‘Ani,’ says Elena at last, ‘you must know what I am thinking. That Teo is the father. Her age would fit.’
Ann says nothing. She looks away, out to the hills in the distance. She thinks of her beloved dead father and prays to his soul for strength.
‘You have promised to keep the child secret, to save his pule.’ Elena makes a face. ‘That wife of his – Ma’atoe – is a jealous and proud woman. Her children are not allowed to visit me in New Zealand for fear I contaminate them with my modern ideas! Can you imagine! But then she is high-born.’
Ann stares into the fire. She dares not speak.
Elena smiles and leans forward ominously. ‘My dear Ani, my naughty brother is a better man these days. A little pompous, but not as wayward as in those years we were together. A matai, yes, and a Member of Parliament. He has a certain standing and may enter the Cabinet soon. His reputation is secure enough. An illegitimate palagi child might be excused – even chuckled over as a conquest in past days.’ She slaps her thigh and chuckles herself. ‘Ma‘atoe need not know.’
‘Elena my old friend,’ Ann rises and holds out her hand. The worst is perhaps over. ‘I have made a promise and will keep it. At the time I was very angry with – the father – and never wanted to see him again.’ (This, at least, is the truth.) ‘Francesca will never have knowledge of her birth father. Surely it’s not so important. She is happy and secure with a good mother and many friends. If you want to keep in touch with Francesca, it must be as one of those friends. Or as patron.’
Elena gives a little sigh. ‘Not as aunt?’
‘No. Not as aunt. And you must not mention a word of any Samoan blood. Or of our time in Samoa.’
Elena sighs again. ‘So hard.’
She has given in too easily, thinks Ann. I don’t trust her for a minute. ‘Listen Elena,’ she says, ‘I have told Francesca what you call “a big fib” for good reason. What will she think of me if you tell her something different now? Will she ever trust me again?’
Elena says nothing, but her eyes accuse. She spreads her hands, palms up, as if the answer is obvious, then slaps them down on her thighs.
‘Well, then. So, for the time being we will differ on the matter of Francesca.’ She smiles easily and steers the conversation to other matters. Her own life; Ann’s.
‘That story of Florence,’ she says, tracing a finger over the tapestry cushion at her side, ‘I told not one person but you.’ I made a big joke of it, I think, when we sat over our lunch at the clinic – do you remember that day? How we laughed?’
Ann remembers the ease of their friendship back in the islands, the many hilarities. Elena was away, back in New Zealand, during the darkest time. Her memories seem all to be clear and sunlit; or is she trying to seduce Ann?
‘Yes I remember,’ she says, smiling. ‘Your stories always made me laugh.’
Elena sighs. ‘Shall I tell you the truth? It was not a funny time at all. I changed it to make you laugh. I told you a big fib because I wanted to tell, but was embarrassed about the truth. Perhaps you have been the same with Francesca.’
Before Ann can interrupt, to argue again her own scruples, Elena tells the real story. She speaks in a different voice now – not the usual colourful flow. The words are hesitant, troubled.
‘For me it wasn’t really the fun-filled trip of a lifetime – the carefree OE that we all loved to boast about. My mother didn’t even know about it. I lied to her.’ Elena looks quickly up at Ann and back again at the pattern on the cushion. ‘It was the year before my degree course in Dunedin started. I’d passed my prelim exams in Wellington with flying colours. Two other students – friends in a casual sort of way – decided to have a year off before all the hard work and asked me to come too. I had saved enough of the scholarship money to go and wanted desperately to see Europe, so we went. My mother thought I was hard at work on an isolated farm earning enough to continue my studies. In a way the guilt of that lie spoiled things for me – I was always worrying that she might find out. One of the others was a boy, which would be considered highly improper in Samoa. But I rather fancied him and liked her, so I went.’
‘Was this an affair?’ says Ann, interested despite her worries. ‘You never mentioned an affair!’
‘Not really an affair. He was clever and good fun. We held hands once or twice. I was always a prude, even in Samoa. Teo told me I was known as the ice queen, for my standoffish ways!’ Elena smiles, perhaps sadly. ‘I was interested in other things. Boys usually seemed rather silly to me.’
‘But Florence?’ Ann prompts. ‘Did it really happen?’
‘Oh yes. It happened,’ Elena clears her throat angrily, ‘but not in the boisterous, hilarious way I told it to you – and no doubt you told to Francesca. I was homesick; the other two had gone off somewhere for a couple of days together. They had become a sort of couple, which made me even more miserable. I knew no one in the camping ground and was freezing, huddled in my sleeping bag in our little tent. I could hear laughter from the tent next door.
‘Then a young English boy poked his head through the flap and said his Italian friend knew of a good party – in an old mill close by. He said they’d noticed I was alone and asked if I’d like to join them. I shook my head.’ Tears stand in Elena’s eyes as she looks up. ‘Embarrassed at my own shyness, terrified of what my mother would think, ashamed of being such a wimp. Get the picture?’
‘Elena, you don’t have to tell me,’ says Ann. ‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘I want to tell you, Ani. Do you mind?’
Ann moves over to sit at Elena’s feet. This is not at all how she had pictured the evening, but she’s glad of the diversion, glad to be, in some way, needed.
Elena takes a deep breath. ‘He was very persuasive but not violent. I buried my head in the sleeping bag and he went away. I felt dreadful. Lay there listening to their laughter, which I now imagined was aimed at me. Finally they came back.’
‘They?’
‘All three boys – two English and one handsome Italian – that part was real – with a bottle of Chianti. They pushed in and sat down beside me, rather drunk, saying they were coming to cheer me up. “Have a drink,” they said, “then you might feel like coming to the party.” Again, I was too shy to send them away.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ says Ann, trying to make light of the story. ‘The feisty Elena Levamanaia?’
Elena strokes Ann’s head where it rests now on her knee. ‘I was out of my element, Ani, and alone. Who can behave as they’d wish in those times? I sat up in bed, accepted a drink, pretended to be friendly; tried to be the party girl they were looking for. Of course it got worse. I became light-headed very quickly. The Italian started to stroke my arm, which rather excited me at first, but then one of the other boys joined in on the other side, and I became frightened.’
‘Why didn’t you call out? There must have been people within earshot.’
‘Oh yes there were, there were. Why didn’t I call out? Shame again? I was in my nightdress and didn’t want anyone to see me. The boys were laughing. They thought it all a great joke. “Don’t be afraid,” one of them said. “We won’t hurt you – it’s just a bit of fun. Come on sweetie, enjoy yourself.” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I hated every minute of their pawing. In the end I fought them with all my strength, silently but with hate in my heart. That excited them even more. One of them …’ Elena stopped speaking.
Ann turns up to look at her friend. ‘Oh Elena, did they rape you?’
‘No. Not completely. I was too strong for them. But one of them couldn’t hold back his excitement and made a mess on my sleeping bag. He told me I was a frigid bitch and to go back to whatever backwoods I’d crawled out of. Then they all went. Off, noisy and laughing, to their party at the mill.’
Elena sighs. Wipes at the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I was never there at that party. That’s the true version. Not a laugh a minute. I have felt shame ever since. Perhaps what he said was ri
ght – perhaps I am frigid.’
Ann laughs. ‘You are the warmest, most lively person I’ve ever met.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Ann nods. The silence between them is comfortable. I have missed this good friend, she thinks, more than I knew.
The room has grown colder. Ann goes to bank up the fire, but Elena halts her. She rises from her chair, graceful despite her bulk. ‘Time I should go, Ani my dear friend. Thank you for listening. I must drive back to Invercargill tonight, and then Wellington early in the morning.’ She cups Ann’s face in her hand, rubbing gently. ‘You are tired. And we must both work tomorrow.’
‘I knew you would come,’ Ann says quietly at the door. ‘But I don’t really understand why. Why did you come, Elena? Why take so much trouble? All this is in the past.’
‘To me not.’ Elena’s voice comes smiling from the darkened drive. ‘I do not share your palagi sense of time. Past and present live together. Remember that time at the archaeological site? On that great mound?’
Ann waits, trying to grasp the connection, but no further comment is offered. She sees Elena’s moonlit hand raised beside the car. Then the door slams and she drives away. She watches as Elena climbs out to manage the gate, drives through and stops to latch it again. She can’t see if there is a final wave.
As she tidies away coffee cups, turns out lights, Ann admits to herself the pleasure of Elena’s visit. The good times have been locked away securely with the bad, she thinks. I had forgotten entirely that there were good times. She wonders if Elena has other bad times to remember. Not Ann’s, but others of her own. The thought that they will meet again is a pleasure – a dangerous anticipation. No meeting has been planned but they both know it will happen. What an aching pleasure it would be to sit with Elena again and tell the truth, as Elena has just done. The whole story. In the tapestry of these twenty good years – ones to be proud of – is woven a single twisted thread of worry and guilt. Has she done the right thing? Should Francesca have always known the truth?
Elena is the person she could tell. But what might she break in the process?
PART THREE
Fa‘asamoa
Elena
Well, I will need to tread lightly as they say. Not so easy for a big woman! Especially one of my nature. Why did I take the trouble, she asked? A good question. I asked myself the same on that long drive in the dark back to my cold hotel bed. Part, of course, was the allure of that young woman who may be the niece I have longed to nurture. But part also is tied up with Jeanie herself. The friends I have are mostly casual. Jeanie is different. I would not tell that story of the dreadful time in Florence to anyone else. Not to Teo. Not to my mother – especially not my mother! I know I’m looked upon as strange – an unmarried Samoan woman! But the idea of married life – or life with a man, I suppose I should say – simply doesn’t interest me. Nothing particularly strange about that from my point of view. My work is satisfying. But the loss of Jeanie has left a hole in the weave of my life that no one else has filled. I can’t really explain it. Nor do I feel the need to.
I‘d like to talk to her about my present dilemma. Should I go back to Samoa, as I am called to do? The job offered is good, very good, and I would be in a position to make a difference. Also, a senior matai title is on the table – on the mat, I should say! I have never agreed to accept a title unless I were living in the islands and could fulfil my duties properly. I have never admired those who accept titles while still living overseas. They send money, yes, but that is not the purpose of a title. A matai should be a leader, not a source of income.
Somehow, seeing Jeannie that day in the museum brought back the feeling we had, Teo and I, returning to the islands. We were full of hope, and purpose then, confident of changing things for the better. We were the new, qualified generation, able, under the new constitution, to make a difference in our own country.
And in those first few years I did, I think. The campaign to stamp out the dreaded filariasis disease; the food distribution after the hurricane. But then I saw Teo give in to the old conservative pressures, and I felt myself doing the same. I told myself I could be more use serving our people back in New Zealand, but basically I suppose I was running away before fa‘asamoa got to me too. The old customs are so strong! I see no change, these days, or none for the better. Children still come last in the pecking order, those with new ideas are suspect, conservative elders still hold sway, the pastors are still overfed and greedy. Violence underlies much of fa‘asamoa. My views are unbalanced perhaps; but in my line of business I need to put a little extra weight in the scales.
I think of those cases of donated milk powder, flour and tins of fish and meat, standing idle in the sheds after the hurricane, while the men tried to agree on a good method of distribution. Months, they languished there while the arguments continued. Should each matai be given an amount according to the number of families in his ‘aiga? Or should each village be given a share to distribute? Perhaps the churches – the pastors – should distribute? (I was definitely against that.) In the end the Women’s Committees demanded, and won, the right to distribute. Those powerful women decreed that every man, woman and child should get exactly the same, and that distribution would be through the Women’s Committees themselves! They were rigid and scrupulous in the task. A triumph, if somewhat ridiculous when it came to the palagi population. That’s where Jeanie and I came into our own. We followed the distribution teams when they went to palagi homes. Two minutes after the supplies had been handed over, we knocked on the door, carrying large baskets.
‘You don’t really need this food,’ Jeanie or I would point out. ‘The hospital will use your contribution in feeding needy children.’ And we’d stand there, smiling, with our baskets. Mostly the food was given willingly. Would the pastors have given their share to the children? No one dared ask them.
So I rave on. My thoughts – prejudices perhaps? – are a shield against this call to return. Am I stronger now, to resist the old ways? To stand up for the rights of the children who need the protein which their elders consume in such large quantities? To be an advocate for those who arrive at the hospital beaten up because they questioned a corrupt, but accepted, practice? Perhaps. Or perhaps I will shrug into the comfort of being an elder myself, and will forget all my ideals. That is my fear. I would like to spend the next ten years of my life back in the islands, so that when the millennium arrives I can say: There, I made my mark and my country is the better for it.
Jeanie would not be seduced I think. Jeanie would always question. She is sharper than me. But more vulnerable.
Whatever made her take such a stand? To disappear and change her name? (Hope: what an interesting choice!) Surely being angry with Teo would not be enough?
Jeanie is misguided or over-cautious – or both – to keep Francesca from the truth. But we will see about all that. In time, surely, I will take my niece to Falelua and tell her the history of her blood.
Our family comes from the village of Falelua in the Tuamasaga District, I will tell her. We are of the Malietoa ‘aiga, which is high-born. You can be proud of your Samoan blood. Our line is not the highest of the Malietoa, but respectable enough.
One day I hope to tell Francesca the stories of her bloodline. Even thinking of telling it – of describing our nu‘u on the coast, east of Apia, makes me smile. The beautiful simple fale set among tall coconut and breadfruit trees – our blessed food-givers; the graves of our ancestors, freshly painted white every year, standing comfortingly close behind our fale, the white coral sand raked smooth and clean around them; the two great churches towering over the village – Catholic and LMS – ridiculously ostentatious, she will say (and I might secretly agree) but a matter of great pride to our nu‘u. Their spires and towers are among the highest in the whole district. I will point upward, inland, to where our village land stretches up to the crest of the green and misty mountains in the distance. Wild jungle, most of it, but nearer to the vil
lage our families – our ‘aiga – grow banana and taro, coconuts, mangos, sugarcane, pineapple, pawpaw for the pigs and have a plantation of cacao. See where my mother has a few coffee bushes near the fale, and a patch of beans; and of course flowers for behind our ears, and for lei, and to scent the air. The food gardens in the bush are neatly tended by the men and women of our family, (your family, Francesca) under the orders of our matai. In normal times no one goes hungry. All this I will tell Francesca, my niece, one day.
I love to go back to Falelua and one day I will take you, Francesca. A promise. You will smell the creamy frangipani blossoms which sprout so surprisingly from the bare stubby fingers of the tree. We will tuck a red hibiscus flower behind your ear and roast a pig to welcome you. You will learn to play kilikiti and to dance with those thin arms of yours. We will lie at night on the warm mats in our large fale, side by side under a mosquito net, listening to the surf on the reef which, together with the high tinnitus of the cicadas, is a background to all other comfortable rustling grunting animal sounds of the night. Shall I talk to you in our language until the words begin to take root? There are such stories to tell!
Will my soul mate Jeanie be with us? Maybe, maybe. Let me at least dream.
That terrible day when Jeanie’s father wandered away.
I never knew him well, John O’Dowd. But Jeanie adored him and had been worried about him for some time. He was depressed, she said, not eating properly. Why, I asked, would he be depressed when he had just discovered family – and property – and a new life in our lovely islands? But Jeanie would just shake her head and get on with the bandaging. When it came to her father, Jeanie was reticent. Quite secretive, really. I wondered if it was because of the land dispute between our families. But that never seemed to bother her at other times. Tiresa railed at me for keeping up the friendship, but Teo and I just laughed off the old folk and enjoyed spending time with Jeanie. We were young, then. At the clinic, we’d talk and laugh about anything and everything under the sun as we bandaged those poor swollen limbs, our arms white to the elbows with the warm sticky mixture of plaster and latex, our backs aching with the effort of holding those huge legs as we wound the bandages tightly, tightly, constricting the sagging flesh. The old folk loved her as much as I did; she always had a smile or a joke for them, in her funny mixture of English and Samoan. They would urge us to bind more strongly; would cry out in pleasure as the measurements showed they had lost inches of flesh, would walk out of the clinic proudly, able to lift the leg or the arm a little more freely each week. In that needy time, after the hurricane, the clinic was like a little oasis of hope. That word again.
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