Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

I looked across at Roimata. ‘Carlos sends his love.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Roimata said. ‘Do tell him, however, that his attempts at bribery last only as long as the flight. All’s fair in love and war.’

‘I heard that,’ Carlos laughed. ‘You tell Roimata her privileges have just been revoked for the trip back. And as for you Michael, have a great trip, be a star, do what you have to do but don’t miss the plane back from your, er, fisheries conference, you hear?’

‘Okay, you’re the sheriff.’

I put down the telephone and, buoyed by my conversation with Carlos, excused myself from Roimata and went into the business room. I put my Mastercard in one of the telephones. Dialled the country code for the United States, the city code for Chicago and the number that Ada had faxed me.

There was a faint pause, a dial tone, then another. I counted each one. After the fourth I realised the call wasn’t going to click over to an answerphone. I waited another six rings, and was about to put the telephone down, when:

‘Hello?’

The voice was bright. Breathless. For a moment I simply held the phone, not knowing what to do. My mouth was dry.

‘Is this Cliff Harper?’

‘Yes. May I ask who’s calling?’

My heart pounded. I couldn’t go on. It seemed so ridiculously easy to be speaking with Cliff Harper after all the time it had taken trying to find him.

‘My name is Michael Mahana and I’m calling from New Zealand —’

‘New Zealand? Wow.’

I collected my thoughts.

‘Mr Harper, I was given your number by your American Vietnam Veterans’ Association and —’

‘Oh, wait up.’

Wait up? My breath caught in my throat.

‘You’re wanting my Dad,’ the voice said. ‘Cliff senior. I’ll see if he’s in.’

I heard Cliff junior leave the telephone and call:

‘Dad, are you downstairs? Mom, is Dad down there?’

Cliff Harper was married? Had a wife and a son — perhaps other sons and daughters?

I felt a sense of alarm, and then anger at myself. What should I have expected after thirty years? Some absurd romantic part of me had assumed that Cliff Harper was still single and had been waiting every day for this telephone call. I had never expected he would be married with a wife and children. I may have countenanced a relationship — but a male one with someone who would, surely, have looked like Uncle Sam.

Something told me to hang up. But it was too late.

‘I’m sorry, Dad’s just this minute left the house. Can I tell him you called? Is there a return number in New Zealand?’

My body flooded with both relief and disappointment.

‘Look,’ I answered. ‘Could you tell Mr Harper senior that my name is Michael Mahana and I am a nephew of Sam Mahana. I’m actually on my way to Canada via the United States tonight. I’m flying United —’

‘The Friendly Skies?’

‘I’ll be transiting Chicago on my way to Ottawa. If possible I am hoping to meet Mr Harper in Chicago. Please tell him I’ll call again during my stopover in Los Angeles to see whether a meeting can be arranged.’

‘I’ll give Dad the message. Wow, New Zealand!’

Two hours later, I was on my way. Roimata and I settled into our plush seats with champagne and nibbles. United’s signature tune, Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, was playing as the plane taxied out onto the runway. A roar, a sense of gliding and then we lifted into the air. Below us, Auckland fell away like a necklace whose clasp had broken. Still climbing steeply, we crossed the coastline, heading north-east across the dark night sea.

I have always loved long journeys. The act of leaving accustomed surroundings is a release from real time, real life. You can place that familiar life on hold, freeze it, secure in the awareness that it will be there waiting for you when you come back. The journey itself becomes an opportunity to explore parallel lives, those other optional lives which have always been there.

My trip with Roimata to Canada seemed ordinary enough. But something was closing behind me — the way I had been, the seemingly dutiful son leading a dutiful life — and a new Michael was emerging. Ahead, the main purpose of the trip was a conference in Ottawa — but there was also Cliff Harper in Illinois, a destination which was assuming as much importance as the conference. What had happened to him and Uncle Sam in the past would be put right in the present.

Somehow, I had the feeling that my trip would take me to another crossroad too. This wasn’t just about Uncle Sam. It was also about me. There, in Ottawa and Illinois, Uncle Sam’s story and mine would meet — and I had the suspicion that my own destiny would be forever changed by it. All the journeys I had taken through my life would find their answers in that encounter and help me to complete the decisions I was making. About Jason. About Carlos. About Roimata. About myself.

For the moment, I could relax, enjoy dinner with Roimata and toast the future with a fine glass or two of wine. Suspended between earth and sky, I could have my choice of twenty movies on my own personal console, and delay any decisions that needed to be made about Life.

Or could I? I wasn’t alone on the flight. Nor was I the only one with an appointment to keep with Cliff Harper. I had Tunui a te Ika in my hand luggage, and I had a promise to keep for an uncle I had never known — a promise passed to a nurse in a bloodied ball dress on a night road to Auckland thirty years ago.

As well there was Auntie Pat, also seeking an ending, a resolution, and motivated by love for her brother.

Roimata’s voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Just before we left Auckland I telephoned Cliff Harper. He’s married. His son answered the phone. I didn’t expect him to be married.’

‘So you didn’t speak to him personally.’

‘No.’

Roimata took a sip of her wine. ‘How old would he be now?’

‘Uncle Sam was twenty-two or twenty-three when they were in Vietnam together. If Cliff Harper was the same age, he’d be in his early fifties.’

The thought caught me unawares and I laughed with surprise because, until that moment, I had never thought of Cliff Harper as being anything except the age he was in Uncle Sam’s diary, in the photograph and the conversations with Auntie Pat, George and Anne-Marie Davidson. What nonsense to think that he would look the same! Had life treated him kindly? Was he still as devastatingly handsome as he had been in his youth? Did he even remember Uncle Sam? Perhaps Sam had been only one of a number of lovers. Cliff Harper may have been the great romantic love of Uncle Sam’s life, but the reverse might not have been true.

‘He’ll have made another life,’ Roimata said. ‘He will have put all that stuff about him and Sam behind him. He may not want to see you.’

‘I never thought of that as a possibility. I never wanted to admit it, but now I’m not so sure —’

‘Speaking of which,’ Roimata continued, changing the subject, ‘I’ve a question about your Auntie Pat. She’s never married, has she? Do you think Auntie Pat might be —’

‘Might be? Might be what?’

‘You know …’

I knew exactly what Roimata was implying.

‘No way ,’ I answered.

The force of my insistence surprised me. Even if Auntie Pat was lesbian, I didn’t want her to be. I didn’t want even to consider it possible.

‘Pity. She would make a great kuia for us.’

Roimata leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

‘I’d do more,’ she said, ‘but I’m mindful of Carlos’s embargo. Goodnight, Michael. Do you realise that this is the first night we’ve slept together?’