Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  FRANCIS IS NOW BESIDE Lei and his eldest son. They’re in a circle around the stone with the rockstar and Love. They’re holding hands. Still, the rockstar fidgets between Francis and Love.

  ‘We happy you’re here,’ says Francis. ‘Rockstar and Love. The stone’s happy, too.’

  Everyone smiles. Francis bows his head, everyone does the same, and Mrs Palikiko begins a prayer …

  After a minute, Francis is the first to lift his head. He gives a gentle squeeze to the rockstar’s hand before he lets go. He places one hand on the stone and then gestures with his other for the rest of them to do the same. When they’ve all got their hands on the stone he says what the rockstar believes is his own little prayer.

  The stone has brought them strength, power:

  The father and mother — they never get weak, they never get tired.

  The sons and daughters — they see the future in their dreams.

  They know they have plenty to lose. They’re willing to take that chance. The stone has decided and the father knows it. They all know.

  They must keep at it, preparing the stone for the long journey to its new home.

  MRS PALIKIKO AND THE children are at one of the mango trees. Love is beside them with a plastic grocery bag. The rockstar and Francis are standing together beside the stone. The rockstar says, ‘I’m glad plans changed, Mr Palikiko. This’s been an experience. For Love, too, I think.’

  ‘With the stone, plans don’t change,’ says Francis. He’s pleased so he lets the space between them be consumed by their surroundings. The warmth of the sun. The crisp wind. The sound of the children laughing. Birds singing in the trees. The stone.

  ‘I’ll stay in touch, Francis. I’ll be back. And when you’re ready, I’ll fly you to LA for a weekend so you can see what I’ve done. Plan for that, too.’

  Francis tells the rockstar he’s never been outside Hawai‘i.

  ‘I’ve never had ‘awa,’ says the rockstar. ‘And I’m sorry I hadn’t.’ He looks over at the children placing mangos in the plastic bag. He looks at Love. ‘It’ll be good for your family,’ he says.

  But Francis doesn’t hear him, anymore. He’s also looking in the distance, looking at his wife and children. Listening to the stone.

  1999

  ON AN OVERCAST MORNING somewhere in Los Angeles, the multi-platinum, Grammy Award-winning rock musician steps out onto the balcony of his palatial mansion. The grey clouds rolling in from the Pacific have already mixed with the haze drifting above the city, but he’s not bothered by the fact that he can’t clearly see the horizon. There are still empty wine and champagne glasses standing on the marble tabletops around him — ugly reminders of what was supposed to be an intimate gathering in celebration of the release of his latest album, Chronicles of the Stone — but they don’t bother him, either. He’s found himself again. He’s been inspired to write and to play and to sing. To create. He has reignited his popularity, his fame.

  His music is not the same anymore, and at first the critics were quite resistant. But in time, as the music started to sell, there was no denying the genius behind his new work. The critics retracted their earlier assessments, or they simply acted as if they hadn’t written anything negative in the first place. It was all enough to make the rockstar laugh; one morning shortly after the success of his new album had been confirmed, he fell off his chair while reading the paper and enjoying a cup of espresso at his 16th-century table once owned by Henry VIII.

  What does cause the rockstar some concern, even some panic, however, is the fact that as he stands there leaning on the cool aluminium railing at the edge of the balcony, he immediately sees that there is something very wrong about the courtyard. He knows what it is. He sees it, but he can hardly believe it. It seems impossible. He feels a warmth begin on the back of his neck before it shoots down his arms.

  The stone in his courtyard, the one after which his most recent album is named, has fallen from its place. The tall, smooth stone is now on its side, lying on the immaculate, soft lawn.

  The rockstar cannot determine what has happened. He is certain the stone was meticulously set, placed in position on a prominent spot in the courtyard specifically designed to prevent this. There was an architect. An engineer. They were both paid extra to ensure that the stone was properly secured. He had told them their only job was to keep the stone safe.

  He thinks for a second (and finds himself instantly enraged) that someone has pushed it over. But this, he knows, is also impossible. The stone is just way too heavy.

  He re-enters the mansion and turns on the television, looking for the news. He hops on his iMac, gets online, and also searches there. He’s thinking perhaps there was an earthquake in the night.

  The stone has fallen and he’s quite shaken up, but also incredibly fascinated by the whole situation. There’s absolutely no mention of any tremor, let alone earthquake, anywhere in the vicinity of California in the last twenty-four hours. And when the rockstar finally gets to the stone, he sees that it is still in perfect condition, even after the fall.

  He places his hand on the stone. Rubs his hand across its smooth surface.

  He decides not to call the architect. Or the engineer.

  He returns to the mansion. He makes an espresso.

  He walks back out to the courtyard and sits near what was once the base of the stone. He examines it for evidence of the fall.

  Before he can finish the espresso, he feels a swirling wind cutting over the lawn. It’s persistent. Leaves and flowers begin to fall from the shrubs — and then the trees — in the courtyard. He sits in the wind until it eventually calms.

  He spills the rest of the espresso on the grass. White flowers of an orchid tree have lined themselves up on the lawn at the other end of the stone.

  He stands up, looks down at the stone, then contemplates these things: the way the stone might’ve fallen to land in its new position, and the way the shape of the stone makes it appear that the white flowers have aligned themselves with the stone.

  The rockstar turns and makes his way to one of the studies in the mansion.

  Soon, there are blueprints of the property and maps of Los Angeles covering the desk and the floor. He cannot move without touching some kind of paper. He’s surrounded by drawings, plans, layouts, symbols. He’s looking for anything in line with the stone — something on his property, something underground, something in the city, a building, a home, a lot.

  He finds nothing significant in any of the blueprints and maps. After nearly three hours, he’s at a loss for what to do. There’s someone he can call, but he doesn’t want to do it. It might be his pride, but he also thinks the call would be premature. He’s had the stone for years now, and this is not the first time something like this has happened. Only the first time the stone has moved.

  There were times he’d awoken to find it was raining everywhere in LA except in the courtyard. And other times when the courtyard was the only place with rain.

  There were times when the sky was dark for days, and the first rays of light came down to touch the stone.

  He’s chronicled these events.

  He knows that he’ll figure it out in time. He pulls out a drawer in the desk and finds a pen and a pad. After a minute, he opens other drawers in the desk. He pulls out two boxes and rummages through the first, taking out other precious stones he’s collected from around the world. Then he opens the second box and slides out its contents: firm, clear plastic sheets with old postage stamps sealed in them. He scans the little stamps until he sees one in particular and then he looks back out the door.

  He reaches for the pen and pad and begins to write, It speaks again …

  That afternoon, he is out on the balcony. He looks up toward the horizon and sees a point where the clouds and the haze are parting, leaving a view of the blue sky behind them. He sees this point is perfectly in line with the stone. The tall stone, still on its side, is a line between him and the blue point in the sky.

>   2005

  THEY THINK IT’S A simple two-man job so their plan is to the point: wait for Friday, down some beers, steal the stone, make the drop, done. By now, they really can’t help themselves. It’s not just the money. It’s not just the drugs. They’ve driven past the old man’s place since they were boys, thousands of times, and every time they have, they’ve found themselves — whether they’ve thought to or not — looking into his yard. They called the stone ‘more beautiful than any girl we know’ long before the old man and his family packed it up and shipped it to the rockstar. They heard the story. You can’t keep something like that a secret on Moloka‘i.

  Now the stone has a new price tag, forty grand to the wharf. That’s a small fraction of what they’ve heard it’s worth, but it’s also so much money they don’t complain. They worry more about keeping the cash a secret than they do about the drop. They decide to go fifty–fifty even though they’ll use the small one’s truck. The big one, the powerlifter, he’s the muscle, so he gets paid to get the stone in the bed of the truck and to shut people up if needed, after that.

  They’re brothers. And they don’t think anything about stealing the stone. As far as they’re concerned, the old man is doing them a favour. He deserves it for moving the stone in the first place. Besides, he’s already got his cut. More than three million is what they’ve heard. They can’t believe it (the old man, Francis, still lives the same way he did in ’92), but if they’re getting paid the way they are, it must be true.

  The big one is not all muscle. He’s got a heart. He doesn’t tell the small one, but he plans to send most of his cut to their sister. She wants out of a bad marriage. He’s told her just to come home, but she insists she’d sooner die than show up back on the island after all these years with nothing more than a suitcase full of designer clothes. He’ll send her the money to get her started again, and he’ll put the rest away. His girlfriend is having a baby. His brother doesn’t know that either.

  The small one is another story. If he had a good bone in his body, he’d probably sell it, too. Everything about him is make that money. And he’s found over the years there’s no faster way than with drugs. He’s had fistfights with the big one a dozen times to defend this idea. And the fact he got his ass kicked every single time only helped to prove how adamant he was about this point. He plans to take his twenty grand and flip it five times in the next year. ‘That’s not a hundred grand,’ he tells his brother, ‘it’s almost six and a half.’ He’ll be moving across the state.

  IF THERE’S ONE THING that really gets them, it’s the fact that the old man has put the stone right at the start of his driveway, less than five feet from the road. They’ve heard it’s because he wants to let people have a look without having to drive onto his property. They’ve heard when the flatbed came to return the stone after the rockstar had it, the rear tires went flat and the straps holding down the stone slipped off right at that spot. They’ve even heard the old man says it was up to the stone. They’ve heard it all, but what they think is that the old man just wants to rub it in their faces.

  They toss the empty beers into a chickenwire bin full of bottles in the garage. Then they roll out an old carpet in the bed of the Chevy, shut the hardtop, and jump in up front. It’s a Friday night, but they don’t expect any traffic on the road fronting the old man’s house. It’s 2 am and they know the old man and his wife have long since gone to sleep. Their children are all out of the house. The youngest is somewhere in California.

  The small one starts up the truck and they each think for a second that they’ve overlooked the rumbling noise sputtering out of the muffler, but then the image of a fat stack of cash quickly erases their worries. The small one reaches for the door and rolls up the windows. Then he slips a CD into the deck beneath the dashboard and the cab fills with what the big one can only describe as fusion rock. ‘What da hell,’ the big one says.

  The small one is bobbing his head front and back, laughing. ‘Da chronicles,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Chronicles of the Stone. Da music. Da rockstah’s music.’ He raises a fist in the air.

  The big one slaps at the deck until there is silence. The cab fills with swearwords and accusations regarding the small one’s intelligence. ‘I not playin’ tonight,’ the big one says.

  The small one wants to say he’s only adding to the mood, but he’s not looking for another fistfight. He’s got his mind on the money, and when it comes to money, he knows not to mess around.

  The truck pulls out of the driveway and pretty soon it’s making its way down Farrington Avenue. There are streetlamps every now and then, but for the most part it’s pitch black and they can’t see much beyond the headlights of the truck. There’s a silence between them, and they’re used to it, so they don’t search for words to occupy the time until they reach the old man’s home. Instead, they keep a lookout through the windows and the rearview mirrors. They are pleased when they don’t see another vehicle on the road.

  When they reach the old man’s house, the truck slows down and they look at the stone before passing by. They drive on for about another hundred yards and then make a U-turn right there on the two-lane street. When they approach the stone again, the small one cuts the lights and puts the truck in neutral. It rolls to the edge of the road until it reaches the old man’s driveway and the stone is within feet of the bed. The doors open up and the big one immediately goes for the stone. His brother rushes to the bed, pops up the hardtop and drops the tailgate. The big one struggles to get the stone off of the ground — he wraps his right arm around it until it’s up against his chest, then he pushes it over so he can get his left arm under it. He squats and lifts, and when he gets it off the ground, he easily lugs it over and rolls it onto the carpet in the bed.

  They work together to shut the tailgate and the hardtop. The bed has dropped a few inches, but within a matter of seconds, the truck is at 35 mph and heading east down Farrington Avenue.

  ‘Dat was smooth,’ says the big one. He’s already thinking about his sister. He felt the wad of cash in his pocket as soon as he realised he could pick up the stone.

  ‘Time to get paid,’ says the small one. He’s smiling so hard he has to wipe his face.

  They get to the intersection at the end of Farrington Avenue and make a right down Kalae Highway. There isn’t another vehicle in sight. It’s a beautiful, quiet night, they think.

  The small one is about to joke that he’s leaving the drug scene for good. He’s thinking about the business of stones. He opens his mouth, but right as he does, the engine begins to knock and the truck begins to shudder. The brothers look at each other and the big one points to the side of the two-lane highway. He curses at the fact the truck should be able to handle the weight. It shouldn’t be overheating. But when they look at the temperature gauge, it’s perfectly fine, the dial exactly between the H and the C.

  The truck veers off the highway and onto the grassy shoulder. The big one lets the back of his head fall against the headrest. ‘Yo truck,’ he says, so his brother jumps out to check under the hood.

  The big one sits there in disgust as he hears the hood snap open and then sees the beam of a flashlight moving over the engine. He lets out a loud sigh. He’s about to open his door and get out when he feels a rumbling behind him and then the bed of the truck spring up. The beam from the flashlight shoots through the cab and he squints for a moment before he opens his door. He goes to the back of the truck. He stops. He freezes.

  The small one is soon standing beside him. He shuts off the flashlight. They stand there in the dark. The only thing they can do as they face the stone — now on the ground and upright, just as it was in the old man’s yard — is curse their fate. There’s a whole bunch of swearing.

  ‘No can,’ says the small one. ‘No way.’

  ‘You put da latch, ah?’

  ‘Yah.’

  The big one can’t shake the eerie feeling running up his back, but he doesn�
��t want to let on that he’s scared. ‘Go start da truck,’ he says. ‘Now!’ He can’t think of anything else to do but heave the stone back in the bed. He squats to wrap his arm around it and push it over but the stone won’t move. It’s so heavy he thinks it’s stuck to the ground. He wraps both arms around it and heaves with all his might, but he can’t move it. He feels a warmth on his chest emanating from the stone, so he jumps back.

  The truck’s ignition fires on and the hood slams shut.

  They are standing side by side again. The big one points to the stone. ‘Not moving,’ he says. ‘Stuck.’

  But when the small one walks over and places his hand on the stone, it tilts over and falls to the ground. ‘Pick ’im up. C’mon. Stop messin’ aroun’.’

  The big one leans over the stone, but he still can’t move it, so the small one gets down to help him. The stone doesn’t budge. They pull and push. They come at the stone from different angles, but after a couple of minutes it begins to rain, and they’re forced to give up.

  They decide the only thing to do is cover the stone with debris from the side of the two-lane highway. Go home, get a shovel, a dolly and some straps. It’s their only hope. They haven’t got much time. They jump in the truck and peel off back up the highway. The small one gets on his cell phone and makes a call to the wharf. It’ll take them another hour, he says, no more. The big one lowers his window so he can get some fresh air. He hears a voice calling for him from the darkness. Then birds singing, even though it’s night. The stone’s got in his head, he thinks, there’s no one out there.

  When they finally pull into the driveway, there’s a small sense of relief. The big one thinks for a second that he just might call it a night, go back in the middle of the day. He doesn’t feel right. He’ll tell his brother to call right back and say they don’t want to damage the stone. They’ll go back the next day and just park the truck on the shoulder of the highway to block it. They’ll wait out any passing cars. But when his brother puts the truck in park, the big one doesn’t get the chance. He starts to feel dizzy, drunk. Then his brother’s head tilts back and hits the headrest — eyes and mouth wide open. And suddenly, the big one is stuck to the seat, paralysed.