Witi Ihimaera - White Lies

The act took Paraiti’s breath away. Nobody except Te Teira had ever been so intimate with her. ‘I was told you were ugly,’ the woman said in a clipped English accent, though not without sympathy. ‘But really, you are only burnt and scarred.’ She withdrew her hands, but the imprint of her fingers still scalded Paraiti’s skin. Then she turned, wandering through the room. ‘My name is Mrs Rebecca Vickers,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming. And if you have stolen anything while you have been alone in the room, it would be wise of you to put it back where it belongs before you leave.’

Paraiti bit back a sharp retort. She recognised the battle of wills that was going on, and there was nothing to stop her from leaving, except that there was something about the situation, that sense of fate again that restrained her; she would bide her time. She tried to put a background to the woman: an English girl of good family and upper-class breeding, married to a man of wealth who travelled the world; she had brought with her to New Zealand her societal expectations, including the customary control of a household run by servants. She regarded Paraiti as being in a similar position to her maid. But there was also a sense of calculation, as if she was trying to manoeuvre Paraiti into a position of subservience, even of compliance.

‘What might I help you with, Mrs Vickers?’ Paraiti asked. She saw that Maraea had come into the room with a small bowl of water, a handcloth and a large towel.

‘Thank you, Maraea,’ Mrs Vickers said. Casually, with great self-possession, she began to unbutton her dress; it fell to the floor. Her skin was whiter than white, and without blemish. Aware of her beauty, Mrs Vickers stepped out of the dress, but kept on her high heels. Although she was wearing a silk slip, Paraiti immediately saw what her artful dress had been hiding: Mrs Vickers was pregnant.

‘It’s very simple,’ Mrs Vickers said as she removed her underwear. ‘I am carrying a child. I don’t want it. I want you to get rid of it.’

Her directness stunned Paraiti. Mrs Vickers was clearly a woman accustomed to getting her way. Well, two could play at that game. She asked Mrs Vickers to lie on the chaise longue and began inspecting her. ‘When did you last menstruate? How many weeks have passed since then?’ she asked as she felt Mrs Vickers’ whare tangata — her house of birth — to ascertain the placement of the baby and the point the pregnancy had reached. The uterus had already grown to the height of the belly-button, and the skin was beginning to stretch. Paraiti concluded her inspection. Mrs Vickers liked to be direct, did she? Time then to be direct and push back.

‘You are a Pakeha,’ she began. ‘Why have you not gone to a doctor of your own kind?’

‘Of course I have consulted European doctors,’ Rebecca Vickers answered, ‘and much earlier than this, when I missed my period. Whatever they did to me did not work.’

‘Then why have you not had further consultations with them?’ Paraiti asked.

‘Do not presume that I haven’t done what you suggest,’ Mrs Vickers responded, ‘but even they failed again; they now tell me that I have gone beyond the point of no return. When Maraea saw you in the street today she thought you might offer me some hope. She told me that you Maori have ancient ways, and could get rid of it.’

‘If your doctors can’t perform your miracle for you,’ Paraiti flared, ‘don’t expect me to be able to. Oh yes, I know of the herbal strategies that can lead to the termination of the pregnancy, but they work only in the first nine weeks. Some healers are able to induce the abortion by the steam bathing method and a concoction of flax and supplejack root juices. But your baby is at least twenty-four weeks grown — too late for the introduction of herbs that will make your uterus cramp and break down, so that the baby can be emptied and expelled from the womb.’

Angrily, Mrs Vickers put on her dress again. ‘I knew this was a foolish notion, but Maraea told me that you were renowned for your clever hands and that, by manipulation, you could secure the result I seek.’

‘And you assumed I would do it just because you asked me?’ Paraiti’s voice overrode Mrs Vickers. ‘Why are you so intent on ridding yourself of your baby? Most women would be overjoyed to be a mother. A baby is the crown of any woman’s achievement.’

When she had been inspecting Mrs Vickers the baby had moved , cradling against Paraiti’s palms. And oh, Paraiti’s heart had gone out to it.

Mrs Vickers lost her temper. ‘You stupid woman,’ she raged. ‘That is only the case if the husband is the father. How long do you think my husband will keep me when he discovers I am pregnant with another man’s child?’

So that was it.

Mrs Vickers realised she had gone too far. She reached for a silver cigarette case, opened it and took out a cigarette. Maraea lit it for her. Then, coolly, ‘Are you sure there is nothing you can do for me?’ she asked, inhaling.

‘You are already too far gone,’ Paraiti answered. ‘You will have to carry the child to term.’

Mrs Vickers exhaled. Then, ‘Rip it from my womb,’ she said in a voice that chilled.

‘That would require you to be cut open,’ Paraiti flared. ‘It is too dangerous and you could die, along with the baby. Even if you survived you would be scarred and carry the evidence of the operation. Your husband would know that something had happened.’

‘I will pay you handsomely for your work. And for your silence.’

‘It is dirty, shameful work. No person would do it.’

‘What you mean is that you will not do it,’ Mrs Vickers said scornfully. ‘Well I will find somebody who is not as morally concerned as you are and, one way or another, I will be rid of this burden.’ The smoke from her cigarette curled in the air. ‘Maraea will pay you for your consultation. She will give you a cup of tea and cake before you leave.’

Maraea signed to Paraiti that the consultation was over. Just as Paraiti was leaving, she saw Mrs Vickers standing and tapping ash into an ashtray. Mrs Vickers’ reflection locked eyes with Paraiti, and the room filled with eyes from all the mirrors.

‘You doctors,’ Mrs Vickers said. ‘Pakeha or Maori, you’re all the same, kei te mimi ahau ki runga ki a koutou.’

Paraiti gasped. She looked closely at Mrs Vickers’ flawless skin and noted again the glaze so cleverly applied across her face. When she reached the kitchen she declined Maraea’s offer of tea and cake. She wanted to get away.

‘She will kill the baby,’ Maraea told her, ‘make no mistake about it. And if she kills her own self in doing it, well — if the baby is born, her life will be destroyed anyhow.’

You doctors, you’re all the same, I will urinate on all of you .

And Paraiti asked the question, even though she already knew the answer. ‘He Maori ia?’

‘Yes,’ Maraea answered. ‘She is Maori.’

It is another dawn and Paraiti drags her old bones up from sleep. She raises her hand in prayer, ‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu. Glory be to Thy holy name,’ and praises God again for the gift of life and the joy of another day. What greater blessing could humankind receive than to be able to live and breathe, here, on the bright strand between earth and sky?

Five weeks have passed since Paraiti was at Ruatahuna. Horiana had just loved her bloomers; she half jested to Paraiti: ‘They’re so pretty, and it’s such a shame to wear them under my dress, why don’t I wear them on the outside?’

Pulling Kaihe after her and with Tiaki on guard, Paraiti had visited the sick, wounded and elderly of Ruatoki, Waimana and Murupara. Then, her heart lifting, she began a clinic for her patients at Te Kuiti.