‘To Italy,’ Paul said, clinking his glass with hers. ‘It was a long-held wish of my late wife, Veronica, to visit Italy. I guess I’m doing this for her.’
The mention of Paul’s wife came as a welcome relief, immediately redefining the boundaries of the evening.
Carla took a gulp of wine. ‘Mmh, molto buono,’ she said with a nod. ‘Which means “very good”.’
‘Molto buono,’ Paul repeated slowly.
‘I see you’re a natural.’ She took another swig. ‘This will be easy.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he said with an engaging smile.
They sat down to dinner at eight. At eleven o’clock they were still at the table; three hours had effortlessly elapsed.
Paul poured the last of the wine into Carla’s glass. ‘The way Kiwis say “see you later” is confusing too,’ he said. ‘Veronica and I held a dinner party soon after arriving in New Zealand. The guests left around midnight, and as they were departing, one chap said “see you later”. We thought he was coming back later that night. We didn’t dare go to bed till after one.’
Carla laughed. ‘You South Africans have some strange words too. I mean, calling traffic lights, robots!’
‘And?’
‘A robot is an automaton! You know, Star Wars and all.’
‘I guess, but—’
‘And what about “hold thumbs”,’ she said, watching Paul scrape at the last smudge of tiramisu, ‘instead of “fingers crossed”. A South African friend of mine once said to an electrician who’d just repaired her faulty telephone, “Let’s hold thumbs.” She couldn’t understand why he suddenly started to flirt with her.’
Paul’s laughter was contagious. It had been a long time since Carla had laughed. It felt so good.
When he finally got up to take his leave, they hadn’t covered much Italian.
‘Consider this a taster,’ Carla said as she walked out with him to his car. ‘An introduction to the proper course.’
The blue night air was sharp against her face. ‘Next time, the real work begins.’
‘Carla.’ Paul stopped, his jovial eyes suddenly still. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a long time.’ He took her hands in his. They were big and warm, like Kevin’s. ‘Thank you. Or should I say grazia?’
‘Grazie,’ she corrected.
He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Carla’s body melted, and a hungry ache hollowed out her insides.
Then he climbed into his old Saab convertible and reversed into the darkness.
Chapter Forty
CARLA
Paul squeezed her breasts and kissed her in the gulley beneath her collarbone. Carla’s head was ringing. He fingered the space behind her knees. Ringing. Kissed her inner thighs. Ringing. Blasted ringing! Carla sat up and slammed her hand down on the snooze button of her alarm clock, then collapsed back onto her pillow in the hope of landing again in the dream. But it was gone and she was awake, Kevin watching her from the photograph on the bedside table. She turned it face down.
She hauled herself out of bed and traipsed through to the kitchen to brew herself a strong black coffee, even though a migraine was threatening. Then she began to tidy up the mess from the previous night. Her cardigan hung abandoned over a dining room chair, the corner of an envelope poking out of the pocket. A letter. The one Mingyu had retrieved from the rubbish bin.
A large yellow stain on the envelope had dried, wrinkling the paper into a contracted scar. Carla brought it up to her nose. It had the putrid smell of garbage.
She didn’t want to open it. It felt as if all her yesterdays were chained to her, dragging behind like the Ghost of Christmases Past. Could she never break free?
Finally, she took a sharp knife out of the drawer and sliced open the envelope.
Neat pencil print.
To Mrs Reid,
I am writing to you about one man we both know. Ben Toroa. He is now transferred to Ngawha and I think you should have this important information. I have seen the change you bring in him when you visit. I witnessed good growth where there before had been hard ground. Ben Toroa needs you, even if he does not have the words to say it. I hope you will not abandon him. His bad words come from confusion. I know Ben is very regretful for messing with your life. He liked learning to read and your very excellent cooking.
With greatest sincerity,
A friend,
Skunk.
Carla’s skin had risen into hundreds of tiny bumps. She slipped the letter into the bottom drawer of her desk, concealing it with other papers.
‘You are full of surprises,’ she said out loud, then put a hand over her mouth, surprised by her own words. It had been so long since she had spoken to Him. It had been so long since she had believed.
Paul was arranging a book display at the front door of the library when she hurried past him. He made a show of looking at his watch.
‘Buongiorno, Signora Reid. Fine time to arrive! Did you have a late night or something?’
Carla laughed.
‘Thanks again for a great evening,’ he said, following behind her like an overenergetic puppy.
She stopped and turned. His eyes were shining. She looked away – coy, clumsy and confused, and with a serious hangover. Then hurried on.
‘I’d like to reciprocate,’ he called after her. ‘I know this fabulous little trattoria in Birkenhead. My shout Saturday?’
‘Talk to you later,’ she mouthed, as Diana at front desk looked up.
They went out the following Saturday night, and the one after that. Then Carla started to decline Paul’s keen invitations. It was an attempt to ring-fence her emotions. For the first time in years she had felt alive and sexual, both emotions she’d thought had died on that fateful autumn night. However, along with these wonderful feelings had come guilt, overwhelming guilt. She didn’t feel entitled to happiness. By engaging in the frivolity of living, she was surely dishonouring the memory of her son and husband. She had survived. They hadn’t.
Paul took the hint and backed off.
When his visits dwindled, Mingyu was the first to notice. One afternoon she sat Carla down. ‘Carla, you love Jack. You love Kevin.’
‘Of course!’
‘You love beautiful sunset?’
Carla nodded.
‘You love my pork dumpling?’
‘Where is this going, Ming?’
‘You can love many thing, Carla. The love for one is not undo the love for the other. There is much room in your heart.’
‘Mingyu’s pragmatic philosophies to the fore,’ Carla said, brushing off her neighbour’s advice with an air of nonchalance. However, she found herself pondering the words, and with time the struggle inside her heart began to ease.
She started seeing more of Paul again outside of work hours, and slowly began sharing bits of her biography with him. However, it was a censored and abridged version she shared; she wasn’t going to allow the past to tarnish what she had this time.
They had been seeing each other for several months when he stopped her in the Reference Section one day, somewhere between the letters N and P, and asked if she’d consider joining him for a weekend in Wellington, where he’d be attending the Readers and Writers Festival.
The prospect of going to Wellington was both exciting and daunting. It had been forever since she’d even travelled over the Harbour Bridge. Her life had shrunk down to a circumscribed coin of safety. To test the boundaries was terrifying.
The day they arrived in the capital, Wellington put on quite a show. Its notorious wind settled and the sun’s rays cast the ocean in a stunning Pacific-blue hue. The mewling cry of seagulls overhead, the sun-baked boulders and the mineral-scented air were all so marked in their difference from Carla’s familiar landscape. Nature had opened a window and helped her step outside.
The day was theirs to enjoy before the festival’s opening that evening, so after depositing their bags at the hotel, they hailed a taxi and hea
ded for the national museum.
A few hours proved hopelessly inadequate to do justice to Te Papa, and by the time they emerged from the bold building of block and glass it was three o’clock and they were ravenous. They grabbed a belated pub lunch on the waterfront, then headed back to their hotel to ready for the evening.
Carla had just climbed out of the shower when she heard someone knocking at the door. Swathing herself in one of the luxuriously thick hotel gowns, she pulled the door ajar.
Paul was standing there, all polished and spruce.
‘Hey, Speedy Gonzalez,’ she said, laughing, ‘a woman needs time to get tarted up.’
Paul looked sheepish. ‘It’s just that it has been such a great day and I wanted to … I had to tell you something.’
She opened the door wider.
‘Ti amo.’
The words caught her off guard.
‘Did I get it right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I mean, ti amo. Is that the way you say “I love you”?’
‘Yes. Yes. I … Yes. Absolutely. Corre—’
Without waiting for her to finish, he leant in, his mouth trapping her words. They stumbled backwards into the room, Paul kicking the door shut with his foot, and they landed on the king-size bed with a thump.
He untied the belt of her dressing gown and parted the thick white cloth. Her breathing was loud in her ears, her whole body an extension of this rhythm – anticipation, anguish and excitement all distilled into each noisy breath.
Paul ran a finger down her middle, dividing her in two. She groaned as he lingered at the end of this imaginary line, then began pulling at his shirt buttons, her fingers clumsy and impatient. He slipped his hands behind her ears and out through her curls, returning to massage her earlobes. Her body loosened. He stroked her spongy belly, detailing every crease. She clasped the back of his neck, digging into the strong ridges that ran down his back. Gently he parted her thighs.
Then he was leaning over her, his eyes …
All of a sudden they were those eyes staring at her – the black, angry, mocking eyes. Too close. Taunting. Hot breath …
‘No! Get off me! Get off!’ Carla screamed.
Paul pulled back, the colour draining from his face, confusion spinning through his pallor.
She sat up, panting. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She began to cry.
Paul was on all fours at the end of the bed, his arms trembling. ‘I … I don’t—’
Loud knocking at the door interrupted them.
‘Everything all right in there? Open the door, please!’
Paul jumped up, buttoned his shirt and stumbled towards the door. A freckly lad stood in the corridor, a shiny brass Concierge badge pinned to his lapel and a keycard in hand.
‘Is everything okay, sir? I was passing and heard a woman s-screaming.’ He craned his neck, trying to see around Paul.
Carla was now lying in the foetal position on the bed, the bedspread pulled over her. ‘Yes. All fine.’
The concierge hesitated.
‘The lady … uh, my friend, just saw a mouse,’ Paul added quickly.
‘A mouse?’ The lad was now on tiptoes, trying to get a better look at Carla. Paul coloured.
‘Would you like to be moved to another room then, sir?’
‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’ve killed it.’
The boy’s eyes grew round. ‘Killed it?’
‘Yes. With the Bible in the bedside drawer. That book sure comes in handy. Anyway, I’ve flushed it down the toilet,’ Paul said, pre-empting the next question.
Before the boy could move beyond a stutter, Paul thanked him again and closed the door.
He peered through the spyglass. The young man was still there, ear to the door.
Paul waited until he had gone, then walked back over to the bed and passed Carla her gown.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say. I didn’t mean to ruin things. I misread the moment, thought you—’
She shook her head. She didn’t know where to begin, or what to say, but she couldn’t stall her history any longer.
They never got to the festival opening. She told him everything – about Jack and Kevin, and about Toroa. Everything. Even that she had herpes, and if they ever made love he would need to use a condom.
Chapter Forty-One
BEN
A Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
Tēnei te tangata pūhuru huru,
Nāna nei i tiki mai
Whakawhiti te rā!
A upa … ne! ka upa … ne!
A upane kaupane whiti te rā!7
Twelve bodies, chests bare, thighs spread solid, arms reaching up to the heavens to pull down the ancestors. The chant, hands slapping, tongues protruding, eyes ablaze. Ben could feel a formidable force pulsing as he moved in unison with his brothers. Sweat ran down his body, and inside, something was exploding. It was hard to describe. He wondered if the spirits Chalkie so often talked about were in fact real. Perhaps they were in the room with him right now.
At the front, standing apart from everyone, was August. Chalkie moved up beside him.
‘August Honatana,’ he said, his voice deep and strong. ‘You have heard the words. You have heard the pre-battle challenge:
‘I die! I die! I live! I live!
I die! I die! I live! I live!
This is the hairy man
Who fetched the sun
And caused it to shine again
One upward step! Another upward step!
An upward step, another … the sun shines!’7
His voice held the entire room in its reach.
‘Today, as you leave prison, the real battle begins. Your enemies are out there.’ Chalkie pointed into the distance. ‘Drink, drugs, all the temptations … They are lying in wait for you. Be strong. Hold your head up high. It won’t be easy, but you can come through.’ He paused. Looked about the room.
Perspiration was pouring off Ben’s forehead, and not just because of the war dance. It had been over a month since he’d been high – six weeks without weed, ice, or even glue – and he was still edgy. Tears came for no reason and irritability crawled over him like a disturbed nest of ants.
‘Remember, stay with your people, stick with your history, and make your ancestors proud.’ Chalkie was speaking to August as if no one else was in the room. He had that way of directing his attention so absolutely. Like a searchlight, he’d find you and hold you in his gaze, making you feel special, but at the same time sprung.
‘And don’t come back! We don’t want to see you here no more. Not unless you come back as a teacher, or a warden.’ He laughed. ‘Or maybe a policeman.’
August shifted uneasily.
‘God watch over you, man.’ Then he pulled August into him, nose to nose, eye to eye, and they held each other with the strength of equal men. Both August and Chalkie’s staunch eyes were shining with tears.
‘Now for the best part,’ Chalkie said, his sternness breaking into a grin. ‘Kai!’
Everyone clapped.
‘August’s whānau has provided us with a mean feed.’ Chalkie bowed his head to the elderly couple. ‘Thank you.’
August’s mother’s serious expression unfurled. Like a ball of paper set alight, happiness and tears curled the edges of her wizened face.
What would his own mother have looked like now? Ben wondered. He didn’t have a single photograph of her.
Recently, she’d been showing up in his head at random times. Just the other day a memory pitched up of the time she took him and Lily with her to work. Ryan had been drinking at the house with his crew and she didn’t trust leaving Ben and his sister alone with him. After she had more kids, she became less vigilant. Or maybe she just grew tired, because she started leaving them alone with Ryan a lot, even after he broke a chair over Cody for soiling his pants.
It was a long night traipsing after their mother as she moved
through the office blocks on Wellesley Street, vacuuming and dusting and emptying bins. He and Lily had found a carpeted corner where they’d dozed for a while, Lily curled up beside him, sucking her thumb.
They were all heading out of the building into the grey light of dawn when his mum spotted a fifty-dollar note lying in the crease of the concrete steps. She couldn’t believe it, laughing and whooping all the way down Queen Street. ‘What about I treat you to a special breakfast, kids,’ she’d said, leading them into a proper sit-down cafe. ‘Our little secret, okay?’
As Ben moved through the memory, he could again taste the smoky sweet maple syrup on the hotcakes and smell the strips of bacon grilled all wavy and crisp. His mum asked the waitress for a beer, but the place didn’t serve alcohol, which Ben was pleased about; his mum was nicer off the booze. After she’d paid for the breakfast, there was still enough money for ice cream. Fifty dollars felt like a fortune. It was the best day ever.
Then Lily went and ruined it all. It wasn’t really her fault; she was too small to understand the keep-a-secret bit. Their mum got smacked about by Ryan for not bringing home the cash and spewed up all her breakfast, the ice cream too. So it was a proper waste of the money.
August’s father now waddled over to Chalkie to shake his hand. He was short and round, with a shiny brown scalp and a circular smile that looked like he was saying the letter O … He kept saying over and over again. ‘Thank you. Thank you, sir. Thank you for saving our son.’
Ben wondered if August had been saved. Most of his mates at Pare would usually be back inside within a year of their release. The only reason Ben ever used to watch One News was to see who was coming back.
‘Before we eat,’ Chalkie said, raising his voice above the din. ‘I nearly forgot. Ben, our newest arrival at the unit, has composed a rap for the occasion. Danny helped write it.’
The room with the blue carpet and big windows went quiet. Ben’s legs went bendy. He held up the paper, pretending to read it even though he’d memorised most of the words. The sheet shook in his hands. He started to move to the beat in his head.
The Last Time We Spoke Page 22
