Witi Ihimaera - The Thrill of Falling - Stories

Whero, you must understand that the way you are isn’t your fault.

Sure you were a difficult baby, up most nights bawling your head off. Maybe you sensed the change coming when your mother told her folks we were moving out and would find our own place in Auckland city itself.

Aue, and my job packing batteries at a car factory died on me when they laid me off. And I was missing the sea.

Tangaroa, don’t desert me …

It was your mother who found a place for us to look at in Mount Albert.

That was when she began to realise the truth about me, her sweet man.

The landlord was waiting at the gate when we walked up to the address. He had a BMW, real flash, and we’d come with you on the bus. ‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘when I saw your name listed on the rent form I was expecting something different.’ He was one of those guys who had read a ‘How to Make Money’ manual and decided that having low-rent flats was a good way to get a fast return.

‘Different?’ Your mother went stiff. You had to watch that girl when she got her back up.

‘With a name like Davies, love …’ He lit his pipe, puff puff puff. I don’t think he was being deliberately offensive. He probably had Maori and Pacific Islanders in his other flats but was disappointed that we weren’t Pakeha and therefore, well, an improvement.

‘What’s wrong with Davies?’ Anahera asked. ‘And you are Mr …?’

‘Papadopoulos,’ he answered. ‘Third generation Kiwi, though, so don’t go thinking I’m fresh off the boat. I wasn’t expecting Maoris is all.’

‘And I wasn’t expecting a … a Greek,’ Anahera flared.

The landlord ignored her remark. ‘Ah well,’ he continued, as if he was doing us a favour, ‘seeing as you’re here …’

He opened the gate and was just about to lead us in when Anahera stepped quickly in front of him. He remembered his manners and let her through first.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

We followed your mother up a narrow and dark side pathway to a double doorway. One doorway was for the top flat, which we were hoping to rent. The other was for a bottom flat, which I thought the man at the letting agency had said was empty but I could swear I saw some Maori kids — teenagers — looking out from behind the curtains at us. Perhaps I hadn’t heard him properly.

If Mr Papadopoulos assumed Anahera and I would give the place a quick once-over and then take it, man oh man, was he wrong. ‘There’s no need to accompany us while we take a look,’ she began. Then, to make sure he didn’t: ‘Here, take care of baby for a moment, will you? And please don’t smoke while you’re holding her. We won’t be long.’

Mr Papadopoulos was a bit startled, but we’d already walked off so what else could he do?

The flat was to be let furnished and, although the furnishings were a bit tatty — double bed in one room, single bed in another, sofa and chairs in the sitting room and table and chairs in the kitchen — the place was clean enough.

‘At least there are no rats or cockroaches,’ Anahera said, loud and clear, so that Mr Papadopoulos could hear. We went into a quick huddle, running over the pros and cons, and decided to take the flat. By the time we joined him — he was glad to hand you, Whero, back to us — he was looking at his watch. Anahera’s eyes gleamed. ‘Aha, a man who’s in a hurry,’ she whispered to me, ‘is a man who wants to close a deal fast and can be beaten down.’

Not quite. ‘You are married, aren’tcha, love?’ Mr Papadopoulos asked. He’d noticed Anahera wasn’t wearing a ring.

Maybe we were, maybe we weren’t. ‘The pregnancy caused my fingers to swell,’ she said.

‘Got the ring around y’neck, I s’pose,’ Mr Papadopoulos said with sarcasm.

‘I did have,’ Anahera continued, ‘on a chain, but I’ve put it away for a while. Unfortunately bub’s wandering fingers tore it off in her scramble for the breast.’

I could tell that this detail was a bit gross for Mr Papadopoulos.

Anahera changed the topic. ‘Could you tell us what the neighbours are like?’

‘This is Mount Albert, love. There’s lots of different cultures around here now. New immigrants from all over the place, all mixing in with each other. Did you see the Sikh temple along the road? I rented out one of my flats just last week to some Somalis … I like to do my part for refugees. And you want to see St Luke’s Mall on the weekend … lots of smiling people getting on together. You Maori people should smile more often too — would make getting on with ya a lot easier, eh.’

Jeez, was the arsehole begging for a fight? Anahera saw my flash of anger and gave me a look: settle down.

Mr Papadopoulos looked at his watch again. Made up his mind: we were probably the only name on his fuckin’ list. ‘Righto, love, y’like the flat then? It would be good to get a married couple in it. It makes for more stability.’

‘The walls need painting,’ Anahera said, beginning the negotiation.

‘Yeah, I’ll get to that.’

‘The carpet in the sitting room’s got big holes. It seems very damp and that’s bad news for babies.’

‘Love, Auckland was built in the middle of a swamp and across a coupla harbours. You’ll be hard pressed to find a flat that isn’t damp.’

I spoke up. ‘I think the rent’s too high for what the flat is.’

Mr Papadopoulos looked at me, astonished. ‘By crikey,’ he said, ‘it speaks.’

But Anahera came in fast. ‘Kotare’s right.’

‘The boards on the stairs need work,’ I began. ‘There’s mould on the ceiling of the bathroom, and there’s a heap of junk downstairs needing to be taken to the tip. Also, the walls are thin as hell — and I can already hear the kids downstairs.’

Mr Papadopoulos gave me a strange, puzzled, look. So did Anahera. ‘It’s on a good bus route, hon,’ she said after a while, ‘so I can get to Onehunga when I want to see my folks.’

The landlord recovered. ‘Look, the rent’s three hundred and fifty dollars a week, plus two weeks’ rent in advance, and a bond of two hundred. You’ll get that back, of course.’

‘Make it three hundred a week,’ said Anahera, ‘plus two weeks’ rent in advance, no bond, and we’ll wallpaper and repaint.’

‘Three forty, one week in advance, no bond, I’ll get rid of the junk out the back.’

‘Three fifteen, new fridge.’

‘Three thirty-five. No bond,’ said Mr Papadopoulos.

‘Three twenty.’

‘Three thirty.’

I chipped in, spoiling their rhythm. ‘Three twenty-five.’

‘Done.’ Surprised, Mr Papadopoulos gave me a respectful nod. When it comes down to it, a man likes to negotiate with another man. ‘There we are then,’ he continued, relieved. ‘Oh, by the way, you’re not planning any big parties, are ya? Just, I know you Maoris and your guitars.’

I couldn’t resist. ‘Been to a few, have ya?’

‘I’m not bloody joking. You can move in this Saturday, I s’pose. I’ll be here nine o’clock in the morning with your keys.’

Outside Mr Papadopoulos shook my hand. ‘Right you are — cheerio.’ And then I heard him whisper in Anahera’s ear, ‘You’ve got a right one there.’

We settled into our flat and Anahera made it look fuckin’ awesome, given the little amount of money we had. Took up all our savings to move to Auckland in the first place, and, now Anahera had you to look after, she couldn’t work.