Uncle's Story

Chapter Sixteen

May God have mercy.

I returned to Wellington on Monday morning. All the way back on the plane I kept thinking over what Auntie Pat had told me about Uncle Sam, Cliff and Grandfather Arapeta. In particular, I couldn’t get Grandfather’s words, ‘May God have mercy’, out of my mind. I had heard or read them before — but where? Then I remembered. They were the last words in Uncle Sam’s diary, but they weren’t in Uncle Sam’s handwriting. Had Grandfather written them? If so, why? As a last-minute act of regret, perhaps? Of penance after Sam had died? I pictured grandfather going through Sam’s belongings after he’d had news about the accident. Coming across the diary. Taking up the pen, his hand quivering with emotion, and writing in it.

I tried to fit the memory of my grandfather around such an act of contrition.

‘Go and kiss your Grandad,’ Dad would say whenever we visited him, Nana Florence and Auntie Pat. At that time, Dad had shifted Mum, Amiria and me from the old homestead, and we lived about ten kilometres away — at the present location of Mahana Wines. Auntie Pat had elected to stay behind to look after Grandad and Nana.

Grandad was a dark man with wrinkles which looked as if they had been sliced into him with a knife. His best years were behind him. He’d transformed the farmland into vineyard country and passed the running of it over to Dad. He was bedridden from a stroke, and half of his face had collapsed. His eyes were always watery, and he had a permanent drool of saliva from the right side of his mouth. Perhaps the stroke had tamed his temper. All I know is that I associate him with Sundays — the days we visited — and that I always kissed him on his left cheek or forehead to avoid his sticky slick of drool. I think he was proud of me — and he sometimes allowed me to hold his medals and swagger stick.

Grandfather died when I was eight. I thought:

‘Hurrah, I’ve got the day off school.’

His tangi was huge, with representation from all the tribes of Maoridom. His erstwhile opponent, General Collinson, now retired, turned up with Army officials from Wellington. I heard grand speeches extolling his virtues and recalling his great army career. His mates from the Maori Battalion did a haka — a raging, eyeball-rattling, vein-popping expression of their grief. While the men were shouting their anger, the women set up an intense wailing, the likes of which I have never heard since. Throughout the haka, Nana Florence and Auntie Pat sat by the side of Grandad’s coffin, stroking his hair and face.

Surely somebody who people revered like that could redeem himself by being sorry for what he’d done to his son. Surely —

Roimata was waiting for me at Wellington airport.

‘Have you got a passport?’ she asked. ‘Is it valid? Our trip to Canada’s only a week away and I want to make sure you’re on the plane with me!’

We went immediately to the office of Toi Maori where we were scheduled for a strategic planning session with her trustees. Our nickname for them was the Maori Jedi and we called the chairman Obi Wan Kanobi. His name was really Piripi Jones, a farmer from Eketahuna, and his gentle manner belied his history as a Maori activist from way back.

‘Okay, people,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear how our submission has fared. Roimata, do you want to kick off?’

Roimata preened and purred.

‘I’ll ask my colleague Michael, whom I asked to write my report, to brief you.’

I smiled at the lovely Roimata with my teeth.

‘As you know,’ I began, ‘our submission proposed that Maori art was too important to be funded via the Arts Council and that we should receive our allocation direct from government. Despite good support from the Minister of Maori Affairs, the Arts Council have managed to persuade the Prime Minister our proposal is dangerous. We have a fight on our hands.’

‘A fight?’ Obi Wan Kanobi asked.

‘They’re spouting the usual arguments. They say their own funding framework accommodates Pakeha and Maori, so why should there be a separate funding structure —’

‘The issue is that Pakeha still get all the funding and we get the crumbs,’ Roimata added.

‘They say that if Maori move outside the framework, it is tantamount to separate development —’

‘The usual apartheid argument,’ Roimata said.

She could never resist tacking on comments just to show she was boss.

‘And they’ve asked how can you split arts funding along racial grounds when some of our Maori artists are ballet dancers, opera singers or actors?’

‘Worst of all,’ Roimata added, the fire of battle gleaming in her eyes, ‘is that the Council have marshalled some of their friendly Maoris to speak against us. That funding should be on the basis of quality, not race. Sure, a Maori artist can succeed within the Pakeha model, but as long as he paints, sings or performs like the Pakeha.’

Roimata was steaming, and the Jedi Knights knew it. They took on board our briefing, humming their words, and debated the issue between them. Obi Wan Kanobi turned to me:

‘What’s your recommendation, Michael?’

I decided to give it to him straight from the hip.

‘It’s time for us to walk the talk. Why should the Arts Council be the only ones to talk to the Prime Minister? They’re probably hoping to stall us and expecting that we’ll write a response. No, we must get into direct action. If we don’t, we won’t secure separate funding in this year’s Budget.’

‘And you, Roimata?’ Obi Wan Kanobi asked. ‘Is it your recommendation that we go directly to the Prime Minister?’

Roimata was looking at me with stars in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Michael has taken the words right out of my mouth.’

Obi Wan Kanobi leaned back in his chair. He never minced his words either.

‘When do you two get back from Canada? Make an appointment with the Prime Minister. Let’s try to cut through all the bullshit.’

The Maori Jedi nodded in agreement.

‘Those people in Canada had better watch out,’ Piripi added, eyes twinkling. ‘Aren’t you both going over there to speak about the same issues as are happening here? They better start running for shelter. You two are dynamite!’

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I was able to address the business of finding Cliff Harper. To be truthful, I had needed the time to think about it. There was a certain amount of sentimentality driving the idea, but there was more. Auntie Pat herself had referred to the need to ‘put something right’. My reasons, I suspected, were more complicated. So long denied knowledge about Uncle Sam, I wanted to do something for him almost as a way of recognising myself.

By four o’clock, the rational part of me had begun to set up counter-arguments to proceeding. Cliff Harper would be in his mid-fifties by now. He might not even be alive. He might not welcome a call from somebody he didn’t know about something that had happened thirty years ago.

There was also the matter of whether I could trust Uncle Sam’s diary and my interpretation of what had been written in it. Could I even trust Auntie Pat’s version of events? Uncle Sam may have been in love with a man called Cliff Harper, but had Cliff Harper been in love with him? Did he even exist! Perhaps Uncle Sam had made him up. What if Cliff Harper couldn’t remember Sam after all these years?

I guess that last question was the one I really feared. But I had to chance it. I had to believe in Uncle Sam’s diary. I wanted to believe in it. I saw Sam and Cliff Harper in Madame Godzilla’s, Sam impishly moving his fingers and Harper spraying beer from his mouth in astonishment:

You can read me?

Didn’t you know? Sign language, like basketball, is a Maori tradition.

Then Sam turned to me and winked.

That’s right, isn’t it, Michael?

I closed my eyes, and felt ashamed of myself. I knew I had to do this for Uncle Sam. If I didn’t do anything, his story would indeed end on a road thirty years ago. Who knows? Perhaps there was also a part of Cliff Harper that was still waiting at the airport for a man who would never arrive —

I chastised myself, ‘Michael, get over yourself.’ Counted to three. Picked up the telephone and dialled directory service:

‘Could you give me the telephone number of the American Embassy?’

A few seconds later the Embassy’s answering service clicked on. The usual instructions: If you want to speak to the Ambassador’s secretary, press 1, if you want the Political Division press 2, if your query is about entry into the United States press 3, if you want to speak to someone in the US Information Agency press 4, if you want to speak to the operator (i.e. a real live person) please hold.

I decided to wait for the real live person.

‘Good morning,’ the operator’s voice said. ‘How may we help you?’

‘I would like to speak with someone who can tell me how I go about locating an American citizen who was a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War.’

My mouth and throat had gone dry.

‘Let me see,’ the operator said. ‘Let me put you through to Mr Harding, the counsellor in our Defence office, and do have a nice day.’

A few blips, whirs and bleeps later, Mr Harding was on the line. He was pleasant and helpful.

‘Now your best bet would be to get as much information as you can and then get in touch with the American Vietnam Veterans Association in Washington. I guess you’ll be wanting the fax, phone number and address, huh?’

‘Thanks. Yes.’

‘All rightee. Here we go.’

Half an hour later, I was talking to Frank De Castro in the Vietnam Veterans’ office in Washington.

‘Uh,’ Mr De Castro asked, ‘can you give me any further information? Company number? Battalion? Head of Command?’

I ruffled through Uncle Sam’s papers.

‘That’s all I have,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know if Cliff Harper’s still alive.’

‘Well,’ Mr De Castro paused. ‘You say this Cliff Harper came from the Chicago area? Tell you what, ring the Chicago Vets office direct. I’ll get back to you possibly tomorrow with the number. Thank you for calling.’

I put the telephone down. I felt elated. I had put things in motion. Wheels were starting to turn. Something unfinished from thirty years ago was moving towards possible closure. I saw Cliff Harper’s face — and something about his looks struck flint. For a moment I couldn’t place my finger on what it was. I remembered Auntie Pat’s reference to her favourite scene in Till the End of Time. The movie was set just after the Second World War, and was about a young discharged American GI returning to his home town. It was just the sort of movie that Auntie Pat’s sentimental heart responded to:

‘Here he comes! Here he comes!’

A bus and a young man getting off.

‘That’s him —’

The same crooked grin. The same matinee idol look of disarming carelessness.

When Cliff Harper arrived on the bus in Gisborne to see Uncle Sam he was wearing his American Airforce uniform.

‘Looking for me?’ he asked.

He must have looked to Auntie Pat just like Guy Madison.

By the time I reached home it was after six. The night was dark and drenched with impending rain. I had an hour to change before my date with Carlos. First we’d go to Jordan’s for a drink, then I had booked us a table at a new restaurant at the top of Cuba Street and then —

I put the key into the door. Flushed with expectation of what the night might bring, I ran up the stairs two at a time. I reached the landing — and that’s when I realised that things were missing from the flat.

A painting which used to hang on the wall of the stairwell. A piece of pottery Jason and I had purchased at an art gallery.

My mood changed. I began to shiver. I walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. One of the dinner sets was gone. In the bedroom closet, bedding, linen and towels had disappeared — small items but, oh, the big gaps they left behind. All gone. All the signs were there of the physical removal of everything that was Jason’s or associated with him. He had done this while I was in Gisborne — Graham had probably come with him. While I was out. They’d come in like thieves — and I felt violated. Not even the courtesy of a note to say they’d been.

I sat down on the bed, trying to take it all in. The telephone rang and, for a moment, I hoped it was Carlos cancelling out.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Is that you, Michael?’

It was George.

‘I had a call from Patty earlier,’ he said. ‘Is it true? Are you really going to try to find Woody Woodpecker?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’ I wished George would go away.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Anne-Marie will be pleased.’

I was puzzled. Who was Anne-Marie?

‘She was the girl involved in that car accident when Sam got killed. Did you know he was driving my car? Well, during the police investigation after the accident, that’s when I met Anne-Marie. I still see her now and then, when she comes over the hill from Upper Hutt to visit her daughter in Porirua. She’s never forgotten that night — or Sam. She still feels guilty about what happened.’

‘Why guilty?’ I asked.

The telephone went silent, and I thought we’d been disconnected. Then — was that George sobbing?

‘God dammit,’ he growled as he blew his nose. ‘We’ve all felt guilty about Sam. All of us, for our own reasons. Patty, for what she did. Anne-Marie, for the accident. Me, for —’

I felt as if something was squeezing my heart. ‘For what, George?’

His voice burst like a grenade over the phone.

‘We were supposed to take utu,’ he said. ‘We were supposed to avenge Turei’s death. But we didn’t. Neither Sam nor I made another kill when we were in Vietnam. That’s why the owl tracked us down when we returned to New Zealand. Why didn’t it take me, Michael? Why did it have to take Sam? I’m a cursed man, Michael. Everybody around me dies —’

I put the telephone down. Went to have a shower. My mind was in a whirl. There was so much to deal with. All the puzzles in Sam’s life were getting bigger. And in my own life, just trying to work out what was happening around me was taking all my strength. I huddled under the water for what seemed like hours. I didn’t want to think about anything. I wanted the world to go away for a while and leave me alone. By the time I got out of the shower it was almost seven — and the doorbell was ringing. I grabbed the bathrobe and ran downstairs.

‘You’re on time,’ I said, as I opened the door.

But it wasn’t Carlos. Instead, Jason was standing in the rain.

‘Jason, this is the wrong time,’ I said. ‘If you stay, I’ll say or do something I’ll regret.’

‘This won’t take long,’ he said. His face was as grim as mine must have been. ‘I’ve been around to collect the rest of my things —’

‘So I’ve noticed. It really hacks me off that you did this without letting me know.’

Jason flared. ‘I told you that you would have to pay,’ he said. ‘And this is just the beginning, Michael. I’m taking you to court —’

I leaned against the door jamb. I gave an incredulous laugh.

‘What for!’

‘I’m legally entitled to half of everything that I put into our relationship. Half of everything in the flat, not just my own stuff. Half of everything we had in our joint bank account.’

I stood staring at him. Rain squalls were sweeping across Wellington like spiders’ threads. Was this the way all relationships ended? With this extracting of every pound of flesh? I made a gesture of helplessness.

‘All you needed to do was to ask,’ I answered. ‘You can have everything if you want —’

‘I want my day in court,’ Jason answered. ‘And I’m going to have it.’

I felt myself losing my cool. I flipped.

‘Give me your set of keys, Jason. Give them to me now. If you want to come back for anything else, you can arrange an appointment.’

At that moment Carlos arrived, the headlights of his car sweeping over us. As soon as he stepped out of the car and walked across to me, Jason put it together.

‘You arsehole,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t even wait a week, could you?’

Jason threw the keys at me. They clanged against the door and fell to the ground. Carlos gave him a quizzical look as he shoved past. He bent down and picked up the keys.

‘Are these yours?’ Carlos asked. He was good-humoured, relaxed.

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Thanks.’

‘Do you always answer the door half undressed?’

I was trying to put myself back together again. I didn’t know what to say. Carlos gave me a hint.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this is the moment when you’re supposed to ask me if I want to come in and look at your CD collection.’

‘And what do you say?’

I was warming to his being there. Carefree. Not asking any questions. Uncomplicated.

‘I say I’d love to.’

‘And then what do I say?’ I asked.

To Hell with everything. It was time for me to live the moment.

‘You show me into the house and along the corridor to where the bedroom is —’

‘No, that’s where the kitchen is,’ I said. ‘I make you a cup of coffee and we talk and —’

‘So the bedroom’s upstairs?’

‘Yes.’

Carlos was leaning in to me, staring me down with his sexy eyes. God, he was so pretty, like a mustang, nostrils flaring, impudently posing against the darkness.

‘Let’s skip the coffee,’ he said. ‘Let’s fast forward to the part where we go up the stairs.’

Carlos had his hands under the bathrobe and around my waist. I gasped at their coldness as he slid them between my thighs.

‘Is that the remote?’ he asked.

He pressed it. Looked at the stairs.

‘Stairs are good.’

Around two in the morning, I nuzzled at Carlos’s armpits. He had such silky hair there and, when it was wet, it curled into tight, dark fronds like a fern. With a murmur he moved away and I was able to get out of the tangle we were in and go to the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way I saw the light winking on the telephone, and picked up the message.

‘Hello?’

An unfamiliar voice. A woman’s — quavery, old.

‘Is this the residence of Michael Mahana? My name is Anne-Marie Davidson. I understand from George that you are the nephew of Sam Mahana —’

Of course, the woman involved in Uncle Sam’s car accident.

‘Would you be so kind as to come to see me when it is convenient for you? George tells me you may be seeing Sam’s friend when you go to Canada. I have something which belongs to him. Thank you.’

Later that morning, when I awoke, Carlos was gone. A note was taped to the bedroom door:

‘Congratulations! You threw three sixes in a row, keep your hotel on Mayfair and pick up a Chance card. The card reads: You still owe me a meal. I could eat a horse, so I’m coming by your office at midday and you can take me to lunch. Carlos.’

I smiled at the message. Remembered the earlier call from Anne-Marie Davidson and telephoned her back.

‘Hello, Mrs Davidson? I’m Michael Mahana. Yes, this afternoon would be convenient. Three o’clock? Yes, I have a car —’

I had the morning to myself at Toi Maori. Roimata was out of the office giving a lecture entitled ‘Maori Sovereignty in the Arts’ at Victoria University. Not that I minded. Things were coming at me so fast that I didn’t know whether to keep standing or duck.

For instance, no sooner had I sat down than Auntie Pat telephoned.

‘Have you found Cliff Harper yet?’ she asked.

‘Auntie, it takes you thirty years to tell me and then you expect me to find Cliff Harper in a couple of days? Give me a break.’

Next on the line was a surprise caller — Margo, Jason’s therapist — and she was rocking.

‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ she asked. ‘By moving so quickly to a new boyfriend —’ she could hardly keep the sarcasm out of her voice ‘— you’ve destroyed all Jason’s confidence in himself.’

‘Margo, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You’ve put him back ten years —’

I decided to short-circuit her.

‘Look, Margo, what have you done to Jason?’

‘I’m sorry, Michael. You know I can’t discuss my client with you. I gave Jason permission to explore who he is and who he wants to be. You’ve taken that permission away from him and we’re back at the beginning again. Just when Jason thought he was winning —’

‘Oh, so that’s it,’ I interrupted. ‘Well, Margo, I’ve had enough of your mumbo jumbo. You go ahead and help Jason take control of his life. Obviously, you‘ve helped him to the point where he’s been able to give me the flick. Well, whether you like it or not, and whether Jason likes it or not, we had a great relationship. It was based on love, not on dependency. As for me, I’m nobody’s punching bag. I’ve got my own life to get on with.’

I put the phone down. I thought about my forthcoming visit to Mrs Anne-Marie Davidson. What would she tell me to add to Uncle Sam’s story? And when would I hear from Frank De Castro in the Vietnam Veterans Office, Washington?

At 11.30, the call from Washington arrived.

‘Okay,’ Mr De Castro began. ‘Here’s the number for our office in Chicago. Good luck. I hope you find who you’re looking for.’

I dialled, and Mrs Ada Sylvester answered my call.

‘Gosh, honey,’ Mrs Sylvester said, ‘you’re not leaving us much time, are you! When did you say you’re leaving Noo Zealan’? In five days? We better get a move on, right? Lemme see, I’ll run a check on our database.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Sylvester. I hope this isn’t too much trouble.’

‘Call me Ada, and no, it’ll only be trouble if I can’t find Mr Harper on our master list.’

Ada was cracking gum, sending small explosions down the line, and giving me a running commentary on everything she was doing:

‘I’m going into our database now. I’m entering Mr Harper’s name. Do you spell that H-A-R-P-E-R?’ Gum crack, double crack, click of teeth, crack. ‘O-kay, so I am now into the haitches — and how is the weather down there in Noo Zealan’? I hear it’s mighty pretty.’

‘You should come down and see us sometime,’ I answered. ‘It’s summer right now and the weather is really warm.’

‘Honey —’ crack, crack, click clickety click — ‘you give me the money and I’ll give you the time. So here we are, Harper, Harper, Harper B, Harper C. We’re freezing over here so you better bring yourself a nice warm coat. God Almighty, these old computers are mighty slow today, Harper D —’

I could feel the tension rising. I imagined Ada in front of a screen, scrolling down a list of names. Every man on her list had gone to Vietnam. They all had stories to tell.

‘Damn, gone past him,’ Ada said. ‘So here I go, I’m pressing the Page Down button to get me back to the Cs. Got it! Here we go. Harper Carlos, Harper Cecil, Harper Charles. Sorry it’s taking so long, honey, I’m scrolling as fast as I can. Hey, did you ever know that song, “Harper Valley PTA?” Bobbie Gentry, she was one of the greats. You like country & western music, honey? O-kay, we’re coming in for a landing now. Harper Christian, Harper Clarence, Harper Conal, Hatfield, Havers, Hawley, Hay —’

I felt disappointment well inside me.

‘Let me just check again now,’ Ada said. ‘Nope, honey.’

Her voice was kind and sympathetic.

‘He could have moved. Thirty years is a long time in the life of a Vet. Are you sure he’s still alive?’

‘No, I’m not sure.’

Pause, click click, crack.

‘Listen, honey, you leave this little mystery with me. I’ll try to get some information on Mr Harper. I was always a sucker for a man with an accent like yours. I’ll get in touch with Mr Harper’s Command. Send out an All-Points Alert. If he’s alive, if he’s in this country, we’ll locate him. Call me next week, okay? And do have a nice day.’

I leaned on my elbows. So where to now, Michael? I would just have to wait — and hope. When I looked up, I saw that Roimata had returned from giving her lecture. Carlos had also arrived, talking on his cellphone. He saw me, grinned, waved and made signs that he would only be a couple of minutes.

Roimata watched Carlos, arms folded. She knew we had got it on, and she was furious.

‘How could you! I had plans for you, and now you’ve ruined them! Here I was, thinking that Jason splitting from you would give you the chance to decolonise yourself, regain your sovereignty as a Maori gay man, and what do I find? You’ve gone and colonised yourself again.’

Sometimes it was very difficult to know just where Roimata was coming from — as if she had dropped the first three pages of a speech and gone straight to page four.

‘Roimata,’ I sighed, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘All your White lovers!’ she said. ‘And now look at this one, this Carlos. Straight off the White gay assembly line and out of a White gay boy magazine. Can’t you see what’s happening? Yet again you’ve gone for an assemblage of body parts, pumped-up pecs and penis. Sure, I can see why that boy would lift your skirt. Well, he may have a six-pack and he certainly does pack a lot of lunch — but when are you going to go for mana Maori!’

Roimata always had a loud voice. It carried out to where Carlos, who had finished his phone call, was sitting. He stood up, came to the door and waited for her to finish her rant. He was very pleasant about it all.

‘I thought you liked me,’ Carlos pouted. ‘And, actually, you’ll be pleased to know that I do have Maori blood.’

Roimata had the grace to appear flustered. As for me, did Carlos really think I believed him? Green eyes, blond chin stubble, white skin from the tip of his shaven head to his toes. Ha.

‘So how much Maori blood have you got?’ I asked sceptically.

‘My grandmother was Parehuia Te Ariki. My tribe is Kai Tahu and I come from Otakou.’

That really had me floored. I stared at Roimata and saw her mouth was hanging wide open. Then she put up her left hand, Carlos put up his, and they did a high five.

‘Put it there, brother!’ Roimata laughed and turned to me. ‘Hey, Michael,’ she said, ‘I like this boy.’

But she wagged a finger at Carlos in warning.

‘If you know what’s best for you, don’t come between me and —’ She pointed at me. ‘Him. And don’t forget I’m from Porourangi and you Kai Tahu are descended from Porourangi’s younger brother, Tahu Potiki, so I’m from the senior line! Apart from which I saw Michael first and I’ve known him longer than you have.’

I thought that Roimata was referring to our close friendship. Carlos knew better. He looked at Roimata closely and nodded in tacit understanding.

‘Done,’ he said.

Later, at lunch, I quizzed Carlos more about his ancestry.

‘I thought you already knew,’ he said. ‘I work for the Maori Fisheries Commission. They employ me to go up and down the country checking on fisheries quotas. That’s why I’m on the phone all the time. When I’m not doing that I like to go out dancing or, even better, spearfishing.’

‘Well, there’s lots I don’t know about you, obviously,’ I answered.

Like how hungry he was. He was wolfing down his food.

‘Yeah, well, I know a lot about you,’ Carlos said. ‘I’ve had my eye on you for some time. But you were always with somebody else.’

Uh oh. ‘So this is not just about sex, is it,’ I asked. ‘Listen, I don’t want any complications. Right now I’ve had all I want of —’

Carlos put down his knife and fork and smiled very dangerously.

‘I want you to put your hands on the table, lay them flat and keep them where I can see them. Do it now.’

He sounded like the bad guy in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie so I did as I was told. Under the table I felt his fingers undoing my zip. I began to protest, and moved my hands to stop him.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Carlos said. ‘Keep them on the table.’

His fingers dipped, opened and pulled. My groan must have been heard by everyone in the restaurant. Satisfied, Carlos went back to eating.

‘Now what were we talking about?’ he asked. ‘Was it about your needing me to come to see you tonight?’

He chopped a very large piece of steak and lobbed it into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed in a single gulp. Looked at me with those big innocent eyes of his.

My answer was a strangulated squeak.

‘Okay.’

Back at Roimata’s office, I looked at my watch: 2.30. Time for me to go out to meet Anne-Marie Davidson. I gave Roimata a kiss on the cheek. She held my face a fraction and smiled.

‘I like your Carlos,’ she said. ‘So will Tane Mahuta. Did I tell you he’s back in town tomorrow? Are you free for lunch?’

The Noble Savage. Yes, it would be great to see him.

‘Sure,’ I answered.

Then I was out of there, into the carpark and driving away from the city — and it was so good to see the sea, the highway curving around Kaiwharawhara, and the Hutt Valley opening up ahead. For a while I raced the suburban train. Two small children were crowded at a carriage window, waving at me. They made me remember my sister Amiria and me, and how we had been on those days before —

The train disappeared into a tunnel.

When I had a mother and father —

Then, there the train was again, away in the distance. Two small arms waving.

A mother and a father …

Sometimes it happens like this. These glimpses of the past. Before you know it, you’re stopping the car and weeping because, no matter how strong you are, separation really hurts. It sucks.

Three o’clock. Right on time.

Mrs Davidson was widowed and living in a two-bedroomed unit, one of six in a tidy row in a quiet Upper Hutt suburb. She was a keen gardener by the look of her roses. They were beautiful, rich red and carefully staked.

Ah well, here goes.

I rang the bell. Heard it go ding dong. A young woman, around my age, answered the door.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

A voice called from behind her.

‘That’ll be Mr Mahana, love. Do show him in.’

The young woman asked me to come in. The doorway opened onto a large open-plan sitting room with a breakfast bar. Mrs Davidson had her back to me. She was preparing a tea tray for my visit. She picked it up, turned with a smile on her face and began to introduce me to the young woman at the door.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Mahana. This is my daughter Fran. She just popped over to see me and —’

Mrs Davidson froze. She looked at me and:

‘Oh, my.’

She gave a helpless cry. The tea tray fell to the floor. She swayed, and her daughter reached her just in time to catch her.

‘Fran, love, I have to sit down.’

Fran took her to an armchair. As she settled her mother, plumping up the cushions to make her comfortable, she glared at me.

‘I don’t know who you are, or what this is about, but I want you to leave immediately.’

‘No, love,’ Mrs Davidson intervened. ‘It’s been so long. And this boy here, he looks just like Sam did. Sam was his uncle, love. He died in my arms. He was looking up at me, and I was holding him and then —’

She had been Anne-Marie Du Fresne in those days. She was twenty-five and worked as a nurse in Tauranga during the week, but she liked getting back to Auckland for the weekends. Tauranga was such a bore, with nothing to do on Fridays and Saturdays, and the boys weren’t much cop either. She had bought a small car, an Austin Mini, which could get her up and over the Bombay Hills onto the Auckland motorway in a few hours.

‘That Friday I was supposed to be on the afternoon shift but I swapped places with Joanne, one of the other nurses, and did the morning shift instead. This was because Barbara, a good friend of mine up in Auckland, had arranged a blind date for me to go to a ball in Auckland. The way she described him, he sounded like he was tall, dumb and single, which was how I liked my men in those days. I didn’t want to settle down. I’d already been married once, and once was enough, thank you very much.

‘What with one thing and another, I didn’t get off my shift until two in the afternoon. I’d brought my ball gown with me and got changed, intending to drive straight to the cabaret in Auckland. Joanne did my hair for me, piling it all on top like Audrey Hepburn’s in My Fair Lady. Well, it might have looked good on Audrey Hepburn but I must say I didn’t think it did much for me! Joanne used a whole can of hairspray to keep it up there, and didn’t we have a laugh when we realised that my car was so small that the hair couldn’t fit! By the time we re-styled it, it was about 3.30 and I was running very late. So I zipped up my long dress, a sexy white thing down to the ankles, and said to Joanne, “I’ve got to go! Prince Charming’s waiting!” I grabbed my high heels and ran barefoot through the hospital. Some of the male patients gave me a right royal send-off, the cheeky blighters —’

‘Hey, Cinderella, take me to the ball!’

‘Sorry, boys!’ Anne-Marie laughed. ‘I’ve already got my date for the night and he’s on two legs, unlike all you lot.’

‘It’s not his legs you should worry about. It’s what he’s carrying between them you’ll have to watch out for —’

‘Especially in the waltz —’

‘And watch out if he wants to dip in the foxtrot!’

Anne-Marie laughed again. In her white sequined dress she knew she looked gorgeous. She struck a pose at the front doors, blowing kisses to all and sundry.

‘Jealousy will get you nowhere,’ she said.

Then she was out into the cold night, looking for her keys in her bag, unlocking the door of the Mini and stepping in. A flick of the switch and she was off, careering out of the hospital car park.

On the main road she became aware of the darkness. She looked north and saw that grey clouds were broiling overhead. A few minutes later rain started to hit the windscreen. She put on the wipers and, a few seconds later, the headlights.

‘I was making good time,’ Mrs Davidson said, ‘and had adjusted my driving to the road and the weather conditions. The traffic was pretty busy. That highway between Tauranga and Auckland has always been heavy with traffic. People heading up to Auckland for the weekend. Big trucks wanting to get back to their yards before they closed. Some fools trying to pass on bends or taking risks when there’s oncoming traffic. I had one impatient driver tailgating me for quite a while and, when he passed, he pressed his horn almost as if to say I shouldn’t be on the road with my little Mini. So I gave him the fingers. Anyway, the heater was working, the windscreen wipers were doing their job and I was feeling pretty good, and quite excited about a date with somebody I’d never met.

‘Let me think, it must have been about quarter to five when I saw the crossroads where the Tauranga highway joins the main highway from Hamilton to Auckland. I was checking my lipstick in the rear-view mirror and humming to myself. I was going around a bend when I had the puncture. I heard a bang and, next minute, the car was sliding all over the road. I managed to get it under control and pulled over to the side. At the time I didn’t realise how dangerous my position was. On a bend. The rain and darkness. I kept waiting for somebody to slow down and help me. No such luck. There were certainly no gentlemen on the road that night! All those cars kept on streaming past, swerving to get around me, horns blaring. Mind you, who could blame them? The rain was really atrocious. So I thought to myself, “Oh, well, there’s nothing for it, Anne-Marie, except to get out of the car and change the bloody tyre yourself.” In one second I was drenched. My dress was soaked. My hairstyle flopped across my forehead like wet candyfloss. My shoes were ruined. But I got the spare tyre out, and the jack, and was just about to get to work when, among the stream of cars going past, one stopped. It’s rear backing lights came on. It backed up fast. A young man jumped out. He was Maori. It was your Uncle Sam.’

‘What the hell —’

Sam swore as he saw the car in front of him brake, swerve and narrowly avoid a small car that had broken down on the side of the highway. He braked too, swung hard on the steering wheel and, in the headlights, caught a glimpse of a woman in a white-sequined ballgown. She was struggling with a spare tyre. Her dress sparkled in the light and then was gone like small glowing stars falling to earth. For a split second he almost kept driving. He thought of Cliff, waiting at the airport, but then braked, reversed and switched off the ignition. He glanced quickly at his watch. He could spare five minutes. He got out of the car and ran through the rain.

‘I could never resist a woman in a white dress.’

‘Thank God,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘I was thinking that nobody would stop.’

‘You look like a drowned cat,’ Sam said. ‘Why don’t you go and sit in my car out of the rain. I’ll have this done in a jiffy.’

‘I think I’m past caring. I’ll get the torch out of the glove box. You might need some light.’

‘The sooner we get you off this bend the better,’ Sam nodded.

With that, he was cranking the car up, slipping the jack underneath and unscrewing the wheel nuts. Anne-Marie came back and shone the light on the hub of the tyre. She saw Sam’s face, the rain falling into it, as if he was transparent. He had a strong profile and lovely dark eyes.

‘How come you’re dressed like that?’ Sam asked.

‘I’m supposed to be going to a ball tonight,’ Anne-Marie answered. ‘I doubt my partner would want me to accompany him now. I mean, look at me.’

‘You look gorgeous,’ Sam said. ‘If your boyfriend doesn’t like you wet, ditch him and find somebody else. So what’s your name?’

With a yank, Sam pulled the punctured tyre off the hub.

‘Anne-Marie.’

‘Pleased to met you, Anne-Marie.’

Sam positioned the wheel. Reached for the screws and began to tighten them on.

‘And you?’ Anne-Marie asked.

‘I’m Sam Mahana. I’m on my way to the international air terminal to meet up with my mate. I’ve got plenty of time.’

At that moment, another car stopped and backed. An elderly man stepped out with an umbrella and hazard light, and ran to join Sam and Anne-Marie.

‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘Are you just about done? I’d better go up the road a bit and try to get the traffic to slow down until you’ve finished.’

‘But it was too late,’ Mrs Davidson said. ‘From out of the rain came one of those big long trucks with trailers. It was festooned with lights. I saw the old man almost disappear into them, almost as if the truck had eaten him up. Luckily he was able to leap to one side out of its way. I can still remember how the lights from the truck blazed on Sam. He was kneeling. He had the wheel brace in his hands. He was screwing one of the screws on the tyre. Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Sam cried out my name, “Anne-Marie.” All of a sudden he was reaching for me. Picking me up. He threw me across the bonnet of the car and out of danger. I can remember, as I tumbled in the air, thinking how strong he was. I heard the screech of brakes. The klaxon of the truck blaring like an air-raid siren. I had a brief glimpse of Sam in its headlights. He was beating at something in the air. Then the truck slammed into my car, and Sam disappeared.

‘I must have hit the ground at that point. When I stood up all I could see was this mangled mess on the highway. The truck had stopped. Everywhere, traffic was stopping. I ran back. I couldn’t see Sam at first and I thought, “Thank God, he’s been thrown clear.” Then I heard a groan and I saw him. The car was on top of him. I’ve seen accident victims before. I knew there was no way in which he was going to live —’

‘God have mercy.’

Sam saw the headlights of the truck bearing down on him, and he remembered the owl on the night he and Cliff had driven from the wedding. The owl had cried out a name — Sam hadn’t been too sure whose. Now he knew it had been his. He was glad that it wasn’t Cliff’s.

The truck hit him. It came out of the dark, blazing like a Christmas tree. The impact was loud, fast, blinding.

For a moment Sam thought, ‘Why, that doesn’t hurt at all.’

A second later his body was in agony as the truck shunted Anne-Marie’s car over his chest. He tried to scream out with pain but found that he couldn’t. He felt something squeezing at his heart and knew it was Death. He turned his head a little and saw Anne-Marie’s shoes. She was crying out his name.

‘Sam? Oh, God, Sam.’

He heard other footsteps. The elderly man. The truck driver slamming the door of his truck as he got out. All the sounds were magnified. He could hear them clear as crystal. He groaned.

‘Oh, my God,’ he heard Anne-Marie cry. ‘He’s under the car.’

Then she was there. Reaching for him. Sliding under, her face so close to his that he could have kissed her. Lifting his head onto her white dress. As she did so, something rattled inside his chest as if he was broken. He screamed when he heard it, the blood flying like spray and splattering Anne-Marie’s dress.

‘No —’

Anne-Marie tried to motion to him that it was nothing to worry about. Her eyes were streaming with tears.

‘You shouldn’t be the one who’s crying,’ Sam said. ‘After all, I’m the one who’s stuck under your car. Unless — you want to change places? And you mustn’t cry. I hate it when a pretty girl cries.’

He tried to reach up and wipe Anne-Marie’s tears away but ended up in another paroxysm of spouting blood.

‘Oh, God!’ he screamed. ‘It hurts. It hurts.’

The elderly man whispered to Anne-Marie:

‘The truck driver has just radioed for help.’

Sam shook his head.

‘That’s not going to do any good,’ he said. ‘I’ve served in Vietnam and I know when a man’s bought it. And I’ve bought it.’

Then death really squeezed Sam’s heart. In panic, he turned to Anne-Marie.

‘There’s a man you must find. He’s waiting at the airport. I was supposed to meet him there. His name is Cliff —’

Sam’s voice was getting weaker. The name sounded like Chris.

‘Please find him. Give him this.’

He pressed a greenstone pendant into Anne-Marie’s palm.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Anne-Marie cried. ‘You can’t die. I won’t let you.’

The rain was falling. Everywhere, people were moving, shadows in the light.

Cliff, where are you? You said you never left anybody behind. Come and get me, Cliff, come and get me.

The rain, only the rain. And strangers, only strangers. And a strange woman in a white dress. Why was she crying?

In his mind Sam could hear himself saying the words:

‘You must find Cliff for me. Find him for me. Please. Tell him that —’

But Sam knew his voice wasn’t working and the woman couldn’t hear him. Desperately, he began to move his fingers in sign.

You must find Cliff. Tell him, tell him that I was coming and that I loved him, oh how I —

Then there was nothing. Only darkness and rain.

I was sitting in Mrs Davidson’s small unit in Upper Hutt. Fran excused herself to make us a cup of tea.

‘Sam died in my arms,’ Mrs Davidson said. ‘Neither of my two husbands died in my arms. That’s why I remember him. He was so beautiful when he died. The police came. The ambulance came. The police needed a statement. After it was over, they wanted me to go to hospital for observation. I convinced them I was all right. I asked the elderly man to help me. I said to him, “Could you please drive me to the international terminal?” He was such a lovely man. He waited for me as I wandered around the building. God, I must have looked a sight in that ball gown, covered in blood. I kept on calling “Chris! Chris!” The airport security people came up to me. They couldn’t have a mad, demented-looking woman walking around and scaring everybody. Not until later, when I met George, did I know his name was Cliff. When you do find Cliff, please tell him how sorry I am. I feel so responsible for Sam’s death. If he hadn’t stopped to help me —’

An hour later, Mrs Davidson saw me to her door.

‘Could you do something for me?’ she asked. ‘Could you telephone me when you get back from America and Canada?’

‘Yes,’ I promised.

I started to walk away — then I remembered something. I turned to Mrs Davidson.

‘You said you had something that belongs to Cliff Harper.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll go and get it.’

She was away only a minute. But my heart was beating loud enough to split the world open with sadness. When she returned and I saw what she was carrying, I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears. And Mrs Davidson began to cry too.

‘The thing is,’ she wept, ‘I tried to return this to your grandfather, but he said that it had been defiled and he didn’t want it back. I didn’t know what to do with it. I asked George, but he didn’t want anything to do with it either. When Sam was dying he wanted me to take it to Cliff Harper at the airport. But —’

In Anne-Marie’s hand a box with its lid off.

‘Anyway, here it is.’

Nestling in the box, a greenstone pendant. Cliff had thrown it to Sam on the night he had left the farm. It had twisted and tumbled, catching fire and turning into a flaming bird.

Bring it back to me, Sam. You son of a bitch, you bring it back to me.

And I was sobbing while Mrs Davidson held me, sobbing for something that should have happened but didn’t.

You hear me, Sam? Bring it back.

Tunui a te Ika.

Chapter Seventeen

Midnight. Carlos’ flat.

I slipped out of bed and left Carlos to his dreams. I couldn’t believe how uncomplicated he was. I’d taken him to a restaurant where he’d ploughed through the menu with gusto, eating everything in sight.

‘I go to the gym every day,’ he explained. ‘That’s how I keep my weight down — and that’s where I first saw you. I can’t believe that you don’t remember me!’

‘I wish I could say I did —’

‘Couldn’t you lie?’ he pouted. ‘But I hadn’t shaved my head then.’

He downed his food with a good bottle of red, and then looked at his watch:

‘I’ve got a meeting in the morning, so I have to get up early. We’ll have to give the dance clubs a miss. Even though you don’t deserve it, having such a bad memory and all — your place or mine?’

‘Let’s go to yours,’ I answered.

I’d expected to see the usual bachelor shambles: unwashed plates in the kitchen, the bed still unmade, clothes lying all over the place. Instead, the apartment was austere, minimalist. Polished wooden floorboards. Bare walls with a scattering of paintings. Some interesting books on philosophy and religion. The bed was a platform on the floor. All the windows were wide open. I’d looked at Carlos, intrigued. He showed me a small room where there was a shrine.

‘I’m a Buddhist,’ he said.

I laughed, incredulous. ‘A Maori who’s a Buddhist?’

Temple not far from here. Go before rain comes.

‘It happens.’ Carlos shrugged. ‘Trouble is, there are still many things of the flesh I still crave. Like food and —’

He took me in his arms and began to undress me. Once all his appetites had been appeased, he slid easily into sleep.

I slipped through the moonlight. I was still perplexed as to why Carlos hadn’t asked me about Jason.

‘You have a past,’ he’d said, ‘and so do I, but we live in the present. If you’re asking if I’m jealous of anybody in your life, no, I’m not.’ Then he said something that intrigued me. ‘I can share you, Michael, if I have to. Roimata and I have already talked about that. We’ll work something out —’

Tunui a te Ika was in my jacket. I fumbled in the pocket for it. My fingers touched the greenstone — so cold, so cold. But, before I knew it, it began to get warm and slid itself into my palm.

I took the greenstone out and held it by the cord to the moonlight. A small breeze from the window made the greenstone start to twirl. Slowly, at first. But soon it was spinning, scattering the light, and I imagined it chuckling like a child for joy.

‘Ae.’ I nodded. ‘Do you recognise me? Do you see Uncle Sam in me? You are of my people! For thirty years you’ve been waiting, haven’t you! I’m sorry it’s taken so long. Forgive me —’

I traced the whorls of Tunui a te Ika. The face, the body, the penis with its white marks like a comet’s tail. The greenstone seemed to come alive at my touch, glowing with contentment. I felt it trying to leap from my hands and take its place close to my heart — but I thought of Cliff Harper.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve been promised to somebody else. I’ll take you to him soon.’

The next morning, Carlos woke me up with a cup of tea.

‘I’ve gotta go. I’ll catch up with you later. I heard you get up in the middle of the night. I thought you were leaving. I’m glad you stayed.’

‘Maybe you’re getting to me.’

‘Good!’ he beamed. ‘I’ve been trying hard enough! I heard you talking to somebody —’

I told him about Uncle Sam, Cliff Harper and Tunui a te Ika.

‘I’m leaving for Canada and America in a few days.’

‘As long as you come back,’ he answered.

Full of hope, I arrived at Toi Maori and awaited the telephone call from Ada Sylvester in Chicago. Her news came as a terrible blow. Having heard from Anne-Marie Davidson about how Sam died, I wanted to hear Ada tell me she’d found Cliff Harper. I wanted to be able to tell Tunui a te Ika, ‘We’ve found him.’

‘Sorry, honey, we’ve located seven Cliff Harpers in our all-points request, but none of them is the one you want. You sure you’ve got the right name?’

‘Yes.’ My brain was racing as I tried to remember any other relevant details that might give Ada a better lead. ‘He mentioned a place called Back of the Moon —’

‘Anything else?’ Ada asked. ‘Anything more substantial? His call-up papers? Name of the helicopter squadron? If you have any further information that might help me out, let me know and I’ll try again. Meantime, it’s a dead end, honey.’

‘Thanks, Ada, I really appreciate your help.’

’We mean to be of service and do —’

‘Yes, Ada, I will have a nice day.’

It was so unfair. So unfair. When Auntie Pat called, I didn’t have the heart to give her Ada’s news.

‘Have you been able to find Cliff? Is he still alive?’

‘Not yet,’ I answered. ‘Can you think of any other details about him? Anything?’

Auntie Pat’s voice became edged with hysteria.

‘You’ve got everything I had of Sam’s, the diary, everything. You’re leaving in three days! Do something —’

Around mid-morning I was still depressed about Ada’s telephone call.

‘I’m going back to the flat,’ I told Roimata. ‘I want to look at Uncle Sam’s diary. Perhaps there’s something in it that I’ve missed. Some clue about Cliff Harper.’

‘Okay,’ Roimata answered. ‘But don’t forget to be back for lunch with Tane Mahuta.’

I walked out of the office. Just as I got to the door, Jason came in. I took one look at him and realised that Margo had been right. He was in a bad state, back at the beginning again.

‘Aren’t you expecting me?’ he asked. ‘I left a message at the flat that I’d come around.’

His voice was ratcheted up a few notches. He was like a cat on a hot tin roof.

‘I wasn’t home,’ I answered.

‘Oh, I see. So how’s your new toyboy?’

I should have been kind and conciliatory, I know, but I’d had just about enough of everything. And I’d had enough of Jason, the things he said, the things he didn’t say, the things he meant, the things he really meant.

‘So it’s all right for you to have a new lover, Jason, but it’s not all right for me?’

Jason was so angry.

‘Why couldn’t you have waited?’ he asked. ‘Until I was through all this? Graham doesn’t mean anything to me. How do you think I feel about myself knowing no sooner am I out of the house than you’ve found someone to replace me? It just proves, doesn’t it, that you never loved me, ever. Well, there goes your last chance of ever having me back again.’

God, that really hurt. Jason still had the power to put his knife in the wound and twist it. Why didn’t our relationship end while it was still at its height? When we both felt that there were only the two of us in the world and we were all that mattered? Much better to have ended things at its height than have this long descent out of passion and love, feeding on its own flame and burning out in this tortuous consuming of each other. Better that than the onset of recriminations, accusations or terminal boredom — the lies, the simulation of love, the dissembling. The equivocation.

‘What do you want, Jason?’ I sighed. ‘All your signals are mixed up.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t let you off so easily,’ he said. ‘You think you can do whatever you want with impunity. Well, life isn’t like that. I want you to share my pain. Only then will you be able to face up to what you’ve done to me. You’ve ruined my life, don’t you know that? I hope you treat your latest trick with more respect than you did me.’

That was it.

‘You keep saying I ruined your life, Jason, but I won’t take the blame. You ruined it yourself. You left me, you made your decisions and now you live with the consequences. Look, I really do care for you. I don’t know what you’re searching for. I don’t know what you want. I suspect that when you find it you’ll be so fried in your brain with all your therapy you won’t even recognise it. I won’t be the villain in your psychodrama.’

I cupped Jason’s chin in my hands. Jason struggled against me but I stopped him and looked deep into his eyes.

‘Where are you, Jason? Somebody has stolen you away and put another person in your place. The man I’m looking at looks like you, talks like you, walks like you. But he isn’t you.’

Jason pulled away. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you. Well I’ve given you your last chance and you haven’t taken it. I’ll see you in court.’

He walked in one direction. I walked in the other.

Back at the flat I went through Uncle Sam’s diary again. I looked at Cliff Harper’s photo:

‘Tell me,’ I yelled. ‘Tell me how to find you —’

I was running late by the time I returned to Toi Maori. Tane Mahuta was sitting on my desk. Bronzed skin, eyes as bright as the sun. In his ear, a shark’s tooth pendant. The Noble Savage.

‘Kia ora, Michael. You look as if you need a beer. Let’s go over to the bar.’

‘Great.’

I looked around for Roimata but she had disappeared.

‘It’s just us.’ Tane smiled. ‘It’s man-to-man talk and, this time, I have been properly briefed.’

The bar was crowded and Tane was so well known that people stopped at our table to say hello and to wish him well.

‘This is what happens when you go public,’ he said. ‘It takes some getting used to but it comes with the territory. You can’t get any more public than doing Aids work.’

He looked at me quizzically and I had the feeling he was dropping a hint of some kind. To change the subject I told Tane about Uncle Sam. The story intrigued and excited him.

‘You say your uncle was both gay and a soldier? You know, if his story was known, he could become a pretty potent symbol. He would prove that you can be gay — and a warrior. If we could take that message to every marae in the country it would be a breakthrough, because if there’s anything our people understand it’s the warrior spirit. They may not like what gay Maori men are, but they’ve always admired bravery and strength. In the past nobody has been able to make a bridgehead because we’ve always acted on our own and without a precedent. But —’

Uh oh, I thought. Here it comes.

‘I’d better get down to business,’ Tane said. ‘As you know, Maori have always had this tradition of arranged marriages, taumau unions. In the old days they were used for political reasons — to begin or maintain tribal alliances. In my case, I was the only son, and my mother didn’t want the line to die with me. Our whakapapa is a distinguished one, and she refused to think of it coming to an end. Six years ago, when I was with Mum at the funeral of a distant uncle, Mum noticed Leah, who had nursed the old man in his last years. She made some judicious inquiries, spoke to Leah’s family, and the marriage was agreed.’

I nodded, smiling at Tane’s story. I knew it well.

‘I didn’t know anything about this,’ Tane chuckled, ‘until the following New Year. I was at home with Mum, fixing the tractor, and she said to me, “We have to go down to the marae.” She didn’t even tell me what it was all about! I was still in my hobnail boots and black singlet when, all of a sudden, I heard Mum karanga to these people. I looked at the gateway and there was Leah and her tribe. They had brought her to me! Well, I was angry at first. I could hardly speak to Mum. She had jacked the whole thing up with the tribe, and the next thing I knew was that we were all in the meeting house discussing the marriage! I told them it was impossible. But you know what our people are like. It goes in one ear and out the other. One of my uncles asked me, “Do you have a person in your life at present?” I said, “No.” And he said, “So what’s the problem?” Our people think being gay is just a momentary aberration. Something you get over when you come to your senses. Anyway, we were getting nowhere until Leah stood up. She said, “I would like to speak to Tane.” She laid it all out to me. To my surprise she wasn’t a doormat. She was strong, articulate and passionate —’

‘She sounds like Roimata,’ I said.

‘I see you’re getting the picture,’ Tane answered, his eyes twinkling. ‘Anyway, right there in the meeting house, Leah said to me, “I haven’t come here, Tane, against my will. I have come of my own accord. I would have come to see you by myself, except that my relatives wanted to turn it into a circus as usual. I know you are a homosexual —’

‘At the word, everybody in the meeting house coughed and pretended not to hear. “So I do not come to this blind to your physical desires. But my womb is crying for children, as greatly as your mother weeps for grandchildren. And I want to ask you a question, Tane. Just because you’re gay, does than mean you can’t be a father? I think not. I hope not. You are a fine man and your sexuality has a strength of its own which you can bring to a relationship not only with me but with any children we may have. We are both too old not to accept this arrangement. I want a son. I can give you a son. I don’t even know if I could love you. I admire you for what you do and the courage you have. Those are the qualities I am looking for in a husband and a father. You are my last chance. I am yours —”’

Tane shook his head with wonderment. It wasn’t too difficult for me to see what Leah saw in him. His body was carved from earth and sky. Its angularity had been made for holding children. Its strength for sheltering a family.

‘When Leah said it like that,’ Tane continued, ‘she blew my socks off. I realised she was right. I made my choice. After all, I was born a Maori and that is how my people will bury me. I owed it to them. Two kids later, I thank Leah every day for having given me my sons. They and she are more important to me than anything else in the whole world.’

Tane ordered two more beers. He downed his in two gulps as if to fortify himself.

‘So here’s the thing, Michael,’ he said. ‘I’m here as a go-between. Don’t shoot me because I’m just the messenger. Just as my mother arranged my taumau with Leah, I am here to ask you to consider such an arrangement with Roimata.’

I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t — and Tane moved swiftly on.

‘Marriage should be an option for gay Polynesian men and women. With it we can establish a tribe — a tribe based not just on sexual identity but on family. A tribe must have children to survive. It must also have parents, grandmothers and grandfathers. Even though the children may not be gay by practice, they will be gay by genealogy through their fathers and mothers. When my own children grow up, I want them to think of themselves as belonging to a great new gay family, a wonderful new gay tribe —’

‘What about other partners?’ I asked. ‘Gay or lesbian lovers?’

‘It will be difficult,’ Tane conceded. ‘But we come from a tribal people and surely the tribe should be able to accommodate —’

His voice faded. He knew that what he was talking about was some ideal that might exist way in the future, if ever. He also realised he was talking too much, pushing too much. He backed off, leaving me some space to think. The seconds turned into minutes and:

‘You don’t need to give me an answer right now, Michael,’ he said.

‘It’s not that,’ I answered.

For some reason I thought of Carlos. He was getting to me.

‘It’s just that I don’t know where my life is going right now. There’s so much to sort out. The timing isn’t right —’

‘Michael,’ Tane said gently, ‘it never is.’

I returned to the office. Roimata’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying. When I took her in my arms she clung to me as if her life depended on it.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she said.

‘You embarrassed?’ I asked. ‘That’s a new one. Really, I’m honoured. Who knows? This might just be the way to win back the family.’

‘Yours and mine,’ Roimata said. ‘So you’ll think about it?’

‘May as well.’ I shrugged. ‘My life is already ratshit. One extra thing on top of it won’t make it any worse.’

Roimata knew I was joking. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

At that moment, the telephone rang. It was Auntie Pat.

‘There may be more information about Cliff up at the old farmhouse,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going up there by myself. So I’ve booked you to come back up to Gisborne. I’ve already paid for your ticket. Pick it up at the airport. You’re on the last plane out of Wellington tonight and the mid-morning plane back.’

‘Great,’ I answered.

But Auntie Pat hadn’t finished with me:

‘Michael,’ she said, ‘I’m so afraid. I haven’t told you everything.’

It was pitch black when I arrived in Gisborne. I was one of only a handful of passengers on the plane and we dispersed quickly into the night.

‘This is getting to be a habit,’ I joked when I saw Auntie Pat waiting by the car.

She offered her cheek for a kiss. This time she was in the driver’s seat. When we reached Gladstone Road she turned left on the highway out of town.

‘We haven’t got much time,’ she said, ‘so I thought we’d go straight out to the old farm and stay there overnight. I’ve cleared it with your father, though I didn’t tell him you’d be with me. He was curious why I would want to go out there. Neither of us has been there for years. I told him I was going up with Kara — you know, Bully’s widow — to collect some of their stuff.’

When Grandfather Arapeta had died in 1983 he left the farm to Auntie Pat and my father. But Dad didn’t want to move back there and Auntie Pat had taken Nana Florence to live in Gisborne. Bully became the manager of the farm and, as the years went by, his role dwindled to caretaker. Six months ago he had passed away.

We arrived at the farm. PRIVATE PROPERTY and DO NOT ENTER signs had been wired to the gates. Auntie Pat gave me the keys to unlock them, and she drove through, towards the old homestead. The moon had come up above it, glinting on the windows and transforming the verandah posts into white teeth. I’d forgotten how big and imposing it was. In its day it had been one of the largest homesteads in the valley.

By the time I caught up with her, Auntie Pat was out of her car with the torch, and going up the front steps to the door.

‘Can you bring the stuff in the boot?’

I nodded and lifted the box with its overnight supplies: sheets, bedding, milk, food, soap and other toiletries. Auntie Pat unlocked the door and went into the pantry. There, she found some candles and a box of matches.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Michael, but I didn’t get the chance to have the electricity switched back on. We’ll be using candles tonight.’

Auntie Pat scraped a match. It flared as she applied it to a candle. I thought that her fixed stare as she lit one candle after another, and ordered me to take them into all the rooms, was simply a matter of concentration. Later, I realised that Auntie Pat wanted to make sure there was not a dark corner anywhere. Only when the house blazed with light did she step from the pantry. Even then, I could see the terror in her eyes as her childhood came rushing back to confront her. For me, it was different. The homestead was just an old house, derelict, standing in the middle of dark bush. But for Auntie Pat it was filled with ghosts. Perhaps ghosts she thought she had exorcised years ago.

‘All right,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘Let’s see if we can find anything. When Mum, Monty and I left here, Bully was told there were two rooms that were always to remain shut. One of them was Sam’s bedroom. The other was the room that Dad used as his office and where he kept his accounts, whakapapa books and all his military records. You look in Sam’s room, Nephew. I’ll do Dad’s office.’

She gave me the key to Sam’s room.

‘I wish we’d brought a radio,’ she shivered. ‘If we had, I would have put it on the loudest rock ‘n’ roll radio station I could find.’

I walked along the corridor to Uncle Sam’s bedroom and unlocked the door. The room was absolutely bare. No bed, no bedside furniture. Just four walls, a curtained window and a linoleum floor. Any suggestion that anybody had ever slept in here had been stripped away. Except, that is, for the wardrobe, which had been built in and could not be dismantled.

I went to the sitting room, got a chair, and took it back to Uncle Sam’s room. Perhaps I might find something on the top of the wardrobe — some letter, something that might have been overlooked in the clean sweep of the room. No luck. I opened the wardrobe and tested the flooring, knocking at it with my knuckles. Hello, hello, two of the boards were loose and the reverberations from my knuckles indicated an empty space beneath them. Just the kind of space where a young boy would put special things — a pocketknife, a treasured Western comic, a blue bird’s egg. Or, as a teenager, his stash of X-rated magazines. Or, as a young man, his birth certificate, Army discharge documents, letters from a lover, photographs —

Nothing.

I heard weeping. At first I thought it was the wind. My blood ran cold as I wondered whether I had disturbed Uncle Sam’s spirit. But the weeping wasn’t coming from his room. I followed the sound down the corridor to Grandfather Arapeta’s study.

Auntie Pat was slumped in an old chair. She looked like a golden moth trapped within the aureole of candelight.

‘This was a bad idea,’ she said.

In her hands was the old family Bible where family births and deaths were registered. The page where Uncle Sam’s name should have appeared was ripped out. On a fresh page, Auntie Pat’s name and Dad’s had been re-inscribed. Immediately following were mine and my sister’s.

I took the Bible from Auntie Pat’s hands.

‘Why don’t you go and make us a cup of tea?’ I asked. ‘I’ll finish this.’

When she had gone I looked everywhere — for a letter Sam may have written from Vietnam. Newspaper clippings. Photos. Anything.

I found nothing.

I went to join Auntie Pat.

‘It was worth the try,’ she said.

I thought of the barn. I went along the road. The stables were deserted. The door to the barn was swinging in the wind. I went in. Saw the ladder to the loft. Thought of Uncle Sam and Cliff together, and Cliff laughing:

Well, what do you expect? I’m, a healthy mid-Western boy —

‘I can’t find him, Uncle Sam. I’m so sorry —’

The next morning, the alarm went at dawn. Auntie Pat, reverting to childhood, had bunked down in the bedroom she had slept in as a child. When I went to find her, there was only a note pinned to her door:

GOOD MORNING, SLEEPYHEAD. BREAKFAST IS ON THE TABLE. AFTER YOU’VE EATEN, SADDLE UP ONE OF THE HORSES AND COME TO THE EAST PADDOCK.

I grabbed some toast and coffee, changed quickly and went down to the stable. I saddled a grey and, a few minutes later, hit the track which took me diagonally across the flatland and into the valley leading to the river. This was where Uncle Sam loved to hold a boulder and jump in. I could almost imagine him sitting there, looking up at me as I passed, smiling to himself that I didn’t know he was there.

I crossed the river, remembering the wild mustangs that Cliff had headed off, and took the trail up the ravine and into the hills that formed the rugged eastern boundary of the farm. The ride took just on half an hour and, by the time I had crested the hills, the grey was panting with the exertion. The land was mainly covered with pines and scrub. It was the worst land on the farm.

I looked up to the skyline. Auntie Pat was silhouetted against the sky, waving to me. When I reached her I saw she had a chainsaw tied to her horse.

‘See that pine tree, Michael? Saw it down, please.’

I did so, and the tree toppled. The space opened the bottom of the slope to the light.

‘See that patch down there?’

Tears were running down Auntie Pat’s face. She pointed to a spot which must once have been shadowed by the fallen tree. It was marked by a small cairn that had been piled by hand.

‘That’s your Uncle Sam.’

She resumed her story.

‘After Sam was killed,’ Auntie Pat began, ‘and the coroner had finished his investigation, Sam’s body was brought back to us. You’d think Dad would have relented of his anger, but he was such an unforgiving man. The local people wanted Sam to rest on the marae but Dad said “No”. The local people assumed that Dad would bury Sam in our family graveyard. Again, Dad said “No”. He and Mum argued. She had tried to stand up for Sam in life. She tried again in death. She said to Dad, “All right then, I will take Sam back to my own people and he can rest in our graveyard.” Before she could do it, Dad lashed Sam’s coffin to the sledge and brought him here. He told all of us to stay behind, and the last we saw of our brother was Dad taking him off across the farm. But Mum said to me, “Patty, darling, you go and follow your father and see where he buries my son. Don’t let him see you though.”’

It was as if Auntie Pat had forgotten I was there — it was Sam she talked to now.

‘Fancy our own father, Sam, doing this to you. Bringing you here as if you were a murderer. Putting you in this unconsecrated ground, in this dark place, and leaving you here. But he didn’t know I had followed him, did he? He didn’t know that I watched from up there, among the trees, as he dug this grave for you.’

Auntie Pat grabbed my shoulders, and her fingers were like claws digging into me. She was trembling all over and her eyes were wide and staring.

I tried to calm her down.

‘Auntie Pat —’

She looked at me, puzzled, and I knew that she had gone, gone, gone into her memories. Then she gasped and hugged me.

I knew that I had become Sam.

‘Dad never even saw me,’ she said in a girlish voice. ‘Wasn’t I clever? I followed the sledge on foot all the way! I kept parallel with Dad, hiding in the bushes. Maybe he suspected I was there. Sometimes he stopped and looked in my direction. “Patty, I can see yoouuuuuu —”’

Auntie Pat giggled conspiratorially.

‘You would have been proud of me, Sam. I made myself small. I blended into the landscape the way you wrote you used to when you were on patrol. Dad crossed the river, and I slipped in, swimming underwater after him. Did you know I even swam under the sledge, and he didn’t know I was there? I re-surfaced over by some rocks and, when Dad went up the ravine, I followed. My dress was cold and clammy from the water … my hair was wet … I was so tired by the time Dad reached this place … yes, just as the sun was going down … and he took out his spade … and began digging … and …

‘Auntie Pat … Auntie Pat.’

Auntie Pat began to scream and scream. She stood up and looked down at the cairn. ‘Why did you do it, Daddy? Why did you have to bring Sam here? I saw what you did … the way you buried Sam … the way you placed him on the side of the hole … and then … you pushed him in with your foot … and he went tumbling in …’

Please, not eternal darkness.

‘Why, Daddy, why …’

I don’t know how long Auntie Pat and I stayed up there, on the side of the hill, looking at Uncle Sam’s grave. It took me a long time to quieten her down. Then, without a word, she stood up and went to a saddlebag and took out some flowers she’d brought with her. She went down to the cairn and started to place them on the grave. I joined her.

‘I saw it all, Michael,’ she said. ‘I watched Dad shovel dirt over Sam. Once it was over, I ran like the wind to get back to the homestead before Dad. When I arrived, Mum was waiting for me. She was out of her mind with grief. “Did you see where he buried Sam? Did you?” she asked. I told her, “Yes, Mum.” She asked me, “Will you be able to find the place again?” I said, “Yes, I’ll be able to find it.” Half an hour later, Dad arrived. When he had washed up he said, “Florence bring the family Bible to me.” He tore out the page which had Sam’s birth details on it, and he said, “Nobody is to mention Sam’s name in this house again.” Then he told us we had to burn all Sam’s things.’

Auntie Pat paused for a moment. I thought she might start weeping again but —

‘No, I’m all right, Michael.’

Her memory went back to that night again.

‘Mum tried to stop Dad. She followed him into Sam’s room, and when he started to throw everything out of the window — the bedding, Sam’s clothes, Sam’s records and Sam’s books — she ran at him and started to hit him with her fists. “You bastard,” she yelled, over and over. Then Dad found Sam’s secret place under the floorboards where he’d kept his diary, photos and letters, Mum launched herself at him and started to scratch his face. While they fought, I saw Sam’s diary fall from Dad’s arms. I picked it up quickly, and hid it. Monty saw what I did. “Sshh, don’t tell Daddy.” A few letters fell also, and the photograph. Next minute, Dad threw Mum off him and walked out the door. He went to the car, opened the boot and took out the can of spare petrol. He splashed the petrol over Sam’s things and set a match to them. There was a whoosh and, next minute, the sky was alight — and the updraught was carrying burning ash into the air like they were birds on fire. I heard Mum say to Dad, “You’ve told us we are never to speak Sam’s name again. Let me tell you what I have decided. You will never hear me speak your name again, ever.” Dad just looked at her. “Do what you like,” he said. He’d long passed caring about her. After a while, he stopped caring about me too. All he really cared about was Monty.’

Auntie Pat wiped her brow.

‘My father broke Mum’s heart,’ she said as she stood up. ‘But he never broke her spirit. Every year while Dad was alive we always brought flowers to Sam’s grave. Dad must have wondered how we knew where Sam was buried, but he said nothing. When he died, Mum was no longer tied to the farm — or to him. People think I was the one who decided to shift to Gisborne, but it was Mum’s idea. We still kept bringing flowers to Sam. Every anniversary of his death. Mum would say to me, “Patty? Patty! Hurry up and bring the car around to the front! It’s time to see Sam —”’

Auntie Pat looked up at the sky.

‘You never stopped loving him, did you, Mum. Neither did I, and don’t you worry — I’ll still come back out here every year.’

Then Auntie Pat put her fingers to her lips and placed a kiss on Sam’s grave.

‘I’m sorry, brother. It was all my fault. Everything that happened was all my fault.’

I held Auntie Pat close to me.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘You loved your brother. If you’d been able to, I know you would have tried to save him.’

Auntie Pat sighed, took my hand, nodded and addressed Sam:

‘Well, at least you’ll have some sun this winter, brother.’ She turned swiftly to me.

‘When I die, you are to bring me up here and bury me next to my brother. The others can go to the family graveyard if they want to. But my brother is not to lie here alone. Do you hear me, Michael? Do you hear me?’

Auntie Pat called me Michael only when she was angry. Boy, was she getting her wild up now.

‘Okay, Auntie,’ I answered. ‘You and Uncle Sam might be starting up a family tradition.’

Auntie Pat looked puzzled.

‘Well,’ I continued, ‘you don’t think they’ll be wanting me in the graveyard, do you? I’ll be better off with you two!’

Auntie Pat pulled a face.

‘Listen to the boy,’ she said to Sam. ‘God, he has some dumb ideas.’

She looked at her watch.

‘We’d better get back. You have a plane to catch.’

Then, with a rush, it was time to go to Canada. Half an hour before Roimata and I were due to leave the office for the airport, the telephone rang. Roimata was in her usual panic and thought I would answer it, but I was having a little panic of my own and thought she would pick it up. It was just as well I realised in time:

‘Hi, Michael.’

Click click, crack.

‘Ada!’

‘Oh, you naughty boy!’ she said, crack, swallow, laugh, click. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Mr Harper had one of those hyphenated names, Clifford James Addison-Harper! You go stand by your fax machine right now, because I’m sending down to you all the information I’ve got on him.’

‘You mean he’s alive? And you’ve found him?’

‘Sure thing, honey!’

‘Ada, I could kiss you!’

‘Oh, honey, you’re making me blush and that’s hard for a sixty-five- year-old woman to do!’

‘You’re sixty-five?’

‘Every bitty year.’

‘I don’t care. Here’s the kiss!’

I blew her a kiss down the telephone. Heard her pause. Then click click clickety click, crack crack CRACK — sigh.

‘I guess that’s the closest to telephone sex I’ll ever get,’ Ada drawled. ‘Take care, honey, and here’s Mr Harper’s details coming at you.’

A few seconds later the fax machine began to spit, curl and hum with Cliff Harper’s telephone number and address: Back of the Moon, Muskegon Harbour, Illinois.

I rang Auntie Pat. ‘We’ve found him, Auntie Pat.

‘We’ve found Cliff Harper.’