Huia Short Stories 10 (15 page)

‘It's OK, little big man,' his uncle said to him. Reaching out with his arms now. His wide open arms and his sad smile.

Whata let his uncle's big arms help him down and held on tight to his hand as they walked together, away from the ute and towards the dark rows of stones.

The Dance

Frazer Rangihuna

‘Happy eightieth Tabby,' I huff into my crochet, waiting for this birthday party I never wanted. They'd believe me if I said I was poorly, at
my
age, but I've left it too late. I told my daughter Hokimate I didn't need anyone to remind me how close I am to either Te Rerenga Wairua or Gehenna.

She'd just said, ‘You're only as old as the man you feel, Māmā!' Well, the last man I felt was her dead father, so she'll have to forgive me for not breaking into waiata over it. I can just imagine what the guests will say, too. ‘Oh Tabby, you never seem to age – what's your secret?' I could share the beauty tip my grandmother had given me – to wash your face in upward strokes – but what they're really asking an old person for is wit or wisdom. And with the speed of my reply, they could be fooled into believing it comes naturally to me. But it hasn't, and it doesn't. It's only because I've had more time to pore over everything, and I'm at peace with most things – even passing over.

Maybe Hokimate, on the other hand, is wishing me a slow death? I often ask her, ‘Where will you be in twenty years, darling?', so she'll think where
I'll
be, but she never bites. Apparently, we'll move back to the old homestead in Rua. My bedroom will open out on to a stream, where she'll catch me fresh eel for breakfast every day. And for all its fickleness as a plan, it's good to know what happiness would be for her. So I'm not dying any faster at least, wondering.

I look up from my lap, then my fingers move to the beauty spot above my lips. I'm taken back to the past. Those days when my beauty agreed with everyone. How I loved to watch Uncle Tutu smile at his past – when he took my hand and said, ‘You remind me of your Aunty Tai when she was young, sweetheart. Will you allow an old fool a dance sometime?'

He had been rattled – told us prisoner-of-war stories of urine that turned into ice before it eddied around the bottom of a metal bucket, and grizzly German shepherds prowling barbed-wire fences. One time, when river stones were being tipped out of a trailer for a hāngi, he tackled the first person he saw, then wriggled on top of him, screaming ‘Stay down! They'll see you! Stay down!' He was never fully with us, poor Tutu. Always humming ‘Māori Battalion march to victory' cheerily in his throat, which I believed was a tribute to his fallen brothers, now sleeping under soft duvets of ryegrass. The last time I saw him alive was at a formal held at our marae that everyone who was anyone attended.

Under the party lights, I had watched girls being approached by boys from every angle like silvereyes on a tree fuchsia.

Someone touched my shoulder. It was Uncle Tutu and a gangly boy with boyfriend potential, scratching himself in a wool suit. He was very handsome, with his hair slicked cleanly away from the part, a Māori nose and ochre eyes.

‘I'm still waiting for that dance, Tabitha', said Uncle Tutu. ‘But this boy asked if he could go first.'

‘Uncle – I didn't,' the boy started, then stopped at an elbow in the ribs.

He offered me his hand. ‘Kia ora – I'm Tui. May I, Tabitha?'

I took his clammy hand, felt the fine hairs on my forearms excite as he led me to the dance floor in a stream of minted hair oil and musk. As he pinched the chiffon at my waist, we began to dance.

‘Sorry about this, Tabitha – Uncle Tutu's always trying to play Cupid. Says he's seen corpses trying harder to look alive than me.'

I laughed. ‘It's fine, Tui, I love to dance. Just don't step on my toes, because I'm not dressed for a jive.'

He winked. ‘It's a deal.'

We waltzed nervously through ‘My Funny Valentine' and ‘Lili Marlene'. By the time ‘Blue Smoke' began to play, Tui had stopped counting steps, and I could feel his natural rhythm. Every now and then our eyes would meet before his gaze fell off the side of my face, but I wasn't fussed.

‘This song makes me feel like I'm on a beach in Hawaii – when I'm not listening to the words, anyway,' he said, as we moved together in a gentle waewae takahia.

‘Yes – I don't even want to think how painful it must have been to farewell your loved ones, knowing you might never be back.'

He gripped my hand a bit tighter. ‘It'd be horrible. But it's telling us something.'

An answer hummed in my throat.

‘Relax, Tabitha. I mean
all
of us.' He gave me a weak smile, then gazed over to Uncle Tutu in a khaki suit and wearing his war medals. He looked comfortable among swirls of smoke and flashing lights.

Then Tui stood still, and I felt dizzy. The people around us blurred into colours. ‘Tabitha – can I …'

‘Can you what, Tui?'

WhiIe I waited for his answer, I felt an unfriendly poke at my collarbone. Queenie Mōrehu stood there, big-boned, big-breasted, under a millefeuille of opal. My first cousin, whose mother married a man from up north, bringing flat noses and big lips into our bloodline.

‘Can I cut in?' she asked – no, demanded.

Tui itched in his suit again. I heard a long ‘um' behind his lips. ‘Uh, Queenie, I'm dancing with Tabitha; we're not finished yet.'

She cracked a knuckle. ‘Well, you owe me, Tui-tuia. I waited for you all day on Saturday!'

‘No, you said you'd be waiting for me. I told you I had a rugby game. Not my fault you've got no ears.'

‘Well, you can make up for it now, Tui-tuia', she said, then gave me a shoo-fly look. ‘He's mine now, Tabby. Go and dance with one of those boys drooling over you.'

It was all true, too. He was hers a month later, but I hadn't started to hate her, yet. No, it was still a test of tolerance between us – like pretending you didn't mean for an unwanted visitor to catch you gazing at your watch. Besides, I was trying to figure out what these strange feelings were.

Of course Queenie made sure I didn't feature in the wedding.

I remember Nanny Maude, Hokimate's namesake, patting a chair next to her, waiting for me to sit down. She groaned disapproval under her breath, to a domino run of eye-rolling down the pew. ‘Good grief, bub, tie a rope around that one and we can all go for a blimp ride!'

She watched my jaw drop.

‘Auf, as if you weren't thinking the same'.

Tui didn't look happy. He just stared into hundreds of thought bubbles in the baptismal font next to him. His eyes stayed dull when Queenie walked towards him, shinier than her taffeta gown.

‘That would be a love-me-not,' said Nanny as she pulled a petal off her corsage. ‘Poor man; I suppose Tutu's death made him panic – he thought he'd die alone.' She pushed a handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Did you know anything about the rumour going around, bub?'

I shook my head.

‘Well, apparently, Tui told your Nanny Mihinui that he has deep feelings for you. Hell, but no one would dare to get close enough to ask her if it was true.'

I said nothing. Just turned the shock away with my face.

Deep
feelings?
Then why didn't he tell me?

Queenie's back left me a poor view, but I could see Tui's face hover over her shoulder, and our eyes locked.

‘For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,' he said.

Now
, I'm squashing this crochet of flowers in my fist, thinking
hindsight is a fine thing, isn't it?
The afternoon sun has hit the back of the curtains, turning me into Albert's blushing bride. He could never win – being Pākehā
and
a Christian. But he withstood everything they threw at him. Nannies tiptoed on the steps of the paepae to make sure they were always above him, and men held their breath during the hongi. My Nanny Mihinui had even woven me a harakeke chastity belt for a wedding gift. But obviously I never used it. If I did, then maybe I'd be able to hide under my blankets all day. Until it was all over.

Suddenly the door flings open with the smell of chocolate and burning wax. In marches my grandson, singing, ‘Why was she born so beau-ti-ful?'

‘Why was she born at – Happy birthday, Māmā!' shouts Hokimate.

I know why I was born so beautiful – it's a curse of half-caste children. I've met many expectant mothers who've rubbed their crystal ball bellies, hoping to see olive skin and a father's green eyes. If I had been born one or the other, living in two worlds at the same time wouldn't have been so difficult. ‘Haumi e, hui e' one minute, ‘hallowed be thy name' the next. I was mana whenua any day of the week, except for Sundays – when we were all wretched sinners.

‘What's it like being eighty, Nan?'

I point at Jesus hammered to the wall. ‘He saved the whole world by the time he was in his thirties, and all I've done is outlive him. No great feat, when a twenty-year-old bitch is 140 in human years.'

Hokimate's sigh moves the candle flames. ‘Auf, that's pōrangi talk, Māmā. You've plenty to be proud of. Now make a wish and blow out these candles, please. My chest is sweating bullets from the heat!'

Just who am I bowing my head to when I'm making a wish? I wonder. If it's to show subservience to anyone, I want no part of it. Been there, worn the head covering.

So I tell her eyes, ‘The only thing I wish is for my daughter to find a nice man, who shares an ancestor and blesses me with another grandchild – please.'

‘Auf Māmā, you weren't spose' to say it out loud!'

‘Then how were you supposed to know what I wished for? What an old woman wishes for.'

‘OK then, so how much longer do I have to wait for Kelvin Davis to come knocking down my door?'

‘Well, I know this lovely couple in Waipuk. Hikurangi maunga, of course. They have a handsome boy, about your age. I could give them a call?'

Hoki frowns. ‘Hika, so he's fifty and still living with his parents?'

‘He has his own en suite.'

She pulls a face, as if she's about to sneeze. ‘And if he's so handsome, why isn't he married yet?'

‘He's slightly … oh, what's the politically correct word?'

‘For what?'

‘Retarded.'

I hear the splat of an open hand to her chest. ‘That'll be the bloody day, Māmā! Anyway, the guests have arrived. Come on, girl.'

Out on the driveway, I have to shield my eyes to see through heatwaves snaking off the asphalt. There's Queenie, in her polka-dot muumuu, and mothers bringing their children to heel by their shirt tails. A car slows down to a crawl, with a load of faces like pot stickers thrown at the windows. It's all very strange. No one is moving forward, all still waewae tapu. This is hardly a marae, but I'm getting the same feeling – that silence means someone should be doing something.

But I know it's all supposed to begin with the cries of two women.

‘Hika, are these ones waiting for your ninetieth, Māmā? Surely they don't want to be welcomed on?'

‘I'd say they do, Hoki.'

‘Auf, blimmin' hōhā! Hika, and I thought Pākehā were the worst for dial-a-pōwhiri!' she scoffs, and kicks off her heels. Mouth open, she tries to bring up a wail. I push a finger against her lips.

‘Hoki, I've got this,' I say, thinking she has nothing to cry about.

Across the way, it seems that Queenie has finally reached kāea status. Not to the centre right of me any more, as she was accustomed to being in our kapa haka years. I've barely opened my mouth when Queenie chants over me, so loudly a neighbour's peeved face appears in the window, then slams it shut. So much for waiting her turn – but that's never stopped her before. She was the first to menstruate, to have children. So how should I – how should anyone reply to someone shouting like this?

Queenie is approaching too boldly; not with the measured steps of manuhiri. She's pushed her way in front of Tui. Showing no respect for him trying to protect her as a bearer of a womb. No, it's all exposed and ugly.

I look at her, and I still don't know why Tui wasn't enough for her. Why did she choose my priest? My husband?

That's why I hate tui (the bird, that is). They remind me of what I had married. With his fancy black suit and white collar. Everyone stopped in their tracks to be taken in by his beautiful song, and who knows how many sticky flowers he had plunged his beak into? Is it only me who noticed his bullying tactics, or how chaotic he looked in full flight?

‘I'm glowing you say? It's the radiance of Christ.'

‘Oh, that black hair? I was consoling a crying child.'

‘I must work the works of Him who sends me while it's day – but I'll be home late.'

My eyes inflate with venom, staring down at this dress I want to rip from my body, because no one should be angry wearing yellow primrose. I shake my hair loose, and plant my feet firmly on the earth. Our arms flail in a game of hei tama tū tama, but no one is winning – our actions are always at odds. I can feel her voice is weakening though; only random words the tone of a scream now. I look for a motivating image behind my eyelids, then open them again to Queenie, in a heap at my feet.

I pull out a white handkerchief from my pocket, then throw it into the air. My eyes collide with Tui's as the flimsy cloth hovers between us, guiding it to our feet with a slow nod.

I raise my hands in front of me, flick at the air.

‘Hī aue hī,' I whisper.

I Must Warn You

Terence Rissetto

Chapter Three: Kahla

He walked into the dimly lit but welcoming café and made his way through the crowded tables to an empty one in the corner, setting down his pack and gear. Sitting with his back to the wall, he finally allowed himself to relax. The café patrons were obviously local groups and families engaged in excited chatter and laughter, with some loud shrieks coming from a group of Americans in the far corner. The sound of spoken English was comforting, although the accent was irritating.

The waitress spoke little English, but with a bit of pointing and miming, he managed to secure a large salad with fish, olives, bread and olive oil dip, together with a large ball of buffalo mozzarella and a bottle of indeterminate but softly smooth red wine.

Halfway through the meal he noticed a beautifully exotic woman with long black hair tied back, dressed in a business suit, who was approaching each of the tables in turn, offering to take photos and leaving a card whether she was successful or not.

He watched her work the room, chatting easily with each group, demure with the families, flirtatious with the Americans, complimentary and laughing with the women. She noticed him looking at her and engaged more fervently with the customers, laughing louder and touching some of them warmly before sneaking a glance in his direction. He stopped eating and picked up a second glass of wine, settling back against the wall and staring at her openly. He winked at her whenever he caught her eye and poked his tongue out at her whenever he got the chance. She blushed and pretended to ignore him.

Finally, he was the only one left in the room whom she had not approached. He was in the corner, so there was nowhere left for her to go. He smiled at her and raised his glass and eyebrows, nodding his head in acknowledgement as she came towards him.

‘
Enchanté
, kia ora,' he said. ‘May I say, you are very beautiful and obviously very talented. You did that very well. I'm very impressed.'

She grimaced slightly and shook her hair from her eyes.

‘You American?' Her voice was guarded but interested. The French accent made the enquiry very alluring and mysterious.

‘Sort of but not really. Kiwi,' he offered.

‘Kiwi? You want a picture or not?' She asked half diffidently, half irritated.

‘Of you?
Mais, oui. Certainement
.'

‘Not of me. I take one of you!'

He laughed. ‘
Vous est une petite morte, ma fille
.'

‘Your French is very good, Kiwi. You just called me an orgasm.
Stupide
!' She hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

‘I did not call you an orgasm,
stupide
– you're obviously too smart for that – and I wouldn't call you a
stupide
orgasm because I have just fallen in love with you. I would never insult such a beautiful woman as yourself.'

She shook her head in apparent disgust and went to move away.

‘Pardon,' he said. ‘My apologies, I have been away from women a long time. You can take my picture on the condition that you sit down with me and have a glass of wine and talk to me. I will pay you for your time as well.'

‘Bastard! I am not a prostitute!'

Her voice carried to the other diners who looked around at them. He held up both hands to show he was unarmed.

‘No, but I am. I've just got out of prison after a long time, just arrived in your beautiful city and I would like to take pictures of you.'

‘Of me?
Pourquoi
, why?'

He motioned for her to sit down. Once she had done so, after a slight hesitation, and a glass of wine had been placed in front of her by the waitress, he continued.

‘Because for a long time all I took photos of were cemeteries and graves, and then I lived in prison with the living dead, and now I want to be among the living and take photos of beautiful women.'

He noticed her take a sip of wine and briefly smile at the compliment.

‘Naked, of course.'

She smiled at him again, shaking her head ruefully. Up close, she was even more beautiful than from afar. She had taken her hair out and swept it back over her shoulders before bending forward to cut off a large chunk of the mozzarella. She put it in a mouth framed by firm lips and looked at him mischievously with startlingly green, intelligent eyes.

‘My name's Terris,' he offered.

‘Mines's Kahla.'

‘Kali?'

‘No Kahla, the dark one. You know Kali? The goddess?'

‘The Thuggee, yes but I knew a Kali once in another life. You married?'

‘I must warn you, Kiwi, I'm gay,' she said between mouthfuls, looking at him shrewdly.

‘That's all right, I'm gay too.'

‘I'm gay, Kiwi, so don't waste your time.'

‘I'm happy too,' he protested.

‘No, I mean I'm really gay,' she persisted.

‘Thanks. On second thoughts, you're right, I hate really happy people.'

‘No, I mean I'm gay. I don't sleep with men.'

‘That's OK, I don't either.'

‘I like women.'

‘That's OK, I do too. We'll get along fine.'

‘I'm in a relationship with a woman.'

‘You've got me there, unless women warders count? You live with this woman?'

‘No.' She sounded regretful.

‘Do you see her often?'

‘No, she's married.'

‘I sense a dilemma. How long have you been seeing her?'

‘We've been friends for a few years and just recently it's become serious.'

‘Emotional attachment?'

‘Yes,' she smiled at the thought.

‘Daddy issues or mummy?'

‘Look, funny guy, I'm only into women.'

‘Yeah, so am I. Didn't we just have this conversation? Can we go somewhere else and continue this? I'm very aroused. But I don't have anywhere to stay tonight.'

That stopped her. She looked at him dumbfounded.

‘Pardon?'

‘I'm kidding. But you are very beautiful, you know, underneath all your heterophobia.'

‘Beauty's on the outside,' she snorted derisively. ‘What about the inside? Women have inner beauty, you know. That's why I prefer being with them.'

‘Are you giving me permission to check out your inside? I have just the tool if you can show me the way in.' He gave his most innocent smile.

She shook her head in disbelief and looked at his face and over at his pack and gear.

‘Yes, I do think you are a tool. Where did you say you were from again? You look kinda scary, but I think it's all bluff.'

‘Aotearoa.
Nouvelle-Zélande
.'

‘
Nouvelle-Zélande
? It's a beautiful place. I don't know why I'm doing this, but you can stay the night at my apartment
. But make sure you keep your hands to yourself.'

‘I have to, they're attached to my arms. Shall I buy some more wine to take away with us? Otherwise I have some duty-free cognac.'

‘Cognac? You'll be drinking that by yourself. Cognac doesn't agree with me. I do things I regret.'

‘I've only got two bottles. Will that be enough regrets?'

‘No. I'm pretty sure I have some wine at home.'

They stood up, and she waited while he paid the bill and gave a generous tip to soothe the waitress's nerves. He picked up his bags and handed Kahla his camera to carry. Outside, the air was warm and welcoming. She grabbed his arm and walked down the street with her arm through his.

‘Tell me what it was like in prison, macho macho man.'

‘Shocking, horrible, disgusting.'

‘Because of the other men?'

‘No. The lack of women.'

She laughed.

‘What were you in for?'

‘Stupidity.'

‘Did you see anyone killed?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you ever kill anyone? There's something dangerous under that puppy-dog smile of yours.'

‘Yes.'

‘Really? Tell me about it.' She tightened her grip on his arm excitedly. He abruptly stopped walking and turned to look her in the eyes, his face hardening.

‘Never ask me that question again, not even in jest.
Comprenez-vous
?'

‘I'm sorry,' she stammered, avoiding his eyes. ‘I didn't mean to …'

‘It's OK,' he laughed, taking her arm again and starting to walk, ‘I was lying.'

‘About killing someone?' She asked cautiously, sneaking a glance up at his face.

‘No.'

‘Oh, you're impossible,' she exclaimed, punching him on his arm in exasperation.

‘No, dear, I'm possible. And incredibly good-looking.'

She laughed and lent her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelt nice. In fact, the whole woman of her smelt and felt nice. There was a strength about her that he liked. It was a good start.

They walked for ten minutes together in silence, lost in thought and unconsciously adjusting the rhythm of their bodies to suit each other's, until they came to a doorway set into the stone of one of the surrounding buildings. She lifted her head off his shoulder and detached herself from him so that she could find the door key.

The door opened with the familiar ancient creak and rattle of a cell door. He followed her inside a small hallway and up several steps to a landing where she used another key to open a wider, more modern door. There was a small plaque attached to the wall outside that read:

Les Fleurs du Mal

Studio de Photographie

Pour Les Femmes

Inside, there was another small hallway leading to several steps, and at the top of them, he found himself in a spacious room with high ceilings, reminiscent of some of the New York lofts he had seen while visiting friends when he had first gone to America.

The right end of the room had a mezzanine floor with a small staircase leading up to it. Underneath this was the kitchen, modern and well-appointed, and a dining area where pride of place was given to a large rustic cottage table with nine chairs. To one side of that was a large fireplace. The other end of the room was given over to various sofas, a home theatre set-up with a digital projector, studio lights, screens, chairs and camera equipment.

The street lights shone through a row of windows high in the wall almost parallel to the mezzanine at the other end. The walls were covered with artwork and photographs, including portraits and family groups. Several of the frames held what appeared to be certificates of some kind. The room had a lovely warmth about it, and he felt at home instantly.

There were several other doors leading off the main room. One looked to be a bedroom, one a bathroom, beside that a darkroom, and beside that an office of some sort, with several computers in it as well as shelves of document boxes. Along most of one wall in the main room were several bookcases loaded down with art books, and legal, feminist and sapphic dialectics. Kahla turned on several of the lamps before turning off the main lights.

‘Put your bags over there.' She indicated one of the sofas. ‘Do you mind if I make something to eat? I'll just get out of these clothes first. My bedroom's upstairs – you can sleep in the spare room in there. I've got my own bathroom, so feel free to use the one over here. Do you mind lighting a fire?'

By the time she came down there was a roaring fire, and he was immersed in one of her photography books – Clarence John Laughlin. She did not disturb him as she set about making a meal. When she called him to the table, he saw that she was wearing jeans and a man's shirt and had obviously showered.

‘My work clothes,' she explained. ‘Oh, damn, I don't have any wine left after all.'

‘Never mind, try some cognac. I promise not to get you drunk, serious.'

He rummaged in his bag and pulled out the bottle Remy had given him as a present. As he opened the cardboard box and pulled the bottle out, a small plastic bag fell on the floor. Reaching down, he saw it was a thick wad of US banknotes. There was a note attached. It said ‘Always, Remy'.

‘Who's Remy? Your boyfriend? That's a lot of money.'

‘He's a friend. He owes me.'

‘Tell me.' She seemed genuinely interested.

‘Maybe. If you have a drink or three with me.' He opened the cognac and filled two wine glasses with its dark molten colour.

‘After we eat,' she nodded, taking one of the glasses and sniffing the contents. ‘
Salut!
'

‘Blood!' He toasted in return, taking a large sip and feeling its honey warmth.

The meal was magical though he didn't know what he was eating. The combination of food, cognac, warm fire and the mystery and fire of the woman opposite relaxed him. She was good company. He found himself telling her almost everything: Jennie and her father, Kali, his grandmother, drugs, prison. She looked at him shrewdly.

‘You're looking for a sympathy fuck, aren't you?'

The question and its sudden vulgarity came out of the blue. He'd been enjoying her company, two humans bonding. Humanity hadn't had much to do with his life over the last few years.

‘Are you offering?' he replied cheekily.

She smiled and shook her head so that her hair fell over her eyes and he couldn't read what was in them.

‘How about a charity one then?' he asked.

‘You don't need charity, young man, not with all that money your boyfriend gave you,' she retorted.

‘Oh right. OK, I'll pay you then. How much?' he said, pretending to be businesslike.

‘I don't like men. I told you that.'

‘Yes, but I'm not a man, I'm a poor ex-prisoner who's had a wretched life and needs a friend, one without a penis. Oh, hell. You've probably got one haven't you? Made of hard rubber and a leather belt. Tie one on has a different meaning with you.'