Uncle's Story

Chapter One

The irony is that Jason began it all.

‘It’s about time your folks knew,’ he said. ‘If you don’t tell them now, you’ll never do it. You owe it to them, to yourself. You owe it to me.’

‘Yes, I’ll tell them,’ I promised.

I stepped into the car, waved goodbye and headed out on Highway One. Four hours later I reached Hastings. It was dark and I could have pushed onward to Gisborne, but I decided to check into a motel for the night. I should have known that the night would bring with it the dream that always made me wake up screaming.

You know what it’s like in nightmares, especially the ones you’ve had since you were a child. It’s dark and you’re always alone. You feel so foolish that you’ve made yourself vulnerable again. You’ve gone to sleep and you’ve put yourself in a perilous position. Nightmares never go away. They simply watch and wait. They have all the time in the world. They watch you as you laugh in the sunlight. They watch you with family and friends. Then one night, when you least expect it, they curl out of the darkness, and your sleep is filled with that very special dread.

I was walking along a black highway at midnight. I heard a thrumming sound. Something was coming from out of the darkness behind me. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was the huge nightmare stallion that had pursued me all my life through countless years, countless beds and countless dreams.

I began to run but my limbs were leaden. I could move only in slow motion. I tried to concentrate. I knew I was grinding my teeth. I willed myself to run faster, escape from the blackness. Before I knew it, I was drenched with sweat.

I looked back. All I could see were the eyes of the stallion, and the sparks as his hooves struck the highway. He was all the more frightening because he was only half glimpsed. His shrill whinnying proclaimed that this time he would get me.

My heart began to race. I heard myself moaning, felt myself threshing, trying to run. I willed my arms and legs to pump me forward. It was too late. The stallion had struck out to the left and was taunting me, circling in the blackness, choosing its moment. The thrum, thrum, thrum was all around me, the hooves on fire, and then —

There he was. Coming towards me. There was nothing I could do.

Wake up, wake up.

But the stallion was rearing up on his hind legs. He was screaming his rage, his hooves slashing steel blades, shredding the blackness with arcs of fire. His eyes were bulging. The veins on his neck were like ropes.

The hooves descending. Slashing.

‘No.’

I twisted clear of the falling hooves. Screaming, I threw myself out of the darkness and found myself falling into the light. The thrumming, palpable, taking shape, bounced around the walls of the motel and I listened as the shapes began to recede out of the room.

I leapt from the bed and followed the sounds towards the window. Opened it. The cold stung my face. In the early mist of that grey winter’s morning, jockeys were at training on an adjacent racetrack. The sound of hooves ricocheted in the room. The riders rode high in the stirrups. Steam jetted from the horses’ nostrils. I put my hands to my ears.

My heart was racing. I was still disoriented. I dialled Reception.

‘My watch has stopped. Can you tell me the time?’

‘Six-thirty, Sir.’

‘Where the hell am I?’

‘Hastings, Sir.’

‘And who am I?’

The receptionist thought I was joking. I heard her whisper, ‘The guy in 41 doesn’t know who he is.’

‘Neither would I if I had drunk as much at the bar last night,’ someone said. ‘Better humour him.’

A rustle of papers. A pause. ‘You’re Mr Michael Mahana, Sir. You booked in last night. From what I gather, you’re on your way to your sister’s wedding?’

‘Oh. Yes. What time’s checkout?’

‘Ten.’

Just after midday I reached Gisborne. Half an hour later I saw the valley and the village ahead. Nothing seemed to have changed: the grape and kiwifruit vines on either side of the road; the same red-roofed houses in between — though, hello, somebody had a satellite in their back paddock. And was that a black Mercedes parked in beside the old meeting house? This was what Maori economic development was all about: extra, and expensive, toys for the boys.

A few kilometres past the village was the gateway to the farm. Somebody had given a new lick of paint to the gate and the sign: MAHANA WINES. No doubt Amiria had badgered Dad to do it. Make an impression on the prospective in-laws. Even the road to the homestead had been gradered and gravelled. I turned in at the gate and across the cattlestop, put my foot down and roared the car over the rise. There was the homestead and the complex of buildings and vats where Dad produced his Cabernet Sauvignon for export.

Amiria was coming down the steps. People say you can always tell a Mahana by the way we walk. As if nothing can stop us doing whatever we want to do. As if we own the world.

‘I thought you only drove Japanese,’ Amiria said, as I stopped the car. ‘You must be making a lot of money. Or — is it my present?’

I got out, grabbed Amiria in a hug and kissed her. Wide handsome face; a thick, glossy mane of hair; eyes sparkling with good humour; generous mouth and a gap in the middle of white teeth. When Amiria and I were younger we always used to argue over whose gap was bigger. Amiria liked to win — that is, until she read in a glossy magazine that the gap was a sign of a lascivious nature.

Mum came bustling down. ‘You were supposed to be here last night.’ She looked across my shoulders as if expecting to see somebody. ‘Did you come by yourself? Why didn’t you bring a girlfriend!’

Dad was at the top of the stairs. He shook my hand in greeting. ‘The place is a bloody circus,’ he whispered. ‘Your mother has gone mad tying ribbons on everything. If I was you I wouldn’t stand in one place too long.’

Wouldn’t you just know it, Mum had been waiting for me to get home before letting slip to Amiria that the arrangements for the reception after the wedding had — well, changed. Mum hoped I would take her and Dad’s side against Amiria’s formidable anger.

‘Are you telling me the reception’s now at the marae?’

‘Dear, the Starlight wasn’t big enough,’ Mum said.

‘Wasn’t big enough? It’s a cabaret. It can take two thousand!’

Mum looked to Dad for support. ‘You are from a family of mana,’ Dad said. ‘Everybody will expect to come to your wedding. They will come out of respect for your grandfather Arapeta’s memory and they will come because of our standing as a family. We will not be able to deny them. What would Arapeta have said! He would turn in his grave if he knew we weren’t doing the best to uphold the family’s status.’

‘I will not stand here, Daddy,’ Amiria said, ‘and let you drive over me as if you were a tank.’

‘It’s more appropriate for the wedding to be down at the marae. All of your kuia can come, and their mokopuna. And all your Mum’s people from up the Coast with their kids.’

Dad was getting that stubborn look, his chin jutting further and further out.

‘I told you I only wanted to have a small wedding,’ Amiria said. ‘I also told you I didn’t want to have any kids at the wedding. How do you think Tyrone’s parents will take all this! They’ll think we’re like Indians having a pow wow.’

‘If they haven’t been on a marae it’s about time they did,’ Dad answered.

‘Dear,’ Mum tried to explain, ‘the real problem was that the Starlight had no place where your father could put his hangi.’

Amiria went into overdrive. She’d lived so long with passive Pakeha friends in Auckland she’d become accustomed to getting her own way.

‘Look. Read my lips. When we first discussed this wedding, Mother, we agreed that it would be silver service, with knives and forks —’

‘There’ll be knives and forks,’ Dad interrupted. ‘We haven’t used our fingers for years. Do you think we’re cannibals or something!’

‘I wanted it to be like — like — a Pakeha wedding! With waiters and a band! You promised me! When I rang from Auckland you said that —’

‘We do have waiters, dear,’ Mum said. ‘Your cousins are getting dressed up in their flashest clothes and Uncle Bimbo is bringing his karaoke.’

Amiria’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s it!’ she screamed. ‘The wedding is off. Off, off, off.’

It was Dad who had the last word. ‘Amiria,’ he said. ‘What kind of Maori are you!’

I decided to extricate myself with a quiet escape to the front room. I flipped the cellphone open. Dialled Wellington.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’ It was Saturday afternoon but Jason’s voice sounded smoky and half asleep. I thought of him in bed, the sheets slipping from his chest as he reached for the telephone.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Jason said. ‘Hang on a minute. I was out clubbing. Didn’t get in until late.’ There was the sound of creaks and sighs: muffled mysteries. ‘So you’ve arrived safely then? How goes it?’

‘I’d forgotten what families are like. A Mum and a Dad and a sister. The usual screaming matches.’

‘So you’ve told them.’

‘Not yet. There hasn’t been a chance. Soon.’

There was a pause. A hesitation. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t go through with it,’ Jason said. ‘If you don’t want to, don’t do it.’

‘That’s a change! After all these months of pestering me!’

‘Yes. Well —’

‘I miss you. I wish you were here.’

‘I know. Listen, when you get back, let’s talk. In the meantime, enjoy the wedding.’

Just before dinner tempers were still flaring. I was in the middle of the firing line.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with your sister,’ Mum said. ‘Talk some sense into her. She’s always listened to you.’

Not today.

‘Thanks for your help,’ Amiria said with some sarcasm. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side and help me against them.’

There were eight for dinner: Mum and Dad, Amiria and Tyrone, Tyrone’s parents, myself and Dad’s elder sister Auntie Pat.

‘Kia ora, Nephew,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘You better hurry up, your sister is leaving you behind. Or maybe you’re waiting to grow up to marry me, eh? And don’t you dare answer that question!’

‘It’s not that I wouldn’t marry you,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m not the marrying kind.’

‘Michael, dear, you say the sweetest things. I’d quit while I was ahead if I was you.’

I gave Auntie Pat a quick hug. She never seemed to like close physical contact. How she’d managed to cope among such a tribal people as ours I’ll never know. Perhaps that’s why she had moved from Waituhi to a flat in nearby Gisborne city soon after Grandfather Arapeta had died.

‘Don’t forget,’ Auntie Pat whispered, ‘we have to behave for the prospective in-laws. So we better sit beside each other and make sure we are good.’

The in-laws in question, Mr and Mrs Henderson, were standing in the lounge where Dad was showing them the Military Cross awarded to his father, Arapeta. The family were still reeling from the shock that Amiria, who had met Tyrone while he was on a surfing trip to New Zealand, was marrying into a family of Texans who owned a casino in El Paso. No wonder Dad, for whom such things mattered, was trying to impress the Hendersons with facts that implied that our family history might not go back to Davy Crockett and the Alamo but was at least as distinguished.

‘Arapeta was one of the first of 146 Maori trainees to go to Army School at Trentham. That was in 1939 and few had any previous military training. Dad relied on the warrior blood of his ancestors — their intelligence, their cunning and their ability to lead — to get him through. He was only 20. When he landed in Egypt to fight against Rommel, he had risen to sergeant. He was wounded at El Alamein where he was commanding his platoon. He arrived in Italy and fought at Monte Cassino as a major under Pita Awatere. By the time the war was over he had risen through the ranks to lieutenant colonel. He was only 23 when he was awarded his Military Cross.’

‘Wow,’ Mr Henderson said. ‘I’ve heard that the Maoris were formidable foes.’

Dad nodded. He loved talking about Arapeta. ‘When my father came back he married my mother, Florence. My sister was the firstborn and I was second. Dad named me after the battle at Monte Cassino — people call me Monty. I think my Dad was hoping that there would be a war for me to fight in, but I was just a little young for Vietnam. Had I been older I would have volunteered. Nevertheless I joined up in peace time and was three years in the Army as a gunner. Dad came to see me graduate and it was one of the proudest moments in my life. He told me that I had’ — Dad took a quick glance at Auntie Pat — ‘restored the family honour.’

Mr Henderson turned to me and smiled.

‘And you, son? Have you kept up your family’s military tradition?’

‘Michael’s the only one of the family to go to university,’ Dad answered. ‘He’s taken after his mother’s side. Anyway, there are no wars for him to fight.’

‘So what is your degree qualification?’ Mrs Henderson asked.

Dad intervened again. ‘I wanted Michael to go into viticulture and to take over from me, but you know what boys are like! They’ll always do what they want to do.’

‘Like my boy, Tyrone.’

‘Michael’s always liked the arts. He’s set up a consultancy. If people want advice on Maori or bicultural art he helps them. You work closely with government, don’t you, son?’

I nodded. It was easy to become mute around Dad.

‘Oh?’ Mr Henderson said. ‘Sounds pretty impressive, but what does it mean?’

‘Whatever it means,’ Dad answered, ‘it sure as hell sounds easier than working with grapes!’

While everyone was laughing, Amiria arrived with Tyrone.

‘Tyrone,’ Amiria said, ‘you’ve not met my brother Michael.’

He was all white teeth in a bronzed, open, face. He laughed, ‘So you’re the twin and it is true. I’ve seen photographs but never realised. You and Amiria do look alike.’

‘Except I’m prettier,’ Amiria said, ‘and the gap between my front teeth is not as wide as Michael’s.’

Mum had excelled herself with the dinner. Three courses, good wine and not a pork bone or pot of puha in sight. Every now and then I could see Amiria looking across at Mum and beaming a silent thank you. By the end of the second course, the dinner party could be counted a success. Dad and Mr Henderson had taken off their ties and were now on first-name terms. Mum and Mrs Henderson were walking down Memory Lane, swapping baby stories about Amiria and Tyrone. To top it all off, Mr Henderson had given the famous Alamo war cry.

Auntie Pat looked at me askance. ‘Any minute now,’ she said, ‘and your father is going to follow suit with his equally famous rendering of the haka.’

For some reason, a shadow eased itself stealthily over the bonhomie and warmth. Perhaps it had something to do with my conversation with Jason.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t go through with it,’ he’d said. ‘If you don’t want to, don’t do it.’

Nothing is worse for a single man or woman than to go home for a family celebration at which all the conversation, all the codes, are involved with family. You have failed, have not conformed. You are isolated.

Auntie Pat must have sensed my mood. She looked at me with concern.

‘By the way,’ Dad said to Tyrone, ‘has Amiria told you what to expect? The Mahana breed has a habit of having twins. There’s seven sets distributed throughout your generation.’

‘Uh oh,’ Tyrone said. He hit himself on the forehead in a mock gesture.

‘When Amiria gets pregnant,’ Mum continued, ‘make sure you get one of those big double prams!’

‘Gee, thanks,’ Tyrone said. ‘You really make a fella feel good about getting married.’

‘Stop telling Tyrone your horror stories,’ Amiria said. ‘You should count yourselves lucky the wedding is still on!’

At that moment, there was the sound of a couple of cars screeching to a stop outside the house. The front door banged open.

‘Hello, everyone!’ Denise, Amiria’s matron of honour, came in. After her trailed Amiria and Tyrone’s groomsmen and bridesmaids. They’d been having a couple of drinks at the pub.

‘Gotta go,’ Amiria said. She gave a look at Tyrone, who stood up and prepared to follow her.

‘Where to, dear?’ Mum asked.

‘Me and the girls are celebrating my last night of freedom, and Tyrone and the boys are going back to the motel for their stag do.’

‘It won’t be much of a do,’ Denise scoffed.

‘How do you know we haven’t got a female stripper coming along?’ one of the groomsmen challenged.

‘You wouldn’t know what to do with her if she was!’

Dad and Mr Henderson smiled at each other knowingly. Mum and Mrs Henderson pretended not to understand what anyone was talking about. Weddings are such a pretence.

Then Amiria turned to Tyrone. ‘Tyrone, why don’t you take Michael with you. He won’t want to spend all night with the older generation.’

The older generation clucked in protest.

‘Sure,’ Tyrone said.

‘I’ll take a rain check,’ I answered. ‘You guys go ahead.’

‘After all,’ Mum agreed, ‘why should Michael want to watch a stripper? He’s already got a girlfriend.’

The others smiled. Mum looked as pleased as punch.

‘So you won’t come with us?’ Amiria asked. ‘Okay.’

I watched Amiria as she moved around the table. Saw her red kiss being accepted by proffered cheeks like a reward for having done the right thing. And then I knew that this was it, the opening I had been waiting for. After all these years of Mum and Dad talking for me, and making up a history for me, it was time I talked for myself. It was now or never.

‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’

Amiria’s lips wavered above my face and she stepped back.

‘Of course you do!’ she said.

Dad was staring at me with incomprehension.

‘I don’t have a girlfriend, I never had a girlfriend, I will never have a girlfriend. Ever. End of story.’

Mum looked at me and, at that moment, I realised she already knew. Perhaps she had always known. Always suspected. Isn’t that what they say about mothers?

‘Perhaps we can leave this conversation till later, son,’ Mum said. ‘When our guests have gone home.’

But Dad wasn’t so easily deflected.

‘What do you mean! Of course you have a girlfriend. And you’ll get married like your sister. And I’ll have grandchildren.’

As usual, Dad was trying to make the decisions. If he said something would happen, it would happen.

But I stood my ground.

‘There will be no grandchildren. My girlfriend is a boyfriend. Do I have to spell it out?’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Mum excused herself and went into the kitchen. Dad’s face crimsoned and his fingers tightened on his wine glass. Mr and Mrs Henderson looked at each other. Denise, the groomsmen and bridesmaids started to edge away. Auntie Pat picked up her napkin and patted at her lips.

‘Boy oh boy, you sure pick your moment,’ she whispered.

One o’clock in the morning. I sat on the steps of the front verandah. The Hendersons had returned to their motel. Mum had gone to bed, crying. Dad and Auntie Pat were arguing in the sitting room.

I saw headlights coming down the road: Amiria returning from her girls’ night out. She stopped the car. Got out. Slammed the door. Leaned against the bonnet, arms folded.

‘Did you have to do that?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you rain on somebody else’s parade.’

‘I couldn’t take it any longer. All that talk about my girlfriend. It’s about time they knew.’

Amiria walked across to me. Sat down. ‘Well you sure chose a rotten time to do it. I can just imagine what tomorrow will be like. I’ll be standing at the aisle with Tyrone, and the priest will ask that question about anybody having just cause or knowing any impediment about our marriage. And somebody will call out from the back, ‘Her brother’s gay!’

The idea surprised her into laughter.

‘You were always such a drama queen,’ I said.

‘God! What else is there to do except laugh. And listen to who’s calling who a queen. Turning up like the bad fairy to spoil the party. Did you know Denise wasn’t going to be a bridesmaid because she didn’t like the outfits? Come to think of it, why didn’t you lay your egg earlier! I could have given Denise the shove and you could have worn her dress.’

‘Pink’s not my colour.’

Amiria sighed. She put her arms around me. ‘Listen, I’m only trying to humour you — to show you it’s okay. This was already turning into the wedding from hell. And we’re supposed to be twins. Tell each other everything. I should know when things are happening to you. I never knew anything about this. So how did it all happen!’

‘I don’t think it happens. It just is. Maybe when we were in the womb together I got a few of your chromosomes and they tipped me over.’

Amiria gave a gasp.

‘That means that I got some of yours too! Oh my God.’

She got up and gave me a peck on the forehead. ‘You’re still my twin,’ she whispered. ‘We’re as married to each other as I will be to Tyrone tomorrow. For richer for poorer. In sickness and health. Till death do us part.’

Half an hour later Dad and Auntie Pat stopped yelling and screaming at each other. I sensed that Dad was there, behind me in the doorway. His voice seemed to come from out of the past.

‘Can you change?’ he asked. ‘Can you be fixed?’

Dad always thought you could fix things physically. If you had a puncture, change the tyre and put on the spare.

‘No.’

‘You don’t want to change, is that it?’

‘I can’t.’

Dad’s voice spilled over with horror. ‘You can’t like what you do with other men.’

I made it clean, clear and swift. Jason would have been proud of how I did it.

‘I do.’

Dad took a step back, as if I had hit him. He searched for words.

‘You’re supposed to be my son but, so help me, I wish you weren’t.’

A star fell from the sky, puncturing the night like a needle piercing your eyeball.

Chapter Two

Wellington was picture perfect. The deep distilled blue of the harbour was bisected by the wake of the Interisland ferry as it left the overseas terminal. Every now and then the morning sun on the city’s glass towers sent bright flashes across the sea.

I tried the cellphone. At the other end, my own voice on the answerphone clicked on: ‘Kia ora. We’re not at home right now. Leave a message after the beep.’

Maybe Jason was in the shower.

I aimed the car like a bullet toward the shining city. Today was the beginning of my real life. From now on I would say who I was, I would tell the narrative of my life as I lived it and not some false history voiced by Mum and Dad. Now the future was all.

I hit the redial. Still no luck. I felt the usual hunger. Floored the accelerator.

‘Jason? I’m back.’

I put the key in the door of the flat and opened it. Glanced up the stairs. Raced up, two steps at a time. Put my bag down in the bedroom. Hoped Jason was still here. If he was, perhaps I could persuade him to take the morning off. Ring in sick. Say he had a cold. Celebrate.

I opened the bathroom door. The mirror was still steamed up, a towel lay damp on the floor. The room smelled of him. Must have just missed him.

I caught a sight of myself in the mirror. For a moment I was startled that I had come out of the past few days unmarked.

I peered more closely and saw that something was different in the reflection. At first I thought, ‘Yes, there’s something changeling about my appearance after all.’ Then I realised that it was not my face that was different, but the room itself. Small things were missing. Jason’s toiletries. The yellow rubber duck on the rim of the bath. His toothbrush.

I walked into the bedroom, past the unmade bed and opened the wardrobe. Jason’s clothes weren’t there. Even the hangers were gone. I went out onto the balcony and dialled Jason’s direct line.

‘Hello?’ Jason answered.

‘It’s me. What’s going on.’

‘I’ll meet you for lunch. The usual place. We’ll talk then.’

If I was honest with myself, I would have to admit that Jason’s leaving the flat didn’t really come as a surprise: I had been half expecting it. Over the last seven months we’d begun fighting. Even now I’m not too sure what the fights were about — so many things, not just one. But one theme was common:

‘You don’t recognise me for the person I am, Michael. You don’t recognise us for the couple we’re supposed to be. Until you come out to your people, we’ll never work.’

I had not expected that my being Maori and his being Pakeha would ever be an issue. I tried to make him understand.

‘My people are among the most homophobic in the world,’ I told him. ‘I’m not supposed to exist.’

‘But you do, and I do too. It’s all a matter of recognition for me. Either you choose to recognise me or you don’t. It’s up to you.’

‘I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the consequences. What might happen —’

It’s unbelievable how quickly the fights had escalated. Brooding silences alternated with all-night verbal accusations back and forth, all signalling a relationship in the descendant, a parabolic flaming out. Sometimes at the end of our fighting I would make love to Jason, as if that would solve the differences between us, and he would succumb to my seductions. But afterwards we would argue again and he would accuse me of using lovemaking to deflect his attention from the real issues that faced us both.

Then along had come Amiria’s wedding — our most recent battleground.

‘If you’re truly serious about who you are and who I am,’ he said, ‘you’ll tell your parents. You owe it to them, to yourself, to come out. You owe it to me.’

Over the weekend I had made my choice. Now it looked as if I would still end up paying for it.

The traffic around Courtenay Place was so busy that by the time I parked the car I was already a quarter of an hour late. And, of course, when there’s something really serious going on in your life, and you need somewhere quiet to find out what’s happening, you never get it. The restaurant was crowded, loud, and Jason had chosen the most conspicuous table to sit at. Nor was he alone. When he saw me coming in the door he interrupted his conversation with the person opposite him:

‘Michael’s arrived.’

At first the expression on Jason’s face made me hope. But I realised that it was anxiety written there and that he was afraid of me — and that both surprised and saddened me. Two years ago our relationship had started in such a rush of fun, desire and love. In those days we were lovers rather than Maori and Pakeha, and I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off him. After a few months it had seemed entirely logical that he should move in with me and set up house. He’d been happy in the first year and most of the second. How could something which began with so much fun turn into something to be feared?

Jason’s nervousness made his companion at the table lean forward and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was Graham, the buddy he had met during his sessions with Margo, his therapist. I waved across the room but just as I approached their table, I heard a shout:

‘Michael!’

Rushing towards me, pushing the waiters aside as if they were skittles, was Roimata. Hair a cloud of red. A babe with a figure that looked as if it had been poured into her business suit and was spilling out over the top. High heels that could spike your foot if it was in the way.

Roimata smacked me with her generous lipstick.

Great, just what I needed. Now I’d have greasy lipstick over my face all through lunch. Nor would Jason be pleased that Roimata, of all people, had interposed herself between him and me.

‘I’ve left messages for you,’ Roimata said. ‘How come you haven’t answered them! I need to know how our report’s coming along.’

Roimata was CEO of Toi Maori, an indigenous arts organisation that was battling for a share of financial resources captured by symphony orchestras, theatre companies, ballet and modern dance companies, art galleries and publisher organisations. She had commissioned me to write a paper for Toi Maori to use as the basis for a submission seeking direct funding from government.

‘I’ve been out of town. I’ll call you tonight. I’m here to have lunch with Jason.’

‘Jason? Is he here?’

I gave Roimata a look of scepticism. She and Jason must have seen each other. Why is it that sometimes two people whom you love can never get on together?

‘Don’t forget,’ Roimata said. ‘Call me. I must have your report soon. Maori are on the move but there’s nowhere for us to go. If the major arts framework won’t let us in through the door, we’ll just have to go in through the window.’

Roimata always had a flair for the dramatic utterance.

I moved on and joined Jason and Graham.

‘I’m sorry about that. I hadn’t realised Roimata would be here.’

Jason looked away, unblinking. Graham spoke for him.

‘Jason’s never come first in your life, has he, Michael?’

So, Graham was doing the talking. It was going to be like that, was it?

I sat opposite Jason. Looked at him. God, he was so damn cute. I am not ashamed to admit that when we first met I had been the pursuer and Jason the pursued. Jason used to boast that I couldn’t believe my luck when I finally caught him — and it was true. In our circles, his boyish good looks and laughter guaranteed his popularity. Not that there had been much laughter lately.

‘Have you ordered?’ I asked.

‘We’ve already eaten,’ Graham answered, ‘and Jason’s not staying. He’s only come to say one thing to you and then we’re leaving.’

I ignored Graham — the buddy had obviously become my enemy.

‘Is this arsehole going to say everything for you?’ I asked Jason

Graham hissed with anger and Jason put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.

Then Jason looked at me.

‘I’m moving out, Michael. I’ll come by to pick up the rest of my things later.’

Graham stood up. ‘And now that he’s told you,’ he said, ‘we can leave.’

‘Not so fast,’ I answered. ‘I’m entitled to some time to understand all this. I’ve told the folks, Jason. They know about me now.’

Jason tried to get away from me but I caught his hands, not letting him go. Sometimes everything you want to say to a person is in the touching. When we had first got together there had been so much physicality, so much fun, so much laughter. So much touching.

‘And did you tell them about me too?’

‘No, not yet, but —’

Jason shook his head. His smile was bitter and knowing.

‘You still don’t understand, do you. Anyhow, it’s too late.’

He tried to get away from me but I kept holding on to him, not letting him go.

‘Speak to me, Jason. It’s not too late. Please, I don’t want to lose you.’

At my words Jason started on the offensive.

‘Michael, you say you don’t want to lose me, but it’s ownership our relationship is based on. It’s dependency. I’ve always suspected it, but it wasn’t until this weekend, after you left for Gisborne, that I had the time to think it all through. I’ve relinquished the control of my life into your hands. I have to take my life back.’

Jason began to weep and people in the restaurant looked at him, alarmed. Although I reached out to console him, it was to Graham that he turned. I felt the usual sense of helplessness, the usual inability to respond whenever this happened — these tears that came out of nowhere. For the first time I realised that something else was happening to Jason, something more profound than what we were going through. Something bigger than both of us. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

After a moment Jason recovered. He turned to me.

‘I know I was a coward not to wait until you got home to tell you this,’ he said, ‘but I had to leave the flat before you got back. Otherwise I would never have had the strength to do it. Even now I can feel myself wanting to go back to you, but I mustn’t. If I do, I’ll never find myself. I have to find out who I am and what I want.’

‘Can’t we work this out together?’

‘No, I have to do it myself. In many respects, this has actually got nothing to do with you or us. What it’s got to do with is me. Margo says that what you and I have been going through is only the symptom of the larger problem. There’s a lot of identity issues she still has to guide me through before I know what the problem is. Graham’s been helping me when we have our group sessions —’ Jason paused. His eyes were still shining with tears. ‘The thing is that I do think I love you.’

I truly believed Jason. I wanted to believe him. He turned to Graham and indicated that it was time to leave. But not before his parting shot.

‘If I do come back to you, it would be nice to know that you’ll be waiting.’

He walked away. Long after he had left I sat there, alone at the table, holding that hope of his return in my hands.

Of course I was left to pay the bill.

Yes, the irony really was that Jason started it all. But I had no inkling of what was coming, even when I returned to the flat and found a message on the answerphone from Auntie Pat.

‘Hello, Nephew. If you have any plans for the weekend, cancel. I’m coming down to see you and I want your undivided attention.’

That’s all I needed. I ordered up a pizza, watched a movie on television and tried not to think of Jason. At two in the morning I found myself sitting on the tiles of the shower, the water cascading around me. All I could think of was that I’d come out to my parents, my boyfriend had cleared out, the flat was a mess — my whole life was a mess. And now my aunt was coming to see me when all I really wanted was to be left alone.

How I got through the week, God knows. But, come Friday, Auntie Pat blew in along with the southerly:

‘So this is the den of iniquity, is it?’

I gave her the usual minimalist hug, showed her where to dump her suitcase and then took her out to dinner.

‘How’s the folks?’

‘Well, you gave them both barrels last week,’ Auntie Pat answered. ‘What do you think? How we got through the wedding I’ll never know.’

Ah yes, the wedding. The way we played Happy Family should have won an Academy Award. Nobody got up at the ceremony to show just impediment, and I did not disgrace anybody by turning up to the reception in a dress. Immediately after the wedding, however, with Amiria, Tyrone and American in-laws duly despatched to the four corners of the earth, Dad really let me have it. The stone I had thrown at the mirror of my parents’ lives cracked the glass apart.

‘Setting aside the way the family feels about this, Michael, do you think the iwi will still respect you once they know what kind of pervert you are? They have nurtured you, held you in their cradle of aroha, but what you do is abhorrent to them. It is anathema to their beliefs both as Maori and Christians.’

‘Does God have to come into this?’ I asked.

‘The people have claimed you as one of their own. They have expectations of you because of your Grandfather Arapeta’s mana. You have been brought up to have a place in the tribe. People like you are outcasts. They do not belong. If you are a Maori, one of the privileges is that when you die your iwi will honour you by coming for you and bringing you home to be buried. No matter where you are or what you’ve done — murdered somebody even — they will honour their obligation.’

‘So it’s better if I am a murderer?’

Mum joined the attack.

‘Michael, doesn’t your family mean anything to you? You have a proud lineage. Your grandfather was a respected man. You’re the only grandson and the only son. Does this mean that we will have no mokopuna? No grandchildren? What will happen to our whakapapa, our genealogy? It will finish with you, Michael. How dare you be so selfish.’

‘Amiria can have the children.’

At that, Dad raised his fist. This was the way he always did it. With words, words, always words and, if that didn’t work, with fists.

But I didn’t back down.

‘Why don’t you spit it out, Dad? The real reason why you’re upset has got nothing to do with me. It’s all about this family and its reputation. What you’re really angry about is that people will start pointing the finger at you and saying, ‘Oh, have you heard? That grandson of Arapeta’s, Monty’s son, is a faggot.’

Sometimes the threat of violence has as much impact as the act itself. When Dad came for me, Mum screamed — but it was Auntie Pat who stopped him. Quivering, he pointed an accusing finger:

‘Nobody in our family has ever been like you, Michael. Nobody.’

‘You have to tell me, Nephew,’ Auntie Pat asked me over dinner, ‘how did all this happen to you?’

I looked at Auntie Pat and thought, ‘Why should I be polite any longer?’ I decided to be brutal. To her credit she didn’t flinch or bat an eyelid.

‘Maybe it dates from the time I was molested.’

‘By whom?’

Two uncles. Drunk. Coming from a party and stumbling into a room where children slept. Any old bed. Any warm body. Ripping me open like a tin can.

‘You don’t want to go there, Auntie.’

‘Somebody in the tribe?’

‘Yes, but if I was you I wouldn’t open that door.’

Auntie Pat backed off.

‘Your parents are devastated. They thought they had taught you the difference between what was right and what was wrong.’

I lost my temper.

‘All this business about what was right and what was wrong. What a man was and wasn’t. It never left enough room, Auntie, for the man I was, the man I am. You’ve seen how Dad is. I grew up being told by him how I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be. I could never live up to what he wanted. Being Maori was so hard! I suppose that’s its triumph. But when I left home, to find myself someplace where the prohibitions weren’t as strong, I think I failed the test.’

Auntie Pat waited for me to calm down. Then she slipped a question in under my skin and opened me up.

‘What matters most to you, Michael? Being Maori, or being gay?’

For a moment I was taken aback. I didn’t know how to answer. All my life I had been Maori. Who knows? All my life I had probably been gay as well. One was affirmative, something to be proud about. The other was negative, something to be ashamed of.

‘I don’t believe any of us should be made to choose, Auntie. So far I’ve always been what everyone wanted me to be. But there comes a time when you can’t lie to yourself. It’s not a matter of choice. I am who I am. And because of what I’ve done I’ve lost my parents — and I could be losing my boyfriend because I was too scared to do it earlier.’

Auntie Pat paused. Then she took a deep breath.

‘Okay, Michael, I’m beginning to understand. And you were right to be afraid. Now, so help me God, show me your world.’

Luckily, Roimata was home when I telephoned her.

‘Can you come clubbing tonight? I’ve got a visitor from out of town.’

Roimata laughed. ‘Someone for you or someone for me! I was going to wash my hair and go to bed early but for you — let’s do it.’

‘Good. We’ll pick you up in half an hour.’

Auntie Pat and I arrived at Roimata’s and found her dressed to kill. She always had great style but going clubbing brought out the wicked in her. She liked to dress in something tight, where you could push things up and squeeze things in, and then perch it all on the highest heels possible. But she didn’t seem too pleased when I made the introductions.

‘We’re going clubbing with your Auntie?’

‘Auntie Pat’s not that old,’ I answered, defensive. ‘Fifty, I think.’

‘It’s not her age that’s the problem,’ Roimata said. ‘Just look at her! Twinset and pearls? We’ll have to do something.’

Her face cleared. I knew that look only too well and had learnt to avoid Roimata when she had it. But how was Auntie Pat to know? So that when Roimata asked her brightly, ‘Would you like a drink?’ and then promptly spilled the lot down the front of the offending cardigan, Auntie Pat really thought it was an accident.

‘Oh, my God. I’m so sorry!’

‘That’s okay,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘I’ve got another one back at Michael’s flat —’

‘Why waste time going back there? I’m sure I’ve got something that will fit.’

Off came the twinset and pearls and, before Auntie Pat could even move, on went a black crewneck over which Roimata threw my leather jacket. Then a fast makeover on Auntie Pat’s face, some hair gel and heavy eyeliner, and voila!

‘I can’t go out looking like this!’ Auntie Pat protested. ‘If someone from home sees me they’ll think I’m butch.’

Roimata pursed her lips.

‘Precisely.’ She looked at me and jabbed me in the ribs. ‘The reason why Michael asked me to come along is so that people will think you belong to me. Isn’t it, Michael, dear!’

It took Auntie Pat a while to figure that one out. Then the light dawned.

‘Is Roimata the female version of you?’

‘A lesbian? Yes.’

Auntie Pat turned to Roimata.

‘But, dear, you’re so pretty!’

As it happened, the places Roimata and I took Auntie Pat were so dark that it wouldn’t have mattered what she wore. At The Hellfire Club the DJ was pumping the volume high, the strobe lights were making laser strikes through the dark and Cher, recently risen like an incredible Lazarus, was singing her heart out. The song was one of Roimata’s favourites, and she was eager to get out into the middle of the dance floor.

‘You go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’ll get us some drinks.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Auntie Pat said. She looked like she was ready to bolt and go back to her safe little house in Gisborne.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Roimata answered.

Before Auntie Pat could say another word Roimata had pulled her into the seething mass. For a moment I watched, grinning, as a couple of guys, who had taken off their shirts, twirled Auntie Pat around in their arms before releasing her to Roimata. One of them, shaven-headed and with a strong Slavic face, saw me and winked back. He motioned me over to join him and his friend but I put up my hands.

Thanks, but not tonight.

He smiled ruefully, then went back to dancing, waving his shirt in the air above the crowd.

I ordered at the bar and worked my way around the dance floor. Far over in one corner I saw Graham, Jason’s friend. When he saw me he made a great show of turning his back.

Two can play that game.

Every now and then I caught glimpses of Auntie Pat and Roimata. At first Auntie Pat seemed stunned, as if one of the laser strikes had brought her down. The next time I saw her, it seemed Roimata had persuaded her not to just stand there but, well, to move something. She was dancing with what, for her, was considerable abandon.

‘Is one of those water?’

A voice yelled in my left ear. I looked around. The shaven-headed guy from the dance floor had joined me. Close up he was taller than I expected. He’d put his shirt back on, using it as a towel and rubbing it against his skin to dry himself off. Compact build. Still boogying to the music.

‘Sure.’

I passed the guy the glass. He held it above his head, letting the water trickle over his face and down his neck. The lasers illuminated the water limning his profile with green fire. Some of the water spilled over his lips and he licked the water in with his tongue. Then he looked at me.

‘You’re usually here with another guy. Is this going to be my lucky night?’

Direct. To the point.

I could have said, Yes, and allowed the exchange to go to the next level. Instead I shook my head.

‘I’m with somebody.’

The guy shrugged. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. Then he gave a huge devastating grin.

‘The name’s Carlos,’ he said. He pointed a finger at me and wagged it sternly. ‘Remember it!’

Then Carlos was gone, back onto the dance floor, scattering the lights with his exuberance.

Auntie Pat and Roimata appeared.

‘Shame on you, Auntie,’ I said. ‘How dare you enjoy yourself. You’ll go straight to Purgatory.’

‘Oh, leave her alone,’ Roimata answered. ‘She’s having the time of her life.’

‘There are men here actually dancing with women!’ Auntie Pat said.

‘Lots of people come just to dance and have a good time. Here you can do anything you want to do, be anyone you want to be. It’s called freedom. Be careful, it can be contagious.’

‘Oh, let’s not waste any time talking,’ Roimata interrupted. She pulled both of us back on the floor. Auntie Pat must have been a rock and roller from way back.

‘Go, Girl!’ Roimata laughed.

For a brief moment, my eyes connected with Auntie Pat’s and I smiled at her.

‘Look at you! How come it’s taken all this time for us to realise that we can have such fun together?’

By three o’clock I was ready to call it a night. We’d gone from The Hellfire Club to Jordan’s, where Auntie Pat was introduced to the joys of playing billiards.

‘I’m bailing out,’ I said.

‘Good,’ said Roimata, ‘because Auntie Pat and I are going on to Girls Only bar. That okay with you, Girl?’

Once Roimata got going she could never stop. Auntie Pat didn’t even have the courtesy to look apologetic.

‘Sure, Girl,’ she said to Roimata. She gave me a hug. ‘Don’t wait up!’

I caught a taxi, had a shower and put myself to bed. Around dawn I heard a car come to a halt outside the flat and Roimata helping Auntie Pat up the stairs to the spare bedroom. Just before leaving, Roimata came into my bedroom and sat down on the bed beside me. I was half asleep.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you and Jason had split up!’

‘Did Auntie Pat tell you? I was embarrassed. He might come back anyway.’

‘God, you men are all the same.’

She kissed me on the cheek.

‘Sleep well, Michael.’

I was still asleep when, at midday, Auntie Pat woke me up.

‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I have to get back to the real world.’

‘You haven’t had any breakfast. You can’t hit the road until you’ve had something to eat. Let me cook you up some bacon and eggs.’

Auntie Pat was insistent. ‘No, stay in bed, Nephew. I’m okay.’

I relaxed, sinking back into the pillows. ‘Well, I’m glad you came, Auntie Pat.’

‘Thank you for showing me Sodom and Gomorrah. All night I was waiting for lightning to strike me dead or to be turned into a pillar of salt!’

To my surprise, Auntie Pat began to stroke my face and to tousle my hair. ‘But I didn’t just come to dance the night away, Michael,’ she said. ‘Or understand more about you and your other life. I also came to give you something.’

She reached down to the floor and picked up a large brown package wrapped around with string.

‘I’ve kept this for years and years, not knowing what to do with it. I think I must have been waiting for someone like you to give it to.’

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t read it now. Wait until I’ve gone.’

Auntie Pat’s voice faltered. Then it rose in clarity and strength, as if sunlight had just broken through a clouded sky.

‘Your father was wrong to say you were the first gay man in the family. He knows you weren’t. He was there when our Dad, your grandfather Arapeta, kicked Sam out. And like you, Sam was afraid to tell Mum and Dad what he was. So I understand you, Nephew.’

‘Sam?’

‘My brother. Your father’s brother.’

‘But there’s only Dad and you in the family.’

‘No,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘We had an elder brother. His name was Sam.’

Her voice softened. She handed me the package.

‘This will explain everything.’

Later, I took Auntie Pat’s package out onto the balcony. She had tied the knot so firmly that I had to use scissors to cut through the string. I peeled through the brown paper covering. Within was another layer of packaging, old faded newspapers from 1970. Inside was a book:

SAM’S DIARY.

The diary was charred, as if at some time it had been caught in a fire. I fingered through it gently. The slightest motion caused some of its edges to fray and pages to fly like wings in the wind. Some had been burnt right to the spine. Others were missing.

A scorched and burnt newspaper clipping fell from the diary. It was part of the front page of the Gisborne Herald, dated 10 August 1969, and featured a large photograph under the heading: THEY’RE OFF TO VIETNAM. I recognised my grandfather at once, but not the three young men standing with him. Two were staring down at the ground, the third was looking straight ahead. Under the photograph the caption read: ‘Poho o Rawiri marae was the venue for the rousing send-off of three young soldiers, the first Maori to volunteer from the district for the New Zealand infantry in Vietnam. Pictured are Mr Sam Mahana, Mr George [the surname was burnt from the clipping] and Mr Turei Johnson. Also pictured is proud elder, Mr Arapeta Mahana, father of Sam Mahana. Mr Mahana Senior served with distinction as a commander in the Maori Battalion during the Second World War, where he was awarded the Military Cross.’

I knew, even before I read the caption, that Sam was the one looking straight at the camera. He had the Mahana way of standing, balancing on both feet, leaning slightly forward, ready to take on the world. The same positioning of the head, slightly tilted to one side, wary but watchful.

Then suddenly it seemed he looked past the camera. By some trick of light he was looking at me. His eyes drew me in.

And the past came rushing out.