by Nick Spill
Moana’s face and long black hair were illuminated by the embers. She had a bright red shawl draped over her shoulders. In the fading light they watched her place a container of mussels over the smoldering manuka sticks.
Wiremu introduced Moana and Rawiri to his two guests, and they sat on blankets Moana had laid out on the grass next to the fire. They looked out over the harbor and the darkening hills on the other side of the water. The grass felt damp.
“We went to Waipoua forest.” Mel could not see glasses for the wine, nor a corkscrew.
“Tane god of the forest is awesome,” said Henry. “It’s just breathtaking how it stands there. No branches for seventeen meters?”
Mel turned to Henry. “You read the sign.”
“I can read. I’m a scientist.” Henry gestured to Mel to open the wine.
Wiremu offered Henry and Mel beers. Henry used a bottle opener. Mel declined and saw there were no knives or forks. She laid the large loaf of bread on its paper bag, on top of the blanket.
Wiremu and Henry stared at each other. The silence was punctuated by the crackling of the fire as Moana tended to the shellfish.
“Tell me, Henry, where is the Tear?” Wiremu asked. Henry had worn his shirt buttoned up at the office, and now wore his jacket.
Henry ran his hand through his hair. “Your grandmother gave it to you, didn’t she? You never told me her story or anything about your mother and father. I know nothing about your family. Tell me now, then I’ll tell you about the Tear, but you have to be honest with me. None of that happy-go-lucky Maori shit you pull.”
Wiremu took a deep breath. “Wow, Henry. You’re usually so reserved. What’s got into you?” He held a new bottle of beer and took a swig.
“It’s the pendant, I think, but you go first.” Henry ran his hand through his hair again and glanced at Mel.
“Okay,” Wiremu said. “Hone, Rawiri and I have the same mother. She died here a long time ago. Whina Wilson.” She had died giving birth to Hone and there had not been a doctor or even a nurse to help her. The mortality rate for Maori babies and their mothers in country areas were far higher than for their Pakeha counterparts in cities with adequate hospitals and doctors. The brothers had talked about their family history a long time ago and come to peace with what had happened. Wiremu did not talk about it.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Mel said.
Wiremu nodded. “Our grandmother was Elsa Wilson. Elsa we remember well, eh Rawiri?”
Rawiri nodded. They had not started to eat, even though Moana had the pipis and mussels ready.
Wiremu finished his beer with a long swig. He looked out over the water and everyone was quiet. “It was Elsa who gave me the Tear of Tane. Her father was a tohunga. He wore it. He gave her instructions. She passed it onto me before she died. I was young and always getting into trouble, so I gave it to you. You saved me from going to jail the first time.”
Henry lowered his head. He did not know how to react. He felt ashamed and overwhelmed. And guilty. He had been given so many opportunities in his life compared to Wiremu.
“Let’s eat!” Moana exclaimed. “The pipis will get rubbery and everything’s ready.”
Mel noticed how Moana gave Henry furtive looks as she served pipis and mussels on plates to her guests. They tore hunks from the loaf Mel had brought to soak up the juices, and ate in silence, but for the moans of Rawiri and Wiremu who were noisy, enthusiastic eaters.
When they had finished, Wiremu turned to Henry. “Anyway, Henry, enough about us. What happened to the Tear?”
Henry wiped his mouth, glanced at Mel, and reached into his jacket pocket and held a small package, wrapped in tissue paper. “Having worn the Tear, I feel like, well, no one ever owns it.” He unwrapped the pendant and held the dark greenstone to the light of the fire. “I had it for what was an important time in our lives, and it feels like we were connected. But now I am thinking of returning to the States and it should stay here. It should be in New Zealand. I am giving it back to you, Wiremu.”
Wiremu accepted the pendant with both hands. His face was as hard as jade. He let the pendant hang from its long leather cord and watched it start to rotate.
Mel stared at Henry, a look of shock on her face. Henry kept his head down.
“Are you sure you want to return it?” Wiremu asked. “It’s taonga.” He watched the pendant’s dark green reflect the flames as it slowly spun. It glowed. Rawiri and Moana were transfixed. The cicadas had stopped: the only sound came from the fire. “I gave you the Tear and never expected to see it again. In a way, it was too much responsibility for me. I would have lost it, or it would have been confiscated by the police. Something bad would have happened to it. But you kept it safe and saved me again.”
“I was a keeper of the Tear and now I return it to you, the rightful owner. I’m leaving anyway. ”
“What? You’re telling me now?” Mel whispered.
“The FBI has been talking to me here,” Henry continued. “It’s been getting a little weird. An FBI agent and a cop, an Inspector Grimble, questioned me at Auckland Central police station. I think the FBI want the notebooks I had in New York.”
Wiremu lowered his voice. “The FBI and Grimble?”
“Yes. We all know him, right?” Henry added as he glanced at Mel who glared at him. His attempt to change the subject had not succeeded. She looked angry.
Wiremu rubbed the pendant with both hands before placing it around his neck with his eyes closed, then took a deep breath. No one said anything for some time as the new moon appeared on the cloudless horizon. The cicadas started again, and Moana poked the dying embers of the fire with a stick.
“How is your clinic, Mel?” Wiremu asked. “Are you treating Maori girls?” He stretched his arms above his head and Mel saw the pendant against his black pullover.
“Yes. Everyone. I specialize in general medicine for women. I leave the baby stuff to other doctors and midwives.” Mel smiled. “There is a lot to do.”
“What about abortions?”
“Oh, you know they are illegal. A crime.” Mel sighed. “Lots of young girls can’t seem to come to grips with an unplanned pregnancy. They certainly need counseling. The hypocritical thing is rich white girls can fly to Sydney on Friday night, get an abortion on Saturday and return Sunday and no one is the wiser. But poorer girls don’t have any options.” She placed the two unopened bottles of wine into her bag. Henry was still sitting, legs outstretched, gazing into the night sky.
“Can you recommend poor girls to get an abortion here?”
“Wiremu, it’s illegal. Last thing I want to do is lose my license. Even if it was legal I don’t think I could do one. Our clinic might, if there was a demand. Maybe we’ll get a more enlightened government.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Wiremu muttered.
Moana kept her eyes lowered and tightened the shawl around her body. Ricky had introduced her to an old Chinese woman who had given her special herbs. She had endured impossibly painful cramps for one night. It was if she had shat it out of her body, she had described her miscarriage to Ricky the next morning. She had cleaned herself and dumped the remains of the embryo in the garbage, wrapped in plastic. It looked like a lizard, a monster, which was how Moana had remembered the father.
“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Moana asked to break the silence as she kicked dirt over the fire to put it out.
“We have a room at a hotel in Rawene.” Mel stretched her legs again and prodded Henry, to get him to stand.
Henry rubbed his thigh and said, “Next time you are in Auckland you should drop in.”
“I might just.” Wiremu stomped his boots. “Planning on going to Auckland soon. Would be great to see youse guys.”
Mel kicked Henry harder when Wiremu turned his back.
Chapter Fourteen
When Alexander received the call from Catelin to take more photos of the milk bottles and discover if the doctor ordered milk himself, he had an excuse to
see Deborah again. He didn’t have her phone number and couldn’t recall her exact address, but there was only one Deborah working at the Turnbull Library.
“I’m really sorry I haven’t called you again,” he said when he got through, “but my job is keeping me busy. When I get to my tiny apartment late at night, I haven’t got a phone. They say another three months.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve been very busy.”
Alexander thought he detected a certain reluctance in her voice. How busy could she be, arranging books on shelves?
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to call you but have been too embarrassed.” Groveling might work, Alexander thought.
“Look, I’m at work.”
“Yes, I know, but the photos didn’t turn out as good as I hoped. I was preoccupied. Can I come over again and we could, you know.”
“I have to put you on hold.” Alexander could not see her rise out of her office chair, execute a little dance before she sat down again and picked up the phone.
“When?” He could hear anticipation in her voice, and she was out of breath.
“What about tonight?” He waited for a response. It worked with artists when he asked to come to their studio with no notice. He heard her deep breathing.
“Oh. Let me check my diary. Hmmm. I might have to cancel something. Can I call you back?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry for the rush but I’ve got a lot happening, I’ll tell you all when I see you.” Alexander repeated his office phone number to her and prayed she would call before 4.30 when the switchboard closed.
Deborah called at 4.25 to make him pay for not calling her sooner, Alexander thought, and he couldn’t blame her. He felt hopeless, or was it helpless? He didn’t know when to call, what to say, how long to wait till you could call again. What were the rules? Were there any rules? He was confused about women, and apprehensive about Deborah. She was voluptuous but also unpredictable. He wondered if she would cause problems later if their relationship ended. Although he was unsure what constituted a relationship with regards to Deborah. But she was a redhead. He had dated a redhead in high school and she had run off with an older boy. Well, a young man with sideburns, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a large American car with a noisy muffler. It would take more than a noisy muffler to get rid of Deborah.
He arrived with a bottle of Blue Nun, take-out from the local Indian restaurant and Southern Comfort in case they needed extra inspiration.
“So, what are you doing in Auckland? What’s the big secret?” Deborah asked after dinner.
“Well, I shouldn’t tell you but, as you are a certified librarian and keeper of the nation’s secrets and upholder of the sacred Dewey system, I’m taking Captain Cook to the Auckland City Art Gallery for a show and I’m getting army and police escort. They seem to be real worried. As if anyone would steal Captain Cook.” Alexander savored his Comfort on the rocks. He felt relaxed and doubted if he could stand, let alone perform in bed again. The second time Deborah had bent over the loveseat by the window and Alexander could watch for the doctor and his Russian mate. Concentrating on getting the perfect photo had made him last longer.
He saw them, at the most inappropriate time, as Deborah was demanding more and yelling obscenities at him. Deborah had graduated from being a moaner to a screamer. He was distracted from using his shutter release. If he didn’t get the money shots, he would have to return. Still, there was no downside to that.
Later, as they laid in bed exhausted, Deborah said, “Talking of secrets, I hear Muldoon has hired four ex-army guys, you know, Special Forces, and they’re doing dirty tricks. Taking photographs, blackmail, political subversion. It’s what the Soviets do. Counter-revolutionary stuff. It’s very disturbing.”
“More government gossip,” Alexander sighed. “You said four guys. How did you hear that?”
“I’m a librarian. I hear things. Somehow it’s related to the spy case. The one the government failed to convict, the economist fellow. Don’t follow the news, too disturbing.”
Alexander wasn’t sure he believed her. The tone of her voice sounded odd. But then he noticed the turntable and two small speakers beside her bed and faint piano music. “Can you get me more Comfort? Is there any more curry?”
“You ate everything.”
“Yes, I did.” He tried to pull a pubic hair from his teeth.
She returned with two full glasses and shook her breasts as the ice clinked. He clapped his hands in delight as she returned his wicked grin. He was drunk enough to enjoy himself and forget about her tone.
She handed him a glass and slid back into bed.
“What are you playing?” he asked.
“Erik Satie.” She sipped her drink and adjusted the sheets to cover her chest.
Alexander sat upright and inspected the turntable. “Trois Gymnopédies?” he asked in a fake French accent.
“Non! Gnossiennes, cinq!” she said after another mouthful of Comfort. “I thought it might slow you down.”
“Well, it’s still French, which reminds me.” Alexander lifted the sheet and started to kiss her again. When he reached her stomach she giggled. He righted himself, picked up his glass and swirled the ice around. He looked at her seriously. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
“Why you!” She playfully slapped his shoulder and he almost dropped his drink.
“No. We have to go out and do something. I just can’t come over here and climb into your bed. Unless you want that.” Alexander looked into her eyes. “Do you?”
“I would like to go out with you very much.”
“Good. And I still don’t understand the rumors. I go out with lots of women? I mean, you’re the only woman I know.”
“Come here.” Deborah removed his drink and pulled him towards her.
Later, Alexander watched her set the alarm for five o’clock. He hoped all the strenuous activity would prevent a hangover.
• • •
Alexander looked across at Mount Egmont. The volcano reminded him of Mount Fuji in the Japanese print he had seen recently. Where? Oh, yes. Deborah’s bathroom. He had gazed at Mount Fuji as he tried to pee. He had been in such pain from all the, what was it? Friction? Stronger than friction. Stranger than fiction. He let out a sigh and relaxed. He closed his eyes and thought of Deborah. Thinking of mounts, Egmont stood at over 8000 feet and with the light coming from the east it looked majestic. He patted the wooden crate leaning against the window seat next to him in the front row of his Air New Zealand flight to Auckland. Which seemed more than ironic because it was Captain James Cook who was the first European to see, and name the smoking volcano, after a Lord of the Admiralty who had supported his voyage around the world. What was his name? Of course, Egmont! Here he sat at 30,000 feet in air-conditioned comfort, next to the famous portrait of the explorer. He wondered if any of Cook’s crew had had similar soreness after their nights with rapturous and wild Polynesian women. Not a topic for serious art historians or sociologists, but Alexander thought he was in good company, at least with Cook’s sailors. Captain Cook, Alexander had read, was not one to cavort with the ladies.
Alexander had been accompanied by two policemen from the National Gallery’s loading dock to the airport. A rare perfect day in Wellington, for the sky was blue and there was no wind as he wheeled the crate on a cart to the plane on the tarmac. A uniformed stewardess greeted him by name and had him seated in the front. Seat 1B. Captain Cook was in 1A. Or rather the crate was leaning against the seat. A tight fit. But no one seemed to mind where the Captain sat. He made an ideal travel companion: silent, easy to handle, and commanding instant respect.
But when Alexander went to place his left hand on the crate again, containing the only three-quarter portrait of Captain James Cook in existence, he had a premonition. His trip to Auckland was going to go terribly wrong and he would be responsible, or at least blamed for the catastrophe.
Two days before, he had entered Under-Secretary Richard Catelin’s larg
e office with two manila envelopes. Even the circumspect civil servant could not contain himself when he saw the black-and-white photos they contained. The shadow minister’s hand squeezed the young woman’s rear as they stood kissing, no, snogging would be the correct term, Alexander explained to Catelin. The photos told a story, from the first intimate kiss outside her front door, to a series of embraces, to the couple disappearing inside, and the shadow of the shadow minister.
In the other envelope were what he called the “extra milk bottle” photos. “Are they good enough? I had to push the film.”
“I can see.” Catelin was clearly trying not to smile.
“I’ve been thinking. We can talk about the doctor and the Russian spy all we want and the milk bottle. And by the way, the doctor doesn’t get milk delivered in the morning. I checked with the milk delivery as well. So, one mystery solved. Though they did see each other again yesterday morning. It’s like I said, the Russian is courting him. Keeping him warm.” Alexander paused to see if Catelin would respond or reach for a pipe. His boss did not move. “But the photos. They are dynamite. Real election-changing stuff. I mean, what if they leaked? Or Truth or the Dominion got hold of them?”
“You haven’t shown them to anyone, have you?” The Under-Secretary sounded near panic.
