Breaking Connections

by Albert Wendt

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he says to Laura. ‘Perhaps we can talk then.’ She nods. Mere steps in and, embracing her, kisses her goodnight.

  ‘It’s like old times, eh?’ Mere says. The others avoid looking at one another. ‘I’m sorry – it isn’t like old times, because Aaron isn’t here.’

  30

  Daniel and Cheryl arrive at Vasega and Hitchins Funeral Home on Ponsonby Road before the others. They enter through the intricately carved front doors, and are immersed in soft organ music and the strong scent of gardenia as they head for the office over thick purple carpet. Mailo Vasega is one of the first Samoans to have established an undertaking business in Auckland, and Daniel has met him at two previous funerals.

  The office door opens and a neatly suited Mailo Vasega, with slicked-down black hair and tan shoes that shine like his large eyes, steps out to meet them. ‘Mr Maletau: it’s wonderful to see you and your beautiful daughter.’ They shake hands. Cheryl embraces him and kisses him on the cheek. ‘I’m very sorry about your loss.’

  When they are seated in Mailo’s neat office, and before Daniel can ask, Mailo explains, ‘Mr Aaron Whairangi is here because it was his wish. A long time ago he made me promise that if anything happened to him, I was to care for his body until you and his other friends came.’

  ‘Why you?’ Daniel asks.

  ‘I owe him a lot, Mr Malaetau. Being a Samoan, I found it difficult to get any bank to finance me when I first started my business. Though I was undercapitalised, I still went ahead with it. I found myself in financial straits a year or so later.’

  ‘And Uncle Aaron came to the rescue?’ Cheryl interrupts.

  Mailo says, ‘I don’t know how he found out I was in trouble, but he did. His lawyer …’

  ‘Mrs Katherine Mills?’ Cheryl asks.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mills – she rang me one morning and said a client of hers, a Mr Aaron Whairangi, wanted to invest some money in my business. I’d forgotten who Aaron was, but she reminded me. I’d been to high school with Mr Whairangi. I remembered then how, when I was a powerless third former and Aaron was in the sixth form, he’d come across me being bullied in the playground and had said to my tormentors, “You touch my mate again, and I’ll cut your balls off!” He said it quietly, but everyone stopped. Aaron said to me, “Mate, you better learn how to defend yourself, and don’t forget that in self-defense you can use any means.” Then he hurried away. None of those bullies ever came near me again.’

  ‘The only person Uncle was afraid of was his mother,’ Cheryl laughs.

  ‘Who would think that after all those years, he would remember me,’ Mailo says. ‘But he did, and he saved me and my business.’ Looking directly at Daniel, he asks, ‘Guess who my business partner Hitchins is?’ When Daniel starts smiling, Mailo says, ‘Yes, Mr Whairangi. He could have owned all of it, but he insisted on only 30 percent and my pledge never to reveal his name to anyone. Hitchins is an investment company Mr Whairangi owned …’

  ‘Owns,’ Cheryl corrects him.

  ‘… And through which he invested – sorry, invests – his money anonymously,’ Mailo says. ‘So when his lawyer rang to tell me about Aaron’s tragic death, I promised to care for him.’ His voice trembles, and he looks away. ‘My aiga and I can never repay his kindness.’

  Quickly, Cheryl details what she and the rangatahi want concerning Aaron’s cremation and funeral. Mailo writes it down, and then says, ‘Rest assured I will carry out everything properly. If there is anything else you want me to do, please let me know.’

  A short while later, on their way to the chapel, Mailo tells them, ‘We have arranged and decorated the chapel the way Mrs Mills said Mr Whairangi wanted.’ The smell of gardenia grows stronger.

  ‘Uncle loved gardenia,’ Cheryl remarks, as Mailo opens the doors into the chapel and the scent of gardenia, like a stream, rushes out and envelopes them, invading Daniel’s nostrils and head and making him dizzy, so he has to breath through his mouth for a while.

  At a swift glance, Daniel notices that the whole chapel is brilliantly white with gardenia in all different arrangements, and, ahead, long garlands of it surround the casket, which is draped with a feathered cloak that glistens in the light and makes the casket appear as if it is floating, free of any support.

  ‘Yes, your uncle loved gardenia,’ Mailo says. ‘Most of it came from Poly Flower Arrangements. Mrs Doris Moanarua, the owner, came with the flowers and her staff and arranged them the way Mr Whairangi wanted. Mrs Moanarua said she was repaying a little of what Mr Whairangi had given her and her whānau.’

  ‘See, Dad,’ Cheryl remarks: ‘Uncle has another aiga, another whānau, outside the Tribe.’ Daniel agrees. So far the members of that whānau they have met are loving and grateful to Aaron, but Daniel knows that, as more of them come into view, some of them will come with their violent darkness, malice and absence of conscience and aroha – revealing Aaron’s other face.

  ‘What is it you want done today?’ Mailo asks.

  ‘Today is for our Tribe; no one else,’ Daniel informs him.

  ‘What if some of Uncle’s other whānau turn up, Dad?’ Cheryl asks.

  ‘Then tell them at the door to wait until we leave,’ he instructs Mailo.

  ‘After you and the Tribe have paid your respects to Mr Whairangi, we have refreshments in our reception room just through those side doors, sir. They are for you and your aiga and friends,’ Mailo says.

  Slowly, almost cautiously, they move up the aisle between the rows of pews, and stop a few paces away from the casket. ‘Would you like to see him?’ Mailo asks.

  Cheryl shifts up and holds onto Daniel’s right arm. He glances at her, and they move up to the casket. Mailo shifts to the head of the casket and, looking at them, grips the lid. Daniel nods once. Mailo lifts the lid, leans it back and gazes down into the casket. Daniel looks into the white silk lining of the lid, afraid to look down at Aaron.

  ‘Uncle looks wonderful,’ he hears Cheryl whispering. When he gazes down at Aaron, her grip tightens around his arm, and she starts weeping. He winds his arm round her waist and continues gazing into Aaron’s usual smile – that indecipherable smile. He can’t stop his right arm reaching down lovingly, fearlessly. His hand, his fingers, start caressing the arrogant chin, the right side of Aaron’s face, the forehead and then down the other side. It is cold, almost icy. In that whole slow sweep and declaration of aroha and sorrow, Daniel views their whole life together, and knows to the quick of his heart that their aroha for each other has held.

  ‘Please forgive me, bro,’ he whispers. He bends down and kisses Aaron on the forehead. Some of his tears slide down his face onto Aaron’s, and in the white light they look like tiny pearls.

  For a long while they watch Aaron, then they step back from the casket and turn round.

  In the aisle is a queue of the inner members of the Tribe: Aaron’s sister, Ripeka, and his brother, Mason – Daniel hasn’t seen them for a long time; Mere and her daughter Dottie and her husband Ralph and their baby son; Keith and Langi and their son, Mikaele, and daughter, Simone; Paul and Cherie and their two daughters, Mere and Pale; and Sarona and her husband; and Laura and Phillip. Daniel knows all the young people well, of course.

  Daniel and Cheryl step aside and let them through to the casket.

  As they walk past, most of them hongi and embrace Daniel and welcome him home. Phillip does so perfunctorily and moves away.

  They watch Ripeka and Mason placing framed photographs on the shelf behind the casket. Daniel notices the central one is of a radiant Mabel, Aaron’s mother, cradling a baby: Mason? On her left is Ripeka, who is shyly avoiding looking into the camera; on her right, snuggled up against her side and smiling his usual smile, is Aaron. Once they have gathered around the casket to greet Aaron, they weep and comfort one another.

  Cheryl, Phillip and some of the other rangatahi bring cha
irs and line them in front of the casket facing the audience. Cheryl asks Ripeka, Mere, Paul, Keith, Laura and Daniel to take their seats, leaving the central chair vacant. The Tribe grows silent.

  Mere rises to her feet. Stepping side on to the open casket, she thrusts her right hand into it and places it on Aaron’s forehead. The white muted lights of the chapel make her black hair and bone comb, her finely chiselled cheekbones and face, her carefully tailored dark blue dress with its barely visible kōwhaiwhai patterns, and her silvery green pāua earrings glow with a burning luminosity. Gone is the tiredness and heaviness Daniel had seen in her the previous night; she is again the indomitable, constant and fearless centre of their Tribe.

  She greets everyone in Samoan, Niuean and Māori, and then declares: ‘It is wonderful for whānau and aiga to come together in aroha and sorrow to greet one of our beloved elders. Tonight our whānau have come together to be with our beloved Aaron. We welcome Daniel, who has come all the way from Hawai‘i; we welcome Ripeka and Mason, who’ve come down from Kaitaia; we welcome all our other elders, and our rangatahi, who are always closest to their Uncle Aaron’s heart.’ She stops and swallows back her tears. ‘Our whānau – Aaron gave it the name “the Tribe” – has always been very special to those of us who founded it when we were children in Miss Baystall’s class. At that time our families were poor and struggling, and in that struggle we forged an unbreakable bond of aroha for one another; a bond that, over the years, has allowed us to survive with pride and dignity …’ She pauses. Gazing down at Aaron, she continues, ‘Nearly all our parents, who struggled so hard to keep us alive, have passed on. We acknowledge and remember them, and thank them tonight for their aroha and the sacrifices they made for us. The history of our Tribe is full of times when certain happenings and events and our selfish behaviour almost succeeded in destroying it, and with it, the aroha we have for one another. But look at us tonight, Aaron. In life, you were the one who held us together, and now even in death you have reinforced our unity and aroha …’ As she continues, Daniel observes the others.

  Ripeka, who is older than Aaron, had cared full-time for their mother when she’d been diagnosed with cancer, and has never married or taken a partner. Not because she is unattractive to men, but because most of the ones who courted her stopped when they met Aaron and he didn’t like them. Inexplicably, Ripeka dropped the ones Aaron favoured. Ripeka rarely offers views about anything, but Aaron always consulted her in matters to do with their family. When he didn’t, she made it known to their mother, Mabel, who would chastise him for it.

  ‘… Tonight we remember Mrs Mabel Whairangi …’ Mere bows towards Ripeka ‘… Aaron’s beloved mother, who could do no wrong in Aaron’s eyes.’ Mabel was the only being Aaron had considered infallible. He did everything she wanted, and refused to believe any criticism of her – not that people dared criticise her within Aaron’s hearing. Because Mr Whairangi, who, his wife told everyone, suffered from bad back pain and drank to alleviate it, was unemployed most of the time, Mrs Whairangi had to support their family. She had worked as a seamstress during the day and cleaned at night. When, as a child, Aaron started bringing home property and money he couldn’t have earned, she never questioned him about it. He interpreted that fact as a desire on her part for him to continue. And he did, and soon his mother didn’t have to work at night.

  Against Aaron’s wishes, but with their mother’s blessing, Ripeka didn’t finish high school, and went to work with her mother in the clothing factory not far from their house. Within three years she was a highly skilled seamstress.

  As Aaron’s reputation for fearlessness spread throughout Freemans Bay, everyone in their neighbourhood knew that you offended or hurt Mrs Whairangi at your own risk. When Aaron’s father beat his mother once more, Aaron subdued him with a softball bat. He and Mason drove him out of Auckland, dropped him off in Hamilton and told him never to return.

  After their mother died, Ripeka decided to go up North and reestablish her ties with their mother’s whānau and iwi. Not long after that, Mason, who’d moved aimlessly from job to job since he left school, in defiance of Aaron’s insistence that he go to university, followed her. Aaron bought land near their marae in Kaitaia and built a large home for them on it. But Aaron never went up there, and rarely did Ripeka and Mason visit their home in Freemans Bay.

  ‘… To Ripeka and Mason, we extend our deepest sympathies and aroha.’ Mere fishes Daniel out of his thoughts. ‘Our brother Aaron was a strange and sometimes …’ she hesitates, thinking of the correct word ‘… dangerous man: someone who had his own unique sense of justice and fair play, someone who loved all of us deeply and without question.’ Daniel glances across at Ripeka and then at Mason: they are both weeping silently. ‘Tonight, we gather as the Tribe to celebrate his life. Next week we will farewell him.’ Mere wipes away her tears with tissues Dottie hands her, and sits down. The sound of muted weeping and sobbing now fills the chapel. Daniel doesn’t know what to do, but Keith saves them.

  Keith’s huge frame seems to fill the chapel as he gets to his feet. ‘You don’t need to be so sad,’ he starts. ‘I can hear Aaron laughing and saying, “Hey, you guys, why are you so tearful? Get up and – and joke about me and where I’m going – if I’m going anywhere.” So let’s do that, okay?’ He stops and, surveying his audience, says, ‘The last time I saw Aaron was at St Luke’s. Ran into him there, outside the BNZ, on a crowded Saturday morning. Remember how he always wore flash clothes? Well, on this occasion, he was dressed as if he was the poorest PI on the planet: cheap jandals with worn-out soles, ragged jeans and a black t-shirt with ‘FBI: Full-blooded Islander’ on the front: the one Langi had given him three Christmases before. Aaron didn’t need flash clothes to impress people. But you know that when he decided to dress up he was the nattiest dresser in Aotearoa.’ Most of the others have stopped weeping and are now focused on Keith’s tale. ‘He told me he was waiting for some “associates” he needed to meet. As you know, Aaron’s life outside the Tribe was full of “associates”: some of them the weirdest birds you would ever meet.’ Some start chortling, laughing. ‘Two Palagi guys turned up right then. As thin and wiry as question marks, in dark blue suits and ties and black shoes. They moved sedately, unobtrusively, like faife‘au with God in their breast pockets. Before I could leave, Aaron introduced me to his “associates”, and said I was coming to morning tea with them. He held onto my arm and steered me into the nearest café, with his associates following us like immaculate shadows.’ Keith lowers his voice and continues, ‘The café was full, but, as soon as the manager recognised Aaron, he politely cleared the people from the table at the far corner and led us to it. Before we were even seated, a waitress was beside Aaron asking for our order, compliments of the manager, she said.’ Keith stops again. ‘So there we were – and I was not feeling comfortable. No, sir. I was in Aaron’s “other” life with some of his “other” whānau, and wishing he hadn’t put me there.’ He pauses again. ‘For a moment I couldn’t believe I’d seen it, so I looked at Aaron again, and he smiled and winked again.’ Keith starts chuckling, and then he says, ‘With that simple wink Aaron dispelled my discomfort, my fear. We all know how Aaron was able to put anyone at ease: smooth away our fears, make us feel utterly at home in his presence.’

  Keith goes on to describe how, as soon as their coffee and cakes and Aaron’s usual mince pie and orange juice arrived, Aaron told his associates that Keith was the ‘best principal of the best high school with the best academic record and best first fifteen in the country’. But before Keith’s embarrassment became embarrassing, Aaron asked his associates if the order of timber from Tūwharetoa had arrived safely the night before. The older of his associates – the one with the neatly cut blonde hair and the almost unnoticeable lisp – said yes, and that the timber would be delivered to the site on Monday morning, if that was what Aaron wanted. ‘Are you building another house?’ Keith heard himself asking. No, not a house but th
e offices of a new company he was starting, Aaron replied.

  The other associate, who looked like he’d come out of a Tarantino movie – you know, with sunken cheeks and severe eyes and neat everything, including his speech and movements – said to Aaron, ‘Sir, we succeeded in getting them to lower the price of the timber.’ Then, hand over his meagre mouth, he laughed almost inaudibly.

  ‘Thank you, Bill,’ Aaron said to him, reaching over and tapping his arm. ‘That’ll save me money to use for the furniture.’

  ‘We saved five percent on the deal,’ the Tarantino associate said.

  Daniel can’t follow why Laura and Cheryl and some of their other rangatahi are laughing at that. Keith then describes how the older associate informed Aaron that their market gardening business in Pukekohe needed more money to expand to satisfy the growing demand for vegetables in Auckland, and asked whether Mr Whairangi would invest in that expansion. Again Laura and some of the rangatahi laugh. So does Keith. And Daniel realises, with ballooning amusement, that they aren’t talking about timber and vegetables, and he joins the laughter as Keith continues his story of Uncle Aaron and his immaculate associates making deals about marijuana right there, under his ‘best principal’s’ nose.

  It was Langi who saved Keith from Aaron and his wicked friends and their deals: she came into the café then, and ordered him to go supermarket shopping with her. ‘Would you like some new timber for your new kitchen?’ Aaron asked her, and then laughed with his associates at her puzzlement. ‘Or some fresh vegetables for our Sunday to‘ona‘i?’ Keith asked her. And they all laughed. A puzzled Langi kissed Aaron quickly on the cheek and, grabbing Keith’s shirt, pulled him up and out of the café.

  ‘And that’s how I will always remember our beloved Aaron,’ Keith ends his story. ‘Laughing without boundaries, shining with joy, as he made his deals!’

  Nearly all their whānau are now momentarily free of their sorrow. Keith’s tale has restored to them the Aaron they treasure.