Marga Jordaan - English to Afrikaans translator. Translation services in Medical (general) - Afrikaans, English, Translating, Editing, Proofreading, Pharmacology, Nursing, Media, Skills Development, Education, Tourism
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Afrikaans to English: Die Wierookbrander
Sy naam is Vasek Matousek. Hy woon al dertig jaar in Suid-Afrika en het besluit om oud te word in Tulbagh, in die skoot van die Winterhoekberge.
Reg langs sy plaashuisie, lê sy werksplek – ’n ou kelder met ’n hoë hout plafon en vuuroond vir sy keramiek. Daar hang miniatuur-sweefstokartieste van die dak, ’n metaalfiguur met vlerke en ’n ander swewende een met vlerke toegevou onder die arm. “Dis ek, op pad huis toe,” sê hy. “Die eerste keer het ek vlerke nodig gehad, die tweede keer het ek genoeg selfvertroue gehad.” Ek aanskou die man voor my. Sybokhare krul om sy kop, klein gebeitelde spiertjies is oorgetrek met bruin rimpelleer en ’n los Alladin-broek hang tot op sy kaal voete. Ek wonder of hy nog kan vlieg.
Vrae oor sy land van herkoms ontbloot die ongelooflikste Tsjeggiese skatte uit ’n vervloë lewe. Met elke handvol vertellinge glinster Vasek se oë soos saffiere wat na jare se stof weer die son sien. Hy was ’n akrobaat, ’n akteur en ’n kunstenaar. Sy lewe was die gehoor, ’n lewende applous met staande toejuiging. Suid-Afrika is sy laaste buiging.
Vasek vertel van sy planne om Tulbagh te roer met ’n teaterstuk vir kinders. “Iets spesiaal vir die kinders,” glimlag hy en ek sien die hofnar wat gesiggies laat skater in sy alles-in- een-plaasteater-galery. “Repelsteeltjie leef nog,” dink ek grappenderwys aan ’n naam vir sy konsert.
“Kan ek vir jou koffie maak,” vra hy terloops, klaar besig om te maak. Ek antwoord hom skaars, daar is te veel dinge wat my aandag aftrek. Kleiledemate lê verstrooi op ’n uitstalrak, ander volledige figuurtjies bekyk my van bo, al laggende, of ingedagte. Meterlange skilderye met gemonteerde keramiekfigure vertel stories van ’n geheime lewe waar hofnarre grynslag, ’n gevleuelde reisiger oor ysberge sweef en geliefdes verstrengel raak in mekaar. Soos in ’n mal poppekasteater word ek meegesleur deur die karakters se stories van heimwee, lang reise, geluk, die liefde en komedie. Ek moes hom vra oor die hofnar – hy is orals. As jy jou draai, sit hy iewers en gryns. Vasek verduidelik: “Jy weet hy is die enigste een wat vir die koningin kan sê om in haar peetjie te vlieg.”
Nou verstaan ek ook. Elke beeldjie, elke kleigesiggie, elke skildery vang iets vas van die man hier voor my. Met sy 24-uur ateljee word skeppings gebore soos die inspirasie hom besoek in elke moontlik denkbare vorm. Vasek die huilende nar, die eensame kunstenaar, die akteur wat snags agter ’n toe slaapkamerdeur terugdink aan die eggo van ’n Tsjeggiese applous.
Hy loop saam met my deur sy werksplek-galery van die verlede. Kyk waarna ék kyk, neem elke beweging van my hand waar. Ek verlang saam met hom terug na Europa, voel die yswind van die berge in sy jong dae. “Ja,” vertel hy, “ Ek gaan elke ses maande terug. Dis die enigste manier om vir my verblyf hier te betaal.” Suid-Afrika is te jonk vir sy kuns, maar hier het hy sy hart gevind.
Die middag se oë het al begin skrefies trek toe ek haar met die uitloopslag raaksien. Half vrou, half man – ingedagte en nadenkend, maar tog so bewus van die aanskouer. Nog ’n verbloemde kloon van Vasek se psige. Sy het gesit met haar bene uitgestrek, enkels gekruis. Haar regterhand stut haar lyf en haar linkerhand is effens omhoog na vore, pols na buite gedraai soos ’n gebore hedonis, prinses of koningin. “Wie is sy?” vra ek dringend. “Sy is die wierookbrander,” kom die trotse antwoord. Hy wys my die gaatjie in haar linkerhand waar die wierook ingesteek word en die voue in haar roksoom waar die as moet val. Onder haar lyf is ’n langwerpige metaalboksie wat hy hippiejare gelede uit Parys saamgebring het – ’n silwer wierookboksie. “Dis net dit ... Ek het geen wierook nie,” kom dit nadenkend. Van al sy skeppings is sy die enigste met ’n prys: NFS in duidelike letters.
Daardie aand bel ek my ma. Sy is mal oor kuns, sy sal mal wees oor hom. Ek vertel van Tulbagh, die Tsjeg en die wierookbrander. My storie is ’n vervlegging van karakters en gebeure, van die sinistere en die boheemse, kleipoppe in koue, narre wat grynslag en reisigers met vlerke. My ma wil gaan.
’n Week voor haar verjaardag kan sy dit nie meer hou nie. “Neem vir hom wierook saam” pleit ek by haar. Ek gee vir haar wierook, sy vergeet dit by die huis. Voor sy uit Stellenbosch ry, onthou sy en stop by ’n hippie-winkel. Ek sou die aand hoor dit is die eerste ding wat hy doen – die wierook in haar hand steek: “Dit was so lank ... ” sê hy vir my ma.
Hulle het piekniek gehou, kaas en brood en wyn, gesels en gekuier tot halfagt die aand. Voor my ma daar weg is, sê sy vir hom: “Ek wil graag iets koop”. Op die vraag waarin sy sou belang stel, antwoord sy: “die wierookbrander”. “Nee, ek is nie gereed nie,” antwoord Vasek. My ma voel gemaklik: “Dis reg so, sê jy dan wat ek kan koop.” Vasek draai sy kop. Hy kyk verby my ma, en weer terug. Sy oë is vol trane. “Die wierookbrander,” antwoord hy. My ma keer, sê sy kan wag, sê sy verstaan. “Nee,” sê hy, “Ek moet na die heelal luister, ek het nog altyd. Dit is ’n jaar sedert ek wierook gebrand het. Vandag het jy wierook gebring. Dis tyd om haar te laat gaan.”
Sy staan nou op my ma se eetkamertafel. Daar is altyd wierook in haar hand en ek sou graag wou dink dat sy ook nog aan Vasek dink, soos die assies in haar roksoom val.
His name is Vasek Matousek. He has been living in South Africa for thirty years and decided to grow old in Tulbagh, in the lap of the Winterhoek Mountains.
Right next to his little farm house, is his workplace – an old cellar with a high wood ceiling and a kiln for his ceramics. Miniature trapeze artists hang from the roof, a metal figure with wings and another gliding with its wings folded under his arm.
“That’s me, on my way home,” he says. “The first time I needed wings, the second time I had enough self-confidence.” I look at the man in front of me. Curling Angora hair on his head, small, chiselled muscles covered with brown crinkly leather and loose-fitting Aladdin pants hanging to his bare feet. I wonder whether he can still fly.
Questions about his country of origin reveal the most amazing Czech treasures from a life long past. With every handful of tales Vasek’s eyes shimmer like sapphires glistening in the sun after years of being covered in dust. He was an acrobat, an actor and an artist. He lived for the audience, for applauses and standing ovations. South Africa is his last curtain-call.
Vasek tells of his plans to touch Tulbagh with a play for children. “Something special for the children,” he smiles and I see the court jester making young voices shriek with laughter in his all-in-one farm-theatre-gallery. “Rumpelstiltskin is still alive,” I jokingly think of a name for his concert
“Can I make you some coffee,” he asks perfunctorily, already busy making it. I barely answer him – there is too much vying for my attention. Clay limbs lie strewn on a display shelf, other complete figurines look down at me, laughing or lost in thought.
Paintings of a metre long, with mounted ceramic figures tell stories of a secret life where jesters grin, a winged traveller glides over mountains of ice and lovers are intertwined. Like in a crazy puppet show I am swept with through the characters’ stories of nostalgia, long travels, joy, love and comedy. I had to enquire about the jester – he is everywhere. Wherever you turn, he is there, grinning. Vasek explains: “You know he is the only one who can tell the queen to go to blazes.”
Now I understand. Every figure, every little clay face, every painting captures something of the man in front of me. In his 24-hour studio creations are born as and when inspiration fills him, in every form imaginable. Vasek is the crying clown, the lonely artist, the actor behind a closed bedroom door at night, hearing again the echo of Czeck applause.
He walks with me though his workplace-gallery of the past. Looks at what I am looking at, observes every movement of my hand. With him, I long for Europe, feel the bite of the wind from the mountains in his younger years. “Yes,” he tells me, “I return every six months. It’s the only way to pay my stay here.” South Africa is too young for his art, but here he found his heart.
The afternoon is almost gone when I see her on my way out. Half woman, half man – deep in thought and contemplative, but intensely aware of the onlooker. Another hidden clone of Vasek’s psyche. She sits with her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. Her right arm supports her body and her left is a little to the front and lifted, wrist turned to the outside like a born hedonist, princess or queen. “Who is she?” I ask urgently. “She is the incense burner,” the proud reply. He shows me the hole in her left hand where incense can be inserted and the folds in the seam of her dress where the ash will land. Beneath her body is a oblong metal box which he brought with him from Paris hippie years ago – a silver incense box. “That’s just it… I have no incense,” comes the reflective statement. Of all his creations, she is the only one with a price-tag: NFS in clear letters.
That evening I phone my mother. She is crazy about art and she’ll be crazy about him. I tell her of Tulbagh, the Czech and the incense burner. My story is an interlacement of characters and events, of the sinister and bohemian, clay puppets in cages, clowns grimacing and travellers with wings. My mother wants to go.
A week before her birthday she can wait no longer. “Take incense with for him,” I plead. I give her incense, she forgets it at home. Before she leaves Stellenbosch she remembers and stops at a hippie shop. That evening I hear that that was the first thing he did – putting the incense in her hand. “It has been so long…” he tells my mother.
They had a picnic, cheese and bread and wine. They talked until half past seven that night. Before my mother leaves, she says to him: “I very much want to buy something.” When asked what she would like, she answers: “the incense burner”. “No, I’m not ready yet,” answers Vasek. My mother is OK with that: “That’s fine. Then you tell me what I can buy.” Vasek turns his head. Looks past my mother and back again. His eyes are filled with tears. “The incense burner,” he answers. My mother objects, says she can wait, she understands. “No,” he says, “I have to obey the universe. I always have. It has been a year since I’ve burned incense. It’s time to let her go.”
Now she sits on my mother’s dining room table. There is always incense in her hand and I would like to believe that she still thinks of Vasek, when the ash drops into the folds in the seam of her dress.
Translation education Other - University of Johannesburg
Proactive, grammar-obsessive language practitioner with years of experience in the translation, editing and proof reading of texts in various fields, in English as well as Afrikaans. Excellent time management skills, self-driven and thrives on deadlines.
Keywords: Afrikaans, English, Translating, Editing, Proofreading, Pharmacology, Nursing, Media, Skills Development, Education, Tourism