I've Been Thinking About You, Sister

2

I took a break from writing the story.

See what I mean about its essentialist nature? I recalled a meeting I had with the great English- Caribbean writer V. S. Naipaul when he visited Wellington in the 1970s. The poor man had been taken out for ‘a drive’ and suffered an over-enthusiastic seven-hour odyssey to Palmerston North and back. That evening, I joined him at a local PEN dinner where Professor Beeby, a wonderful raconteur, prefaced every comment to him with phrases like, ‘When I was in India …’ or ‘When I spoke to Nehru about the partition with Pakistan …’ or ‘When I spoke to Mrs Gandhi in Paris.’ Attempting to pull me into the conversation, Professor Beeby said to Mr Naipaul, ‘Of course we have a young Maori writer here whose work reminds me very much of your own first collection, Miguel Street.’ Mr Naipaul’s response was to give me a somewhat acidic look, sigh, and say, ‘Oh, he’ll have to do much better than that.’

I remembered with gloom how critics of my early work had pounced on its simplicity and pronounced that it was the literary equivalent of naīve paintings done by unsophisticated native artists: bold colours, representations of village life, but no subtlety — and where was the subtext? The critics seemed to be looking for somebody else; some Maori writer who was aware of literary theory, whose work they could fit into a more refined aesthetic and theoretical model — of cultural displacement, perhaps, directly concerned with the economic and political fabric of cultural existence, or with the racialised discourses of apartheid or colonialism — who would affirm the indigenous voice within the long-standing western European cultural anxieties to do with modernist texts. They wanted literature that operated on a more complex national, political, aesthetic, linguistic and cognitive level, contesting the language and discursive conventions that had historically been instruments ensuring that ‘the Other’ was kept subordinate.

Although I was Maori, I had the suspicion that ultimately the critics wanted that other writer to undo the discursive crime against Africa and to trace a genealogy through Foucault, Barthes and the later Blanchot to a reading — albeit from the South Pacific — of the upheavals in French literary culture precipitated by the anticolonial struggle in Algeria and by the events of May 1968.

Instead, they got me. That other writer must have got delayed when old lady Muse swung by in her Peugeot and mistakenly picked me up instead. Did she ever lose on the deal. She opened the door to sweet, stupid, lyrically voiced me, writing from the heart and not from the intellect, overabundant when I should have been minimalist, without any of those traits that critics wanted to see — particularly cynicism or pessimism.

You get what you get.

According to cousin Clarrie, the trip to Buenos Aires went very smoothly. She, Chad and Auntie Taina met Mum and Dad’s flight in Auckland.

‘Hello Uncle Tom,’ Clarrie smiled at Dad. ‘What flash white trainers you have. Auntie Aroha? Mum’s just over there with the suitcases.’ Mum was glad to have Auntie Taina’s company; they had been close for all the years since they became sisters-in-law. They chatted on the bus to the international terminal about whanau, who had died, who had married, who had had children, their own hopeless kids and thank goodness for the compensation of lovely grandchildren. When the bus arrived, Dad was delighted to see that a group of strapping young rugby players were on the same flight. Just his chance to let them know how terrific he had been as a left winger.

Dad has always loved talking to strangers. He loves to tell them about his tribe, his big family of brothers and sisters, his girlfriends (when Mum isn’t listening), his children, the farm, his exploits as a top shearer, how he almost became an All Black, how he could have been a world champion wrestler, and so on. Once he gets started he is difficult to stop — and on the flight he had a group of eager young boys who were trapped and couldn’t escape. They were polite and kept nodding their heads at his stories — which only encouraged him.

Clarrie told me later, ‘Don’t be so critical of your father! He’s just lovely! A real patriarch! Young boys love to hear your father telling about his life and giving them advice on what to do if the girl you like doesn’t like you back — even if it’s, well, somewhat old-fashioned and past its use-by date.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘The difference is, of course, that strangers have never heard Dad’s stories before, whereas us kids have heard them again and again. And as for Dad’s advice — well, if I listened to it, I would still be a virgin.’

But to strangers like the rugby boys, Dad’s stories came out fresh, lively, splendid epics of trials that had been faced and triumphs accomplished against all odds. This was why people loved our father: he was such a terrific storyteller and a real spellbinder. By the time the plane landed in Buenos Aires, Dad had made many friends and received several invitations to come and visit.

‘Thank you,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll think about it.’ This was her usual reply whenever Dad received such invitations. It was much better than saying yes or no. People liked to think there was the possibility of a maybe.

My mother had strict instructions to call home at each leg of the journey so that the family could rest easy, they had survived another day. Somewhat grumpily she telephoned from a hotel close to Buenos Aires airport.

‘The eagles have landed,’ Mum said, ‘and, yes, your father is still hobbling along after me on his walking stick, so I haven’t been able to give him the slip — pity.’ I soon realised why she was grumpy when she gave me what-for. ‘And I have a bone to pick with you, son! You have to get Clarrie, Chad and Taina off our case. They’ve made arrangements for your father and me to be met at the airport in Paris by one of Chad’s old Vietnam veterans mates, who has plans to take us to dinner. But I’ve made bookings for us to see the Folies Bergère.’

I wasn’t listening to her. I was more alarmed at what I could hear in the background: screams, yells, lots of laughter, motorbikes revving up … and then, over her words, were those gunshots? ‘What the heck’s all the commotion?’ I asked.

‘When I told Donald to book us into cheap accommodation,’ Mum explained, ‘I didn’t expect he would put us somewhere we might get murdered in our beds. The taxi driver didn’t even want to bring us here. But Clarrie and Chad have barricaded the door and rung the rugby boys we met on the plane. We are expecting the football cavalry to arrive any minute.’

Of course, that was the kind of news guaranteed to keep me awake all night worrying about my parents. But Clarrie rang me the next morning from the airport to tell me that they had just put Mum and Dad on the plane to Barcelona. Clarrie sounded tired and strained.

‘What kind of hotel were you staying at?’ I asked.

‘Is that what it was?’ Clarrie answered. ‘You don’t want to know, cuz. Do they have Mafia in South America? Whatever was going down, your poor mum and dad were in the middle of it. You owe me big time.’

However, my relief was shortlived when Mum failed to telephone in from Barcelona. And then I received a call from Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris, from Chad’s friend, who introduced himself as Addison. ‘Oh, hi ya,’ he drawled. ‘Say, I’ve been waiting for your folks at customs but we must have missed each other. Should I call the police?’

‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I am sure they are okay.’ Yeah, right. My mind was filled with visions of them being kidnapped by French thugs, robbed of their money and their bodies thrown into the River Seine.

Two hours later, Dad phoned. ‘Your mother is getting all dressed up to take me out on the town,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you phone me from Barcelona?’ I screamed. ‘And why didn’t you meet up with Addison at the airport?’

‘Were we supposed to telephone you from Barcelona?’ Dad answered. ‘And who’s Addison?’

Mum took the telephone from Dad. ‘We gave him the slip,’ she said. ‘As soon as I saw a man dressed like Rambo holding up a sign with our names on it, I took Dad off in the opposite direction. Otherwise we’d never be able to get to you-know-where.’

‘How did you find your hotel?’ I asked. Dad only had a smattering of French, learnt when he was a schoolboy in the 1920s, and I couldn’t imagine how that would enable them to negotiate the horrors of the Metro, not to mention being prey to every pickpocket, pimp and prostitute as they trundled their bags through the streets — and any thief after Dad’s white trainers.

‘Oh, you know your father,’ Mum answered. ‘Talks to anybody. On the plane he got into a conversation with three boys who were backpacking through Europe and he ended up playing cards with them. Poker, the naughty man. How many matchsticks did you win, dear? Anyhow, they offered to escort us to this place; at least this one has locks on the door. But we can’t stop, son, otherwise we’ll be late for the show. I’ll phone you when we get back.’

Two months later, I received a postcard from the three boys:

The three boys weren’t the only ones to fall in love with Dad. When he and Mum arrived at the Folies Bergère, the maître d’ was entranced by their formality and elegance. Dad was wearing his black suit. The jacket is a perfect fit, but it doesn’t do to look too closely at his trousers, as he usually cuts the waistband to give some slack so that his stomach can fit in. Mum was wearing her blue sequined dress and lovely cape of kiwi feathers. They were seated at a table right at the front. The programme they brought home after their trip has the scrawled signatures of Lolo, Dodo, Jou-jou, Frou-frou, Clou-clou, Margot and Valencienne, so obviously Dad was a hit with the girls, too. Apparently he was so thrilled by the show that he got up at the end and did a haka.

‘I wish your father would just clap like ordinary people,’ Mum said on the telephone when she checked in with me. ‘But your father became … well … somewhat excited. You’d think he’d never seen bare breasts before.’

‘Or bare anything,’ I heard Dad grumble in the background, referring to my mother’s legendary modesty.

‘Enough of that,’ Mum reproved him. ‘Our big day tomorrow, Dad. No funny business tonight.’ Then she remembered I was still on the phone. ‘You still there, son? I better hang up now. Dad and I have to get up very early to catch the plane to Tunisia. Don’t worry about us. Love you.’

My mother was not going to leave anything to chance, particularly seeing her beloved brother who, many years ago, always kept the last waltz for her.

The next morning Mum and Dad took a taxi, thank god, back to the airport to catch their first flight to Tunisia. Mum had organised with Donald that they would stay in Sfax for two days. This would give her and Dad plenty of time to visit Uncle Rangiora’s grave. They would check into their hotel, go out to the Sfax War Cemetery, spend some time with Uncle Rangiora in the cemetery and return to Sfax in the late afternoon. They would stay at the hotel that evening, possibly go back to the grave for a second visit the next day to say goodbye to Uncle Rangiora, and catch the plane back to Paris.

The flight was smooth and uneventful. Dad was in an aisle seat and Mum was squeezed between him and an extremely well groomed gentleman sitting next to the window. The man wore a dark suit and a blue tie to match the blue handkerchief in his jacket pocket. But what Mum remembered most about him was that he had the shiniest shoes that she had ever seen. They were like mirrors.

I don’t know who the man was, and Mum and Dad lost the card he gave them, but I can’t write about him without giving him a name — so let us call him Monsieur Samaritan. Dad leaned across Mum and, as usual, began to speak to the man. Dad told him he was from New Zealand, and immediately Monsieur Samaritan’s face lit up. ‘Ah! Néo-zélandais! Go the All Blacks!’ When Dad elaborated and said he and Mum were Maori, Monsieur Samaritan clapped his thighs and said, ‘Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora! Kia ora!’

Dad and Monsieur Samaritan shook hands, Dad exchanged seats with Mum, and very soon he and Monsieur Samaritan were talking as if they were old friends. Monsieur Samaritan told them that he was an official for the Tunisian government and had been on business in Paris, renegotiating landing rights for Air France in Tunisia; the negotiations had been somewhat exhausting and he was looking forward to getting home to his wife and children. He had never been to New Zealand, but he had met some New Zealand officials in his business — and he was a rugby fan.

‘We’re on our way to the Commonwealth graveyard at Sfax,’ Dad said. He told him about Mum’s river stones and bottle of river water, and Monsieur Samaritan was affected by Mum’s simple gesture of love for her brother. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and, dabbing at his eyes, waved to some other passengers across the aisle.

‘C’est mon frère, le libérateur de la Tunisie —’

Well, that did it. Before too long, Dad was the centre of attention, and more cards and greetings were exchanged.

In this mood of general friendliness and bonhomie, Mum and Dad landed at Sfax. They farewelled their new friends, all native Tunisians, and exited the plane. Officials saluted Monsieur Samaritan at the gate, ready to take him through VIP customs to a government limousine that would whisk him into the city.

‘Monsieur Tom,’ Monsieur Samaritan said, clicking his shiny shoes together, ‘I wish you a good visit to Sfax and a safe return to your homeland. Kia ora.’

Then he bowed to Mum — so you mustn’t think that my father was the only one to impress strangers. Mum has her own quiet dignity and inner luminosity, and intrigues in her own way. She has never regarded herself as beautiful — her face is too angular and as a young woman she was built like a man with her wide shoulders and slim hips — but where other women lose their beauty as they grow older, Mum has come into hers. I’m not sure what gives Mum this look of having eternity in her, but I have seen it in other women who have lived life and, somehow, understood its ebb and flow.

Mum rummaged in her bag for some gifts to give to him, and pulled out a bone pendant and an All Blacks T-shirt. ‘For your children,’ she said. ‘And if ever you come to New Zealand, Dad will put down a hangi for you.’

Now I have never been to Tunisia and I have no idea what the airline terminal in Sfax looks like. You will have to bear with me as I let my imagination take over.

I imagine Mum and Dad walking along the concourse — Dad just keeping up with Mum — and looking out the windows to a sky almost white with heat. I can hear the excitement in my mother’s voice as she says to Dad, ‘Come on, Tom, almost there!’ The air conditioning in the airport would have cocooned them in coolness. The concourse would have been crowded with Arab nationals in the majority, and foreigners like Mum and Dad would elicit glances of curiosity. I can imagine Mum, as they approached the customs hall, getting impatient to be on her way to the Commonwealth graveyard and her rendezvous with her brother. And I can just see her hopeful face as they waited for the customs official to stamp their passports and let them go through.

The official frowned. ‘Would you come this way, please?’

Mystified, Mum and Dad followed him. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ Mum asked. She was getting a terrible feeling about this.

The customs officer did not reply. His supervisor stepped up to look at the passports. ‘Do you have baggage?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Mum answered. They were escorted to the carousel to collect their suitcases and then taken to a small room where they were asked a number of questions and their bags were searched. The customs officer wanted to know about the river stones and the bottle of water, and he took a hammer to one of the stones to see if there was anything inside. A long consultation took place, and Mum and Dad were then advised of their predicament.

‘I am very sorry to inform you,’ the customs officer said, ‘that you will not be able to enter Tunisia. You will be kept here in the airport and, when your flight leaves tomorrow, you will be put on it for return to Paris.’

At his words, my father looked at my mother. Tears were streaming down her face. Dad’s love for Mum showed in his concern for her and, heart beating fast, he tried to intercede with the customs officer. ‘Will you not give us just today so that my wife can go to pay her respects to her brother? Sir, we —’

He gasped for air. Then he gave a moan and would have crumpled to the floor had Mum not supported him.

‘It’s all right, Dad,’ Mum consoled him. She looked at the customs officer. ‘Do you have a chair for my husband?’ she asked.