Witi Ihimaera - The Thrill of Falling - Stories

I couldn’t believe my luck when I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. After the wedding, we went up to Auckland to make our lives and, for a while, we stayed with her folks.

Your mother, Anahera, became my angel.

Even when my troubles began.

So here we are, me and my mate Whero, onstage again.

How come? Dermot got us a second chance at another club, Delilah’s. Nobody gets a second chance in this town, but the faggoty Irishman pulled some strings and, fucking amazing, Delilah came through!

‘How did you manage it?’ Whero asks him.

‘Told some lies. Shite, I’m goin’ straight to hell. Said the reason you walked off the stage was because you had food poisonin’ and needed to spew … and, you know, Delilah’s been wantin’ a chance at you. So for feck’s sake, Whero, when you get out there on the stage and in the spotlight, stay there. If you don’t, and you walk, you and me are finished. Got that?’

But there’s always a moment, just before we take the stage, when girlfriend turns to me, panicking, her eyes wide with fear. ‘I can’t do it, Red,’ she says. ‘Not without you.’

Hell, I live for those moments. ‘That’s what I’m here for, babe,’ I tell her. ‘It’s me and you forever, remember? Womb to tomb, birth to earth and all that shit. So let’s get out there, bitch, and rock this es-tablish-ment.’

There’s something about Whero. If she wasn’t heading for rock-chick stardom she could make it on Broadway or even Hollywood — a bit of Barbra, a dash of Judy, something of Janis and, when she really lets out the throttle, Jennifer Holliday.

If you’re standing in the way, watch out.

But it’s more than that. When she takes the stage tonight there’s a deep moan. And then she begins to sing:

Oh, the punters, mostly Kiwis again, I know they want to fuck her.

‘Open up,’ I yell at Whero, ‘time to show what ya got.’

The sound crew — well, the sound man — who’s trying to control Whero’s huge voice just gives up as it rockets into the stratosphere. And there am I, not wanting him to do that, forcing her on and higher and louder and no don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t …

Zowee. Fireworks, climax time.

Backstage, everyone’s happy with Whero, kissface, kissy kissy.

‘I could never do it without you,’ she says to me.

‘And that’s the friggin’ truth,’ I grin.

Is Dermot relieved? He’s drinking straight from a bottle of Southern Comfort, blissing out but … uh oh, I see that he’s brought a suitcase. Maybe that argument he had with Tupou earlier has tipped the scales. He doesn’t want to go to New York so … time to move on out? Or maybe he was serious about him and Whero going their separate ways if she didn’t work out tonight.

Here comes Tupou with bubbly in his hands. He takes Dermot’s bourbon from him and switches it with a glass of champers.

This I gotta hear!

‘What y’doin’?’ Dermot asks as Tupou leans in and cops a feel. ‘I’m celebrating my extremely hot boyfriend ’cause he’s a cracker.’

‘I love that word,’ Dermot sighs. ‘For me, it’s up there with “struth” and “flamin’ heck” and “cobber” and “digger” …’

Tupou looks at him askance. ‘Are you trying to get a rise out of me when I’m trying to say sorry? And wanting to congratulate you for tonight? Whero was fabulous! The audience went apeshit.’

But nobody’s home at Dermot’s tonight. ‘Alf Stewart,’ he says, lifting his bubbly in a toast, ‘he’s the lucky bugger who gets to say all them words. Aussie words. Home and Away words. Ray Meagher, he plays Alf Stewart.’

Tupou gives Dermot a long, sarcastic look. ‘Struth,’ he mouths. ‘I think a dingo took me boyfriend.’

Dermot eyeballs him. ‘You’re a genuine stand-up comic. I’d do anything to be a stranger in your land.’

‘Aw, fair go, mate. Aussie ain’t my land.’

‘Australia, New Zealand, same old, same old.’

‘You’d make a terrible Australian,’ Tupou taunts. ‘You get sunburnt too easily. England, Ireland, same old, same old.’

‘Take that back, y’filthy bitch.’

Oh, for goodness sake, guys, make up. Whero and me like living with you and don’t want to be back on the fuckin’ street.

Tupou sees Dermot’s suitcase and, before Dermot can stop him, picks it up and opens it. ‘Oh, I see. You don’t want to come with me to New York so you’re going to Australia?’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’

‘You’re leaving me?’ Tupou’s voice is cracking. He takes out one of Dermot’s shirts to underline his point. ‘You were going to tell me, of course, and Whero.’ He begins to sing ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport’.

Dermot grabs him. ‘No, I’m not leavin’ you — or Whero, not now that she’s back on feckin’ track with her career. And if you look closer, you’ll see that my suitcase is only half packed.’ He pauses. ‘I’m not goin’ to Aussie.’

Well, that’s fuckin’ good to know! So where then?

‘My uncle rang from Ireland,’ Dermot tells Tupou. ‘Seamus, my mother’s older brother. It’s his birthday and he wants me to go back for it.’

‘Can I come too?’ Tupou asks, and then he sees a look pass over Dermot’s face. ‘Oh, right, this faggot niggah isn’t good enough to take back to your people.’

‘I’m not goin’ to be gone for that long. But maybe …’ He begins to do a bit of a rant. Is it the booze talking? ‘Look, what the feck are we all doin’ in London anyway!’

‘Catholic sonofabitch, and just when I was about to tell you that I told the boss to stuff the job in New York.’

‘But that would be just exchangin’ one —’ Dermot makes signs with his fingers ‘— “metropolitan capital” for another. Why don’t we try somethin’ new? What’s wrong with succeedin’ in … Dublin?’

He’s got to be joking. Even Tupou is startled.

But Dermot raves on. ‘Look, we all come to feckin’ London because we think that’s what we’re supposed to do. If we can make it here, we can make it anywhere. But what if we don’t fall for that shite?’

‘Er …’ Tupou begins, ‘so you want to go back to Dublin? To the same Irish family that told their queer son to piss off? Like my family found out, so I hightailed it out of New Zealand to London? Dermot, just a while ago you talked about going to Australia.’

Dermot clenches the champagne glass so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t break.

‘Feck, feck, feck. Sometimes I just don’t know where I belong, Tupou. Or where I’m supposed to get to from here.’

Tupou hugs him close.

‘Dermot, you belong to me. And we’re each other’s country, each other’s family.’ He takes a breath. ‘Listen, you go back to Ireland to your uncle’s birthday, I’ll keep the home fires burning here, and then, you bastard, come back and let’s sort this out. UK, Oz, Ireland, Aotearoa or even Apia, what the fuck does it matter as long as we’re together.’

Two weeks later, Dermot’s gone to Ireland and Tupou’s mooning around the flat. Sometimes Whero and I take him to a bar to cheer him up and we all have a couple of drinks and dances — and man oh man, the number of posh British gentlemen who come on to Tupou. After all, he’s a Polynesian prince.

Dermot, if I was you, I wouldn’t stay away too long.

But that freakin’ Petera and the memories of New Zealand that he brought with him are causing havoc. Worse, he’s got Whero thinking of her dad again.