Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

Two hours later, most of the passengers were asleep but I was still awake. I was relaxed and at peace with myself. I had already watched one movie on my console and clicked over to Laura , a 1940s film noir classic directed by Otto Preminger, on the movie classics channel. This was just the kind of old movie Auntie Pat loved.

A woman is found murdered in Laura’s apartment. Lieutenant Mark McPherson, played by Dana Andrews, interviews an intriguing set of ambivalent suspects and it is through their flashback stories that we — and McPherson — get to know Laura. She is played by Gene Tierney, one of the great beauties of Hollywood, and her scenes are filled with rich romantic music and camerawork. The visual centrepiece of the film is, in fact, a portrait of Laura in her apartment — and McPherson is constantly drawn to it.

A third of the way through the film came a scene filled with revelation. Watching it, a thunderbolt struck me, and I realised I could never escape from Uncle Sam’s story — or Cliff Harper.

It is a wet night. Late evening. McPherson visits Laura’s empty apartment for further clues about her murder. He looks at the portrait, and the soundtrack fills with haunting music. He takes out a cigarette and smokes it. He takes off his tie. He goes through the sitting room to an adjoining room where he switches on a desk light. He sits at the desk. He takes off his coat. He opens a drawer in the desk. He gets up and paces the room. He goes into the dead woman’s bedroom.

The scene becomes charged with suspense and an underlying sense of the erotic. McPherson’s visit is not all that it appears to be. In Laura’s bedroom, he opens her dresser. He picks up a white handkerchief and holds it to his nose. He opens a small bottle of her perfume and inhales the smell. He opens the door to her wardrobe and looks at her dresses. The wardrobe door has a mirror on it and, when it closes, McPherson sees his reflection like a voyeur.

At that moment, Waldo Lydecker, Laura’s mentor and elderly friend, enters. Cynically he asks McPherson whether he thinks he’s acting very strangely, coming to Laura’s apartment like a suitor with roses and a box of candy. He warns McPherson to watch it, or he’ll end up in a psychiatric ward, because he’s fallen in love with a woman who doesn’t exist.

I turned off the console. My heart was thudding. I looked out the window, trying to escape the thought that was swirling inside my head. In a panic I lifted the shutter on the window and looked out at the night sky. Instead I saw a reflection of somebody behind me — and I knew it was Uncle Sam. He looked like he did in the photograph, smiling shyly, and he reached out and touched my shoulder:

It’s okay, Nephew, he signed. It was only to be expected —

Then he was gone and it was only the moon, shining through my momentary lunacy, soothing my anxieties and calming me down.

‘Yes, Uncle Sam,’ I thought, ‘perhaps it was inevitable that seeing Cliff Harper through your diary, Auntie Pat, George and Anne-Marie Davidson, I would become you and, just as McPherson had done with Laura, fall in love with Cliff too.’

The dark swirled past. The moon silvered the clouds.

The following morning, the flight arrived at Los Angeles. Roimata and I went through Customs. There was just enough time before our onward flight to Chicago to make my second call to Cliff Harper.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Roimata said, and she hugged me reassuringly.

Instead of being easier the second call was harder. There was the usual dryness in my throat. The telephone kept on ringing and ringing. My palms began to sweat. Thirty years went by and still nobody was picking up the call and —

‘Hello?’

This time, a woman’s voice.

‘Is this the home of Mr Cliff Harper?’

‘Why, yes. Are you wanting my husband or Cliff junior?’

‘Mr Harper senior.’

‘I’ll go get him for you.’

The telephone went silent. Then:

‘This is Cliff Harper speaking. May I help you?’

Rich. Mellow. So this was what Cliff Harper’s voice sounded like. This was the man who had existed only as a photograph, the man written about in a diary and conveyed through the memories of three people who had known him. The voice breathed life into the shell of memory, filled out the physical frame and gave it substance.

‘Mr Harper? You don’t know me, but I am the nephew of a New Zealander you knew during the Vietnam War. His name was Sam Mahana and I am ringing to —’

There was a sharp intake of breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cliff Harper said, ‘you have the wrong number.’

‘Is this Chicago 7685 —’

Cliff Harper interrupted again.

‘I repeat, you have the wrong number. Please do not call this number again.’

The line went dead. I stood there, drained. But I couldn’t let it go. I hit the redial.

‘Mr Harper, I’m ringing from Los Angeles. My name is —’

‘Son, I told you not to call.’

‘Mr Harper, please don’t hang up. All I want to do is pass you a message from my Uncle Sam.’

I could feel my voice beginning to crack apart with emotion.

‘Sir, I’m travelling on United 51 and I get into Chicago this afternoon at 1450 hours. I go through Canadian Customs there before I catch my onward flight, Air Canada 762 for Ottawa. But I’ll be on the ground for a few hours. I’d like to give you the message if I can. Please —’

Cliff Harper’s voice interrupted me. He was gentle. Firm.

‘Son, I am not the person you are looking for.’

There was a click as the call was disconnected.

I sat silent for most of the trip to Chicago, and Roimata understood. She had been right to remind me that Cliff Harper might not want to see me. It’s funny though, how you keep hoping against hope. When the flight arrived at Chicago I told her to go on through Canadian Customs.

‘You sure you don’t want me to wait with you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I answered.

If disappointment lay ahead, I wanted to face it alone.

I took Tunui a te Ika in my hands and prayed:

‘If you have any power, make him come so that I can put you in his hands.’

Tunui a te Ika was so hot, almost burning in my palms. It kicked and bucked, impatient to complete its journey. But the minutes kept ticking by and, after a while, it quietened. It knew. It knew Harper wasn’t coming.

To have come all this way after all these years —

I couldn’t wait any longer. I mourned with Tunui a te Ika and held the greenstone close to my heart.

I went through Customs and joined Roimata.

Darkness had fallen by the time Roimata and I arrived in Ottawa. We had come from the ends of the earth, and we were tired — by our calculations, we had been travelling for almost two days. It was therefore a relief to be met at the airport by a dapper middle-aged man holding up a card with our names misspelt. He introduced himself as Franklin Eaglen.

‘Is this your first time in Canada?’ he asked. ‘If so, welcome, and I hope you enjoy the visit.’

There’s a kind of recognition that happens when one gay man meets another. As soon as I saw Franklin I knew he was one of us. It was in the flicker of his eyes and the warmth of his voice. There was nothing sexual about it. Rather, there was a sense that we could start a friendship on a different kind of understanding.

‘The car’s just outside,’ Franklin said as he led the way to the luggage conveyor.

I picked up my bag. Roimata left Franklin to struggle after her with her suitcase — and the hatbox which went everywhere with her. It never had a hat in it, but was one of Roimata’s affectations — it was also good for taking the dirty washing back home in.