Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

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.