Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘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.