Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

I don’t know why I said it like that — but at the other end of the telephone I heard a deep moan. It seemed to come out of Te Kore, The Void. Then somebody else was in the room with Cliff Harper, asking if he was okay, and he replied, ‘I’m fine, son. I’ll be down soon.’ Seconds passed. It was like waiting a thousand years.

‘Yes, I knew a soldier called Sam.’

My heart burst with relief. This was where Uncle Sam’s story would end, but at least I had taken it as far as Cliff Harper wished it to go.

‘Thank you Mr Harper,’ I said.

I don’t think Cliff Harper heard me. He was weeping. I hung on, hoping he might change his mind and say, ‘Yes, I’ll meet you at the airport,’ but he didn’t. I thought to myself that there was nothing worse than hearing a grown man cry. Gradually, Cliff Harper began to recover. I heard him sigh and blow his nose.

‘I have to go now, son.’

There was a click as he disconnected the call.

Was that it ? Was that the end of Uncle Sam’s story? I stood there, motionless, disbelief working its way through my mind. I don’t know how long I stood like that. Then I finally realised — yes, that was it. The end. We could all leave the theatre now and go home.

I took a long hot shower. Afterwards, I towelled myself down and began to change for the opera. I was standing in front of the mirror trying to put on the bowtie when there was a knock at the door. It was Roimata, and Lang was with her.

‘Just in time,’ I said, waving the bowtie at her.

But I couldn’t keep up the pretense.

‘Cliff Harper doesn’t want to see me.’

Roimata tried to give me sympathy. She and Lang propped me up against the wall, and she began to knot my bowtie.

‘We knew this might happen. We win some, we lose some.’

‘I know,’ I sighed, ‘but I was so close —’

‘Perhaps I better go,’ Lang said.

‘No,’ Roimata answered.

She turned to me with a look of determination.

‘Listen, Michael,’ she said, ‘this may not be the right time to bring this up but there’s another matter we have to attend to. Our job isn’t over yet.’

‘What do you mean?’

I was suddenly aware that I was standing there just in white shirt, bowtie and underpants, and went to the closet to get my trousers. I saw Lang exchange a glance with Roimata.

‘We who are people of two spirits,’ Lang said, ‘want to make a stand. We want to introduce a resolution at the final session tomorrow, calling on the conference to recognise the contribution made by gay and lesbian men and women to our cultures.’

Lang’s words took my breath away.

‘Michael,’ Roimata continued, ‘the time has come to make a stand. We’ve got to start fighting all the homophobia. All the prejudice. It’s time we came out into the full light of day.’

‘But we need a leader,’ Lang said, looking at me.

‘This is something that you should do,’ I answered gently.

‘I can’t. My grandfather —’

I sat down. I tried to think it through. I finished dressing. I took my black jacket out of the wardrobe. A thought flicked through my head:

‘Yes, the time had come to start fighting. For all the Sams and Cliffs of the world —’

‘Oh what the hell,’ I said. ‘We’ve already lit one fire. Another won’t make a difference. I’ve grown accustomed to playing with matches.’

Then it was time to go to Tristan and Isolde . Franklin was waiting downstairs.

‘Thanks for helping me out,’ he said.

We walked out to the limousine. In the distance I saw spotlights circling in the sky.

The street outside the theatre was crowded with operagoers. When our car came up to the red carpet, flashlights popped all around us. I could just see my photograph in tomorrow’s newspaper and the caption:

‘Millionaire benefactor, Mr Franklin Eaglen, arrives at the opera with an opossum from New Zealand.’

We made it upstairs to the Green Room and Franklin smiled at me, amused.

‘You’re doing this to the manner born,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’

I caught sight of the upwardly mobile Bertram Pine Hawk.

‘Why, good evening, Franklin,’ Bertram said. ‘Mr Mahana, I wasn’t aware you loved the opera.’

‘Kiri Te Kanawa is my aunt,’ I lied, ‘and I go all the time.’

‘We must have our little talk, Franklin,’ Bertram continued. ‘Once the conference is over and we’re not so busy.’

He turned to me again, before gliding off.

‘Meanwhile, Mr Mahana, will you let me know before we cross swords again? I managed to get out from under this time, but —’

‘Thank God that’s behind us,’ Franklin said when Bertram had moved off.

He told me the full story. He had met Bertram five years ago, and they had lived together until six months ago, when Bertram went on to somebody older and better placed politically to provide him with more possibilities of advancement.

‘This is the first time I’ve been out for months,’ Franklin said. ‘I didn’t think I could bear the ridicule. But look at me now! Here I am, with the handsomest young man in the room and Bertram is seething. I’ve come out with a guy who’s prettier than him, who’s obviously got a gun in his pocket and isn’t a hairdresser.’

We took our seats and the curtain went up. On stage was a ship with sails billowing, cresting the wild sea from Ireland to Cornwall. A young sailor was singing a taunting song. Enraged, Isolde appeared, hair wild and long blood-red dress flowing in the wind.

‘Who dares to mock me?’

She called for her maid, Brangäne.

It happened just like that, almost as if Fate had snapped her fingers. Brangäne looked just like Auntie Pat, and I could not help but think again of the story of Uncle Sam and Cliff Harper. It was not just the plot that triggered the memory — the fatal love between Isolde, an Irish princess betrothed to King Marke, and Tristan, a knight in service to him. It was also the volcanic and propulsive nature of the music. I had never heard an orchestra surge and glow with such sound. Nor voices that could soar above the orchestra and deliver such glorious radiance. And before I knew it —

We haven’t much time, Sam said.

The lovers drink a love potion. Now arrived at Cornwall, they cannot stop their desire for each other.

Don’t move, Cliff hissed. Sam groaned and arched and, stretching both arms, reached for the rung above his head. The light showered around him like a waterfall.

In the distance, you can hear the retreating sound of hunting horns as King Marke leaves the castle. Tristan and Isolde take the reckless chance to be together. Night and darkness give a private world for the lovers. In it they can sink down into the miraculous realm of passion.

Oh, God, Sam. I thought this would never happen to me again.

The two lovers consummate their ardour to music of great romantic power. But there are already hints in the orchestra that their love is also associated with death.

Cliff’s voice was smoky with lust, and Sam realised there could be no going back. He had to keep on going forward with Cliff and hope that there was a way of escape from whatever destiny was lying in front of him. And he was gone, gone, gone beyond the point of no return.

While Tristan lies in Isolde’s arms, Brangäne keeps the watch. Her aria, known as Brangäne’s Warning, is full of beauty and yet underscored by a deep sense of tragedy:

‘Alone I watch in the night

Over you who laugh in your dreams

Listen to my warning for someone comes …

Sleepers, wake up! Take care!

Soon the night will pass —’

But the lovers are discovered. By the end of the opera, Tristan dies and Isolde sings her great Liebestod before she also dies of love in his arms.