Legacy

by Whiti Hereaka

  ‘Yes, Christmas pudding! We haven’t been away from civilisation that long, have we?’ Rewai says.

  Back at home, Riki would never eat Christmas pudding – or anything with dried fruit in it. But food is food, and if he has learnt nothing else from this war, he knows that you can’t be too fussy here. And so all three of them sit on deck, wrapped up in their greatcoats, eating cold Christmas pudding.

  Riki’s not sure if it’s the pudding or thinking about home that’s left a lump in his throat. Rewai and Little Mo are quiet too.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Little Mo says.

  Riki is relieved that someone has broken their silence. If it had gone on much longer he might have started to cry. Rewai nods and smiles at both of them, and says, ‘Merry Christmas.’

  26

  11 OCTOBER 1975

  TRANSCRIPT:

  Cassette number 4: Te Ariki Mikaera Pūweto (interviewee, WWI veteran) and Alamein Pūweto (interviewer and grandson of Te Ariki). Also present: Taimona Pūweto (daughter and caregiver of Te Ariki).

  ALAMEIN I went to see Mrs Sally Edwards, Koro.

  TE ARIKI Who’s she when she’s at home then?

  ALAMEIN She was married to James Edwards …

  TE ARIKI James? Rewai’s boy?

  ALAMEIN Yes, that’s the one.

  TE ARIKI What were you doing bothering her, boy?

  ALAMEIN I wasn’t bothering … I was researching, Koro. She let me see the letters Rewai sent home, and she let me photograph this…

  [Shuffling of papers]

  ALAMEIN It’s a photo of you at the Sphinx …

  TE ARIKI [Laughs] I always wanted to see the Sphinx.

  ALAMEIN Here it is.

  TE ARIKI Oh yes, there we all are. Look at that: Matatau has his arm around my shoulder.

  ALAMEIN I noted what it said on the back – ‘All of us at the Sphinx. Me, Jack, Big Mo, Little Mo, Matatau and Te Ariki …’ He called you ‘Te Ariki’, not Michael?

  TE ARIKI Everyone called me Te Ariki, or just Riki, then. ‘Te Anahera Ariki Mikaera’ is a bit of a mouthful.

  TAIMONA You dropped ‘Anahera’ from your name?

  TE ARIKI My darling daughter, your father is many things, but an angel he is not [laughs].

  ALAMEIN But when you came home you started to use ‘Michael’?

  TE ARIKI That was partly your nanny’s idea. She thought people would take me more seriously as Michael.

  ALAMEIN What people?

  TE ARIKI The people I worked for, as a clerk.

  ALAMEIN Was that unusual, to work in an office?

  TE ARIKI What, do you mean for a Māori? I tried not to think of it, really. I could do the work – I could type and file. I just kept my head down and blended in …

  ALAMEIN Assimilated?

  TE ARIKI Well, that’s a bit political. Are you one of those ‘radicals’ now? [Laughs]

  ALAMEIN I’m just trying to understand why you changed your name.

  TE ARIKI To tell you the truth, I wanted to leave ‘Te Ariki’ behind. Whatever dreams he had, whatever life he may have led; they had all changed after the war. The whole world had changed around me. I just had to get on with my life in the new world and put the past behind me.

  [Silence]

  ALAMEIN What were Te Ariki’s dreams?

  TE ARIKI [Laughs] I don’t know. It’s like he was a whole other person; not me at all.

  27

  29 DECEMBER 1915

  They weigh anchor in Alexandria in the morning, and it takes all day for the men to be barged ashore. Once he’s there, Riki feels a bit wobbly on his legs. He paces around a bit to get his balance back. They have a bit of spare time this evening before they have to get on the train.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he says.

  ‘There’s a show in town, not far from here,’ Rewai says. ‘Put on by the YMCA.’

  Riki thinks of the Village People’s song – how many dances and old people’s parties has he gone to where everyone has made the letters out of their arms? And it is the kind of tune that once you think of it you can’t get it out of your mind.

  ‘There’ll be tea and cakes,’ Rewai adds.

  ‘Let’s go then.’ Little Mo leads the way.

  ‘What’s that tune you’re humming, Riki?’ Rewai asks. ‘It’s quite catchy.’

  They board the train only a couple of hours later, after the show. Riki, Little Mo and Rewai all squash together in a compartment with some other men, who have a couple of bottles of whisky. Riki, as always, is by the window in case he feels sick.

  ‘May as well make a party of it,’ one of the soldiers says, as he hands around the bottle.

  Riki takes a swig. The liquor burns his throat, but it makes him feel warm and numb. ‘Are we on our way back to Zeitoun?’

  Rewai takes the bottle from Riki. ‘No. We’re heading to Ismailia, wherever that might be.’

  ‘The desert.’ The man opposite Riki says, reaching out for the bottle.

  ‘But I wanted to go back to Cairo,’ Riki says.

  ‘I bet you do,’ says the man, and pretends to have sex with the whisky bottle.

  ‘Oi! We have to drink out of that!’

  ‘I really need to get back to Cairo,’ Riki says.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Little Mo nudges Riki. ‘Maybe we’ll be stationed there next.’

  ‘Or we could go there on leave,’ Rewai says. ‘Although I had my fill of the place last time we were here.’ Rewai folds his arms and tries to stretch out his legs as far as he can in the cramped compartment. ‘I’m going to have a bit of a kip.’

  But with two bottles of whisky to drink there’s not much chance of sleep – not yet, anyway. The bottles are passed around, and stories of Gallipoli are shared. They’ve only just left the place and already they’re reminiscing. No, that’s not the word, Riki thinks. It’s more like exorcism.

  And then his mind flashes back to the look on Matatau’s face, lit by rifle and righteous fire, as he hisses Demon. He closes his eyes to try to cut off the vision. Instead it intensifies – and now he is seeing Jack, and he can taste his blood in his mouth, and the pain in his shoulder screams.

  Thank God someone passes him the whisky bottle. Riki takes a big swig of it. Rewai tries to stop him, but Riki shakes his head – No.

  Why are they raking it all up? Why don’t they just try to forget?

  Riki remembers his mum telling him that most veterans didn’t talk about the war when they got home; their families and friends didn’t want to hear, or couldn’t bear to hear, about what really happened. Some people refused to believe the actual experience of the men, preferring the version of events that they had been told. Riki realises now that all the veterans had were each other; no one else was willing to listen. So they talked among themselves; to honour the dead, to honour their sacrifice, to not feel so alone. Riki isn’t really listening to the other men’s stories; he’s just thinking of his own. Is that what everyone here is doing? Perhaps it is enough for them just to speak it, their truth; and whisky makes it easier.

  There is a lull in the conversation. It is the time for someone new to recount their experience, and for a second, Riki is tempted to tell his story. The real story, as he understands it: how he came back into the past; the real reason his good mate Jack died on Sari Bair. He wants to tell the others; wants to be free of the burden of his secret. And then he realises that he, more than any of these men, is truly alone. None of these men will believe him; his story just isn’t believable. Hell, even Riki has his doubts about the truth of it.

  The lull passes as someone else takes up their story, and Riki lets their words bounce off of him.

  The journey is long – almost a whole night passes and they’re still not at camp. The whisky ran out ages ago, but some of the men are still running on its fumes, insisting that these men are their brothers; that they love them.

  Rewai and Little Mo are asleep, leaning on each other, but Riki feels wired. He doesn’t think he could sleep, even if he wa
sn’t drunk – there are too many thoughts bumping around his head. He had really believed that if he got back to Egypt he could get back home. Of course he assumed that they would be camped at Zeitoun, and all he’d have to do was take a tram to the Dead City and find the portal, or time-rift, or whatever it is that brought him here and keeps him here. Or maybe, as a last resort, he could find that fortune teller again. Maybe she could tell him how to get home – with ruby slippers, through a wardrobe, or through a portal, he doesn’t care which.

  He can’t stay here. He wants to go home. There was only one person that he might have told his true story to: Jack. And maybe Jack wouldn’t have believed it, but he wouldn’t have looked at Riki as if he were mad. He would have come up with a plan.

  Jack would have said: Well, if you need to go back to Cairo, why don’t we just go?

  But how? Riki thinks he could possibly make his way back to Alexandria by following the train tracks. He’s been on the train – what – four or five hours? He tries to figure out how far away Alexandria is. It’s like an algebra equation: trains and distance and speed. But he has pretty much none of the variables, and to be honest he was never that flash at algebra in the classroom, let alone when drunk. And then he laughs: one because he might have actually found a use for algebra in real life, and two because this whole thing is ridiculous.

  Even if he did make it back to Alexandria: what then? He has no idea how to get from Alexandria to Cairo; if he had a map he’d be hard-pressed to point the city out.

  The train has stopped at a fairly big station for water. It looks vaguely familiar, but Riki guesses all train stations look vaguely familiar, just like airports do. He opens the compartment window to have a closer look. There are orange sellers on the platform, and Riki waves at one – his mouth is dry and pasty from the whisky.

  ‘Oringi, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He hands the seller a penny, because he hasn’t changed any of his money yet. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Misr Station, sir.’

  Riki peels his orange. ‘But where is that? What city?’

  The orange seller gives Riki a strange look. ‘Cairo, sir.’

  Riki drops his orange, and it falls on the tracks. ‘Did you say Cairo?’

  The train whistles and shakes as it begins to move. The orange seller takes a step back from the train and nods at Riki. ‘Cairo. Yes.’

  Riki can’t believe it – Cairo. It’s like everything is finally falling into place. But the train lurches forward, and now he’s moving further and further away from his last chance to get home. He shakes his head again – No – and before he’s even conscious of what he’s doing, he’s standing. It’s like his body has made the decision before his mind has caught up. He tiptoes over the feet of the other men, nodding at his mates, Rewai and Little Mo, as if to say goodbye. They will wake up and find him gone.

  He makes his way out of the carriage, and jumps from the outer compartment to the platform. He wonders how long it will be before someone raises the alarm that he is gone. How much time does he have? He waits, crouched down beside the tracks. When the train has passed, he walks back in the opposite direction.

  He can’t believe what he’s doing – going AWOL. The military take that kind of thing seriously: he’s more likely to end up with a bullet in the head than to be booted out. He supposes he could always say he was drunk and wandered off the train. He’s got a compartment of men who would back up a story about his being blind drunk.

  He shakes his head; those thoughts are not helpful right now. If he is caught, he’ll deal with it then; but, all going well, he’ll never be caught. All going well, he’ll be back at home before he needs to worry about it.

  He feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time; he feels happy. At least he is trying; at least he hasn’t given up hope.

  28

  30 DECEMBER 1915

  He wakes to find the city bustling around him. He walked from Misr Station into town, and found a doorway to sit in and sober up a bit. He must have been drunker than he had thought if he managed to fall asleep here. He still feels groggy – not quite hungover – so he figures that he’s still a little drunk.

  Worse is the nagging little voice in his head: What if I get caught?

  He buys another orange, using whatever small coins he has left. Apart from trying to sell him their wares, the locals pretty much ignore him; he’s just another soldier, nothing out of the ordinary. He lifts his head up and walks as straight as he can. Believe you can and you will – one of those ‘motivational’ mottos that his mum often posted to her newsfeed. Although Jackson used to try so hard not to look drunk that he just looked way more wasted than he was – his eyes were always a little too wide, and he did this strange jerking thing with his head. Perhaps right now Riki looks like one of those people trying to walk in a straight line in a funny police video online.

  He knows that he should get off the street. He hails a cab – it is a horse-drawn carriage.

  ‘Take me to Dead City.’

  ‘Where is “Dead City”?’ the cab driver says.

  Just like taxis at home, Riki thinks. Always taking you for a ride. ‘Dead City. You know, big cemetery.’

  The cab driver shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Riki sighs, and pulls the diary out of his pocket. He flicks to the front of it, past all the bloodshed recorded in it – as well as the literal blood from his wounds. He finds the map and the sketch of the tomb and hands it to the cab driver.

  ‘I want to go there,’ he says. The cab driver still looks confused, so Riki mimes being dead – he closes his eyes and crosses his hands across his chest, hoping that the driver will understand what he means. ‘Do you know where this is?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Necropolis? El-Arafa?’ the cab driver says.

  Riki thinks that ‘necropolis’ sounds about right, so he nods. The cab driver shakes his reins, and his horse walks on.

  They head away from the city, the shops and alleyways becoming sparser as they go.

  ‘It’s quite far out of the city,’ Riki says. He’s not sure if he’ll have enough money to pay the fare, but he thinks it’s best not to let on. He’ll just give the cab driver all of his money, and hope that will be enough. It doesn’t matter anyway: he won’t need it at home.

  He wishes he could sleep, but the road is rough, and the carriage bounces at each of the horse’s steps. His hangover is starting to creep up on him, and he wishes he had thought to buy more than one orange.

  After about an hour the driver stops the carriage and says, ‘El-Arafa.’

  Riki leans over with the map again, and points to the sketch of the grand tomb. ‘Is this near?’

  The driver nods and points. ‘Not far from this gate.’

  Riki hands over a handful of coins. They seem to satisfy the driver, who raises his eyebrows as he counts the money and nods.

  ‘You want me to stay?’ the driver asks, and Riki shakes his head. The man shrugs and urges his horse off.

  Riki watches the carriage as it leaves. For some reason he feels like he should make sure the cabby has really gone. When he can no longer see him, he looks around, and for a second he thinks the man has cheated him.

  This looks nothing like any cemetery he’s seen. It’s a street with houses down each side. Even the pictures he’s seen of flash cemeteries around the world – like the famous ones in New Orleans that have above-ground tombs and mausoleums – look like cemeteries. This could be one of the back alleys in town. The buildings have doors and windows – some covered by iron bars that curl decoratively. Riki grabs one of the bars on a window and gives it a shake. It is pretty solid, even if it has been here for years – but why bar the windows in the first place? Who are they keeping out? Or keeping in?

  He gets a shiver down his spine. And then he realises that it’s not just that thought that is creeping him out; it is the place itself. It is quiet. No people wandering around, no windows being opened, no hawkers setting up their
stalls. It’s like a scene from a movie where all the inhabitants have disappeared from their town.

  He tries to swallow. It’s not just his hangover making his mouth dry, but the panic he’s feeling. He pats his pockets looking for his diary, and lets out a jagged sigh of relief once he has it in his hands. He looks at the map and sketch. All he has to do is find the grand tomb – and the driver said it was near. If he was telling the truth.

  He walks in the direction of a domed building that looks like the one in the sketch. He passes some smaller buildings, their walls painted yellow and cream, but keeps his eye on this domed building, which is made of plain stone apart from some decoration around its green-painted roof. He feels sick: a combination of hangover and confusion. What if there’s a domed tomb down every street? On every block?

  It doesn’t matter. He’ll check each one if it is a chance to get home, a chance to get his life back.

  He reaches the domed building. There are no iron bars on this tomb. The door is open. He creeps inside, and it is lighter than he expected; the windows let in natural light, as does the tower that supports the dome, which has many small windows punched into its perimeter.

  In the middle of the room there are a couple of large tombs – they are taller than Riki – topped with what look like headstones at each end. One of the tombs has been opened – the top of it is smashed. Riki hadn’t really thought about it before: when the men had said they were curio hunting, he’d imagined that they would have been just digging around. He kind of put out of his mind what he knew about ancient Egypt, and how they buried the dead with treasure. He did not want to think of his mates as grave robbers – but of course they were. Just like any other antiquities hunter. Just like any other historian, really; raking over the bones of the dead to make their fortune.

  ‘Fuck!’ The word bounces around the space.

  It’s a curse.

  He has been cursed by things that Jack and Matatau stole. He has to make it right. He has to give the taonga back to its people: return it home. He takes off his identity disc and pulls the brass ring free from the twine. Then he opens the diary and levers the scarab out of the pages. He’s not entirely sure what he should do – but he has a vague hope that if he returns these things, whatever has happened to him will be reversed.