. Wait.’ Agatha’s tone was hushed.
Marion pulled the chair out and balanced her weight on it. Agatha shuffled towards an arrangement of bookshelves and sealed boxes.
‘I hardly ever come here any more,’ Agatha said, breathless with pulling files off the shelf. She set them on the desk. ‘Careful,’ she said catching Marion’s eyes. And then she left.
Marion shook her head. Agatha was known for being dotty, an odd sort. The files left a film of dust on the tips of Marion’s fingers and her eyes watered from it.
Beulah’s dates – the deaths of the babies – matched the documents Agatha had produced. There was no mention of a Jude, but there was a pile of medical records as well as death certificates. Marion leafed through and her fingers remained light, unaffected, until she realised she was leafing through pages documenting the death of children – so many. Annamarie’s children, if Beulah was to be believed, could be amongst these. Marion felt ashamed. A woman wanted to perform a ritual ceremony, fulfil her grandmother’s last wish, and here she was fingering through history with no purpose. She wasn’t here to corroborate Beulah’s story – she didn’t care enough to – and she wasn’t here to refute it, either. Ludmilla had wanted her to sniff around, find some reason why the Samsodiens shouldn’t be granted land in Katterijn. Marion suddenly felt tired, unfit for the tesk.
In another pile of documents there were some maps, hand-drawn and labelled in what must have been Dutch. A file of just numbers, some kind of ledger. Another with names, with the odd sheet of paper in Arabic script. At the bottom of the pile were a series of drawings. There was a sketch of Katterijn vlei. A diagrammatic map of the whole neighbourhood with some of the buildings labelled, in English this time. Marion’s eye searched for Katterijn Avenue; there was No. 10 on that stretch – the original manor house, which had burned down. There was the post office which used to be a barn, the Katterijn well that City Council wanted to reinstate as a monument; and there must be the library, except it was labelled as the slave quarters for one Van der Biljt farm. How many incarnations could one building have? There was a series of maps showing the topography and another with all the trees numbered. There was a moth-eaten map of the Koppie, but it wasn’t labelled the Koppie. Almost three hectares of farmland that ran down the hill and abutted the Vineyards. There was a page with names, the script unclear, smudged. Marion read through some sentences at the bottom. Her teeth came together in her mouth and she tasted something unpleasant at the back of her throat. There were sketches of the different contraptions, straps and turning wheels. In a neat hand someone had explained how far to turn the handle before the first bits of bone would start to break. She folded the map over, annoyed that her hands were shaking.
Back at the front desk, Marion couldn’t find a voice to bid Agatha goodbye in.
‘Got all you want – information, I mean? Not taking out anything, I see.’
Marion didn’t move. She fixed her stare at the cross that hung from Agatha’s neck – silver, too large and trendy-looking for a woman like Agatha. She turned to leave.