Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘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.