Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘That’s it ,’ he said.

I doubt if Sam Harper even thought about what he was doing. He opened the back door and motioned me to follow him.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘There’s something I’d like you to see.’

The dogs tried to come inside with us but he ordered them out. He was on the run through the house and I didn’t get much of a chance to see what the interior was like. A hallway. A sitting room. Up the stairs. Past a bedroom. Another bedroom. A study.

‘This is where Dad does his paper work,’ Sam Harper said. ‘You know, all the bills, correspondence, his Vietnam Veterans’ stuff —’

Books. Deer horns mounted above the doorway. A huge trout and, underneath, a photograph of a father and son proudly holding the fish after they’d caught it. Other photographs in silver frames — a family portrait, a beautiful young woman, a photo of Cliff Harper himself.

Sam Harper was reaching for an album from his father’s book shelf. I couldn’t take my eyes off the photograph of Cliff Harper. He had grown older, but his looks were intact. Blond, clean cut, still devastatingly handsome. Although his unswerving gaze had lost its innocence, he still possessed his boyish grin and mysterious half smile.

Sam Harper clambered down and stood beside me. He flicked through the pages, then stopped. He looked at me and pointed to a photograph.

‘Do you know who this is?’ he asked.

The photograph was dated Vietnam, 1969. I knew it well. Uncle Sam and Cliff Harper look as if they’ve just come up from the beach after taking a swim. The photograph must have been taken when they were on leave at Vung Tau. Someone, I don’t know who —George maybe — had taken it. Cliff Harper is sitting on the sand. Uncle Sam is resting in the harbour of his arms. His upper body is strongly developed. Around his neck is a greenstone hei tiki. Tunui a te Ika.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘That’s my uncle.’

I was trying to keep my emotions under control but it was so hard.

Once I had thought that the one who really drew your attention in the photograph was Cliff Harper. It was he who looked directly at the camera. Now, seeing the photograph again, I realised that while Cliff Harper was the looker, Uncle Sam was the one who eventually held your fascination. His eyes were looking somewhere else, at some point beyond the camera. His beauty was more subtle. It had less to do with the externals of high cheekbones and chiselled planes and more to do with a deep inner sadness. Uncle Sam was like the moon, veiled and evanescent.

‘I’m named after him, aren’t I?’ Sam Harper said.

His voice sounded breathless with wonder. For a moment I thought everything was going to be all right. Then:

‘You’re the guy who phoned Dad from New Zealand.’

‘Yes. You’re named after my Uncle Sam. And, yes, I phoned your father from New Zealand.’

‘And again from Ottawa? It was you, wasn’t it. You.’

Sam Harper’s voice had taken on an angry tone. When I looked at him I could see he had become afraid. He put the album back in its place and, arms folded, sat on his father’s desk.

‘What’s this all about? Why has Dad been acting the way he has?’

What could I tell him? That his father and my uncle had been lovers? No.

‘I shouldn’t have invited you in,’ Sam Harper said. ‘I want you to leave. Now.’

I saw him looking at a rifle leaning against Cliff Harper’s desk.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘My business was with your father. If he isn’t here, of course I will go.’

It all happened so quickly. Even now I’m not too sure if I handled it right. Perhaps there was no way of handling it so that Sam Harper would feel comfortable. Even when we were outside and I was walking to the car I saw that he was still afraid. I smiled at him, trying to soothe his fears.

I reached through the window and picked up Tunui a te Ika.

‘I’d like to leave your father a gift. Would you give it to him when he returns?’

Tunui a te Ika bucked and twisted in my hands.

Bring it back to me, Sam. Bring it back.

I handed the greenstone to Sam Harper.

‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’

‘It’s something that Uncle Sam gave your father in Vietnam. It’s a long story. Your father returned it to Sam —’

‘He’s dead then? The man I’m named after?’

‘Yes. That’s why I came to see Mister Harper senior. To tell him and give him the greenstone.’

Sam Harper began to relax. He smiled cautiously.

‘Look, I’m sorry. If that’s all this is about I’ve reacted pretty badly, right? You feel like a coffee?’

I was feeling embarrassed now. ‘I’ve already presumed too long on your hospitality,’ I said, ‘but would you mind if I left a letter with the gift? It won’t take me long to write —’

‘Sure. Do you have pen and paper?’

‘Yes. It won’t take a moment.’

It had been foolish of me to come. What had I expected? Why hadn’t I understood why Cliff Harper had been so evasive and angry? He had built another life. He did not want to revisit the past. I hoped the letter would explain why I had come, even when he had not wanted me to:

Dear Mr Harper,

I am sorry if I have invaded your privacy and, as soon as I’ve written this letter I’ll be on my way and you will not hear from me again. I have not wanted to cause you stress by pursuing this matter but I am not only acting on my own behalf. I am also under instructions from my aunt, whom you knew as Patty, who wanted me to advise you that Sam was on his way to meet you at Auckland Airport on the evening you left New Zealand in 1971. He was killed in a car accident.

I realise it was a mistake to come here uninvited, but I had an obligation to fulfil. I am leaving with this letter the greenstone pendant, Tunui a te Ika. Uncle Sam wanted you to have it. Had he been able to, he would have brought it to you himself in Auckland.

I leave you and your family my best wishes,

Michael Mahana.

I gave the letter to Sam Harper. Tried to smile. Shook his hand.

‘Should you or any of your family ever come to New Zealand, please let us know. My aunt and I would be happy to extend to you all the hospitality we can.’

‘Listen,’ Sam Harper said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want that coffee? How about lunch?’

‘Thank you, but no. I’ve already stayed too long. I have to get back to Ottawa.’

‘You came from Ottawa for just a few hours?’

‘It was all the time I had available. Please tell Mr Harper senior I’m sorry I did not meet him personally. Goodbye.’

I stepped into the car. I saw Tunui a te Ika trying to leap the distance back into my hands, and I felt the onset of tears.

‘No, little one. Stay.’

I had to get away. I backed out of the drive and drove as fast as I could from the house. At the top of the rise I stopped and looked back.

Had Uncle Sam met up with Cliff Harper, perhaps this was where they would have ended. Together, in Muskegon County, on a small Illinois farm. A valley with a river running through it, or a place overlooking a lake, where they could last out all their days. A time when they could celebrate, every evening, the secret embrace that comes at the end of the day. But they had never found that safe place that is the right of every human being.

All of a sudden the wind came out of nowhere. The dust swirled high. The trees began to sigh and whisper, showering petals. At first they were like tears, but as they continued, I knew they were like a benediction.

No, Michael. Don’t grieve, Nephew. You’ve done your job. Thank you.

There was a flare of light and the sky became transformed into a sea of opalescent waves, tinged with red, stretching to the end of forever.