Merle Oberon achieved much more than a film career. In a life characterised by steely determination, sexual charisma and force of will, she moved in the international jet set, becoming one of the leading hostesses for her multi-millionaire husband, lavishly entertaining princes and presidents at their sumptuous home in Mexico. Higham and Moseley are of the view that she dominated not only Hollywood but the society of her generation.
All this, and yet she was the second daughter of a Eurasian girl, born on 19 February 1911 not in Tasmania, Australia, but in Bombay, India.
This was the description of Merle Oberon’s mother in Higham and Moseley’s book that took my attention: ‘Her name is Charlotte Constance Selby … She is a Christian girl, part Irish, part Singhalese, with Maori strains in her blood …’ The future actress was christened Estelle Merle. Her father was Arthur O’Brien Thompson, and the name Merle Oberon was fashioned out of her second Christian name and her father’s first surname.
When Merle Oberon became famous, her mother, father and her elder sister conspired to keep the truth of her Eurasian origins from the public. According to Higham and Moseley, cinematographers found ways of filming her so that her naturally dark skin and looks would be obscured. One such was the famed Gregg Toland, cameraman for Citizen Kane, who poured the whitest and most blazing arc lights directly into her face, making her look almost transparently fair and removing any hint of her Indian skin texture.
Merle Oberon’s mother, Charlotte, in fact lived with her daughter in Britain and the United States, and the biography relates this incident from the 1930s, told by actress Diana Napier (p. 28): ‘One afternoon I was having tea with Merle at her flat near Baker Street when for the first time I saw this little, plump Indian woman come into the room dressed in a sari. She stood nervous, hesitantly, as though waiting for orders. Merle was extremely embarrassed. She spoke to her mother in Hindustani. The lady hardly said anything at all. She was very, very quiet.’
Charlotte Constance Selby died with her daughter at her bedside on 28 April 1937. Very few people knew that the Indian woman, called by Merle Oberon her ayah or nanny, had been her mother. Neither woman had ever shown any sign of family affection. To have done so would have destroyed Merle Oberon’s ‘English rose’ reputation at a time when women of colour faced harrowing prejudice and racism. In the British film industry, such a woman would never have made it to the front rank of actors — and would not have survived the furore if the truth had become known.
Soon after her mother’s death, so Higham and Moseley tell us, Merle Oberon had a portrait painted of an unknown woman, with brown hair, blue eyes and white skin, dressed in a period costume of some twenty years earlier. The painting always hung in her homes from then on, and, when asked who the woman was, Merle Oberon always said she was her mother.
And so, in the second part of the novella and film, Paraiti is involved in a battle of wills with Rebecca Vickers, whose life parallels that of Merle Oberon: as a Maori passing as Pakeha, she, too, has much at stake.
The battle is over the life of an unborn child: how will Paraiti be able to save the child and not kill it? It is also, of course, over whose history will succeed, identity, race, skin colour and the choices many men and women of ethnicity faced when trying to survive within European society before it rebalanced itself.
4. AN EVOLVING STORY
There are now two versions of the novella Medicine Woman, which, together with the White Lies screenplay, make three versions of the same story. The following first version of the novella was first published in Ask the Posts of the House (2007), and this is the version on which Dana Rotberg based her White Lies adaptation. The second, expanded and altered version, is published for the first time at the beginning of this movie tie-in.
Those who know my work will understand why: I have a habit of rewriting; for instance, there are two versions of Pounamu, Pounamu (1972 and 2002), two versions of Tangi (1973 and the second substantially revised combined with a sequel called The Rope of Man, 2005), two versions of Whanau (Whanau 1974 and Whanau II, 2003), two versions of The Matriarch (1986 and its major revision 2009), retouching of various versions of The Whale Rider and multiple published versions of some of my short stories.
My last novel, The Parihaka Woman (2011), actually began life as Erenora, an unpublished rock opera libretto, before becoming a novella originally intended for inclusion in The Thrill of Falling, but it grew into a complete novel instead.
The reason?
Well, I have always believed that a fictional piece of work exists in a continuum. It is not static. Stories rarely leave you alone, they sit like backseat drivers in the recesses of your mind, nagging to come back into the driving seat again. Indeed, my publisher Harriet Allan said to me, ‘Witi, you must have a busload of bossy characters at the back of your bus!’ There’s more: they also nag at me, ‘Pay further attention to who we really are and the landscape that you are driving us through.’ And so in most cases I have added historical context or political inflections or sub-textual resonances.
In the case of Medicine Woman there was another reason. This was that from the beginning the novella was always the first part of a two-part story: Medicine Woman and Paraiti’s Daughter. I still have to write the sequel, but its rewrite was evolving in my head at the same time Dana was writing her screenplay adaptation. I like to think that it is a more complex work, and certainly it provides a richer and more substantial — and longer — experience for the reader.
I’m not going to point out the differences between my original Medicine Woman and this current rendition — they will be apparent when you read them — except to say that two characters have a greater part to play in the expanded version: Ihaka the woodsman and the anonymous gardener; this is because they serve a larger function in the sequel. They were also demanding their own stories in the future. My editor Anna Rogers and Harriet, too, also required me with their excellent questions to audit the original and add detail that they felt was missing in it. All this was done without recourse to Dana’s screenplay.
I should also point out that there are now three variations on the ending. In the original novella in Ask the Posts of the House, it is Rebecca Vickers who throws the baby into the river. However, in Dana’s White Lies screenplay, Rebecca commits suicide, which caused me a dilemma as far as writing any sequel was concerned. This is why I was pushed to make Maraea, and not Rebecca Vickers, the one who takes the baby down to the bridge before sunrise. As it happens, this change has brought Maraea out of the shadows, makes us focus on her motivations — and prepares us for her greater participation in the sequel.
I like to think that the reader and viewer of Dana’s film now have the opportunity to choose which ending they prefer. For fledgling writers and filmmakers, the three endings show the different direction ideas can be taken by different artists, filmmakers, publishers and editors working in different media.
They show that the capacity of the artistic imagination is limitless.
Thanks to my friend and colleague John Barnett, whose production company made Whale Rider and who introduced Dana Rotberg to me. Most people won’t know that it took twelve years to bring Whale Rider, directed by Niki Caro, from novel to screen. John introduced me to Niki, too; she is one of my favourite people. The most successful New Zealand stories that appear on film and television in this country are due to his tenacity; I am humbled and grateful that South Pacific Pictures have produced White Lies — Tuakiri Huna.
Thank you also to Dana Rotberg. What an amazing biography she brings to New Zealand: an acclaimed director in Mexico, with a list of international award-winning films to her credit! After a decade-long hiatus, White Lies—Tuakiri Huna marks her return to international filmmaking. From the beginning, I was excited at the prospect of such an acclaimed filmmaker bringing her aesthetic and vision to a New Zealand landscape and narrative; we have usually been seen only through New Zealand or British or American eyes. White Lies—Tuakiri Huna is clearly the w
ork of a major international director; Dana Rotberg’s notes, written with sincerity and radiance, show why. As well, I could not help but feel some strange rightness in the Mexican connection through Merle Oberon’s marriage to Bruno Pagliai.
In her acknowledgements, Dana thanks the many people from Tuhoe, the Ruatahuna valley and those involved in the production for the making of White Lies—Tuakiri Huna. May I add my thanks that you so fulsomely and generously opened the pathway for her, and the cast and crew.
Thanks also to my agent, Ray Richards, and to my publisher Harriet Allan and my editor Anna Rogers for their superb advice and editing; they never let me get away with anything.
Finally, I want to return to my mother and the scar-faced woman she took me to. She was a woman I never knew called Paraiti.
During the making of the film, John Barnett told the story of Paraiti at the blessing at the marae before production began. I was so proud to know that filming was to take place on the Oputao Marae and I make my mihi and pay tribute to the kuia, koroua and whanau for their generosity and aroha. I was not there, but apparently the local people were intrigued about my story. They were aware of local women who practised medicine but not one of them could identify the real Paraiti.
Does that matter? Yes, because one day I would like to visit her grave, wherever it might be, and thank her for her work.
Anointed to the task of honouring life, she saved mine.
Witi Ihimaera
Auckland
1
Another dawn, and she drags her old bones up from sleep.
Her name is Paraiti and when she is sleeping her bones are light and weightless. But as she wakes she is aware of all the stiffness, aches and numbness of a body that has aged. She opens her eyes, listening to her heart thumping away as it pushes the blood through thickened veins. She hears the usual wheeze and gurgle as her lungs force her breath in and out, and she feels a lump of phlegm in her throat. Creaking like an old door on worn-out hinges, she heaves herself into a sitting position, opens the flap of the tent and spits into the cuspidor she keeps for holding her offensive bodily fluids.
Now that she is awake, Paraiti fumbles among her blankets for her Bible and hymnal and starts to chant a karakia. Old habits die hard, and she wouldn’t dream of beginning a new day without himene and prayer. Her parents Te Teira and Hera, if they were alive, would roar with laughter to see her now; in the old days, when the Ringatu faithful were all at prayer in the smoky meeting house, she was the child always squirming and wriggling. ‘Kaore e korikori koe,’ Te Teira would reprimand her.
Although Paraiti went for a few years to a native school, she can’t read very well; she trusts to her memory when quoting from the Old Testament or singing hymns. She raises a hand in the sign of the faithful.
‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu,’ she begins. ‘Glory be to Thy holy name.’
She lifts her eyes to the sky lightening above her, and gives thanks to God for having made the world. The huge forest canopy has been a protective umbrella for her sleep. Here, at the bend of a river, with giant ferns unfolding in the lower growth, she has had the perfect camping ground.
Karakia over, she whistles out to her stallion, Ataahua, and Kaihe, her mule. They whinny back — good, they have not foraged too far away in the night. Where’s Tiaki, her pig dog? Aha, there he is, on the other side of the river.
She calls to him, ‘Have you brought something for my breakfast or have you been selfish and wolfed it all down yourself?’
No, today Tiaki has been kind to his mistress. He jumps headlong into the water and swims across; he offers a fat wood pigeon, still alive and unmarked in his jaws.
‘Homai te kereru,’ Paraiti asks him. ‘Give me the bird.’ He sighs, knowing she will release it back into the woods. ‘Ae, Tiaki, we let this one go. Give the first to Tane, Lord of the Forest.’ She gives the pigeon its freedom and it creaks and whistles its way back into the trees. ‘Now go, Tiaki, the second pigeon is for us.’
Right-oh, down to the edge of the river to wash herself, get the pikaro out of her eyes, and use a clean rag to wash her neck, armpits and nether parts. While she is at it, she sprinkles water over her head, and looks at her reflection, hoping to see some improvement. No such luck. Still the same old face, only getting older: big Maori nose, heavy upper lip, three chins, and lots of bushy hair. She fixes the hair by pinning it back with two large ivory combs but, aue, now she can see more of her face. Never mind: there’s nobody else around to frighten.
Time for breakfast. Paraiti rekindles the fire and hangs a billy of water on an iron rod supported by two strong branches; she also puts a skillet among the hot embers.
Tiaki comes back with a second bird. Paraiti has a sneaking suspicion that he catches two birds at the same time and, somehow, has learnt the trick of pinning the second bird down with a stone, keeping it for later. Now that he has served his mistress, Tiaki bounds off in search of his own breakfast.
Paraiti plucks the pigeon and puts it in the skillet; very soon it is sizzling in its own fat. From one of her saddlebags she takes some damper bread and honey. There’s nothing like a fresh pigeon and damper bread running with honey to start the day. A cup of manuka tea made in the billy and, ka pai, she is in seventh heaven.
Once she’s breakfasted, she’s keen to get going. Quickly, she dismantles the tent and bedding and stows them in the saddlebag. She goes down to the river to rinse the breakfast implements, then douses the fire and cleans up around her. She buries the contents of the cuspidor in the ground. Nobody would ever know she’d been here.
At Paraiti’s whistle, Ataahua and Kaihe come at the gallop. She loads Kaihe first, then she puts the bridle and saddle on Ataahua and taps him on the front knees. Once upon a time she could get on a horse without trouble, but these days it’s too much for her old bones. Ataahua obliges, going down on his front legs. He waits for Paraiti to settle and then hoists himself up with a whinny of grumpiness; over the past few years his mistress has got not only older but heavier.
‘Me haere tatou,’ she tells Ataahua. ‘Let us go.’
Pulling her mule after her, she fords the river and climbs the track on the other side. By the time she reaches the top of the ridge, Tiaki has joined her with a supercilious look on his face, as if he has given her only the second-best pigeon. The mist has lifted from the valleys and the air is clear. The forest is raucous with birdsong. Far away, Paraiti can see the smoke curling above the village of Ruatahuna, her destination.
2
Paraiti is not her real name, but the name people know her by. Mostly she is called Scarface — emblematic of the deep red welt that travels diagonally from her right temple across the bridge of her nose and, luckily missing her left eye, reappears to feather her left cheekbone. The scar was caused when Paraiti was a young girl, in 1880. Her family group was hiding deep within the Urewera country when they were set upon by constabulary forces who were hunting bigger game — the rebel prophet, Te Kooti. They restrained Paraiti’s parents with ropes while they ransacked the encampment. When they couldn’t find Te Kooti, one of them took a burning stick from the cooking fire and slashed Paraiti with it. As her parents were led away to be imprisoned, her father Te Teira cried out, ‘Daughter, quickly, go to the stream and lie down in the cold water.’ Hera, Paraiti’s mother, died while they were still incarcerated, and when Te Teira was released a year later, he went searching throughout Tuhoe and the King Country for his daughter. As soon as he saw the scarred little girl on the roadside at Te Kuiti, where she had been lovingly cared for, he knew it was her.
Today is the first day of June in the Year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and twenty-nine. Paraiti is fifty-four years old now, and a traditional healer.
Maori people have not lost faith in their own healers. Indeed, although those who live in the cities and towns have access to the Pakeha doctors, those who still reside in tribal villages in the backblocks and remote coastal areas rely on travelling healers like Paraiti for medical
help. Vilified by the government authorities for their work, the healers are still committed to the health and wellbeing of the morehu, the survivors of the land wars. Many of Paraiti’s people of the Ringatu faith do not trust the authorities at all. And, of course, the Depression is beginning to bite. Who can Maori turn to, apart from their own healers, when they have no money to pay the Pakeha takuta?
Three weeks ago, Paraiti was still in her village of Waituhi, preparing for her travels. The autumn had been unseasonably cold, with southerlies driving into the foothills. Paraiti had huddled close to a warm fire in her old one-room kauta near the painted meeting house, Rongopai. Even so, she was determined to keep to her annual trip. She had become stir-crazy and wanted to be out on the road.
It was time for her to leave her hearth.
She carefully selected the medicines, unguents, potions, analgesics, antiseptics, styptics, philtres, emetics, blood purifiers and ointments that she needed. She took only kao, dried kumara and water as provisions; food would be her payment from her patients and, should she require extra kai for herself and her animals, the Lord and the land provided. She knew all the traditional food-gathering areas — fern grounds, pa tuna, taro and kumara gardens and bird sanctuaries — and, as well, she had some special secret areas where she went to stock up on herbs and healing plants.
Paraiti took a small tent and a bedroll. For protection she put her rifle in a sling and a knife in her left boot. Although she might not be attractive, she was still a woman, and men were men.
She went to Rongopai, the great cathedral of her people, and in its stunning interior — verily a Garden of Eden — she prayed to God for safe passage. She filled five blue bottles with the healing waters that bubbled up from a deep underground spring behind the house, and sprinkled herself and her animals with the water. Then she strapped the saddlebags around Kaihe’s girth, bridled and saddled Ataahua, tapped on his front knees and climbed aboard. Straightaway, she urged Ataahua up, ‘Timata,’ and headed into the foothills behind Waituhi.
White Lies Page 16
