The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  —Look Sooze he says.—There’s nothing to it. Don’t worry about it. He takes her hand.—I promise he says smiling.—I nearly snuffed it. Didn’t I Margot. In Milan.

  —Yes I say.

  —All you feel is surprised. You know, like it’s not happening. Death, Cam insists, is for other people and when it’s you you’re surprised. That’s why they’ll never stop the road toll.—Disbelief, he says.—That’s all I promise.

  Milan is a challenge. It doesn’t lie back and welcome you like Venice say. You have to track it down, find the good bits, work on it. We headed off from the station with our packs.

  It was one of those hotels which always surprise me by not starting on the ground. It was on the third floor, recommended by Let’s Go. Ground floor was shops, first and second another hotel, and the Pensione Famiglia Steiner on the third. Space was used twice—coffee and rolls were served in last night’s bar. The family, mother father and three dark-eyed bambinas watched TV at night lined up on straight chairs against the wall in the slit office space. You put down the lavatory seat in the tilelined box and turned on the shower. In England where dirt cheap means it, it would have been filthy but it was clean, the cotton bedspread white white, the linoleum shiny, the paint scrubbed.

  We had a coke in the bar when we arrived, dumping our packs in the space labelled Rucksack in six languages. I flopped down beside a man at a table while Cam moved to the self-service dispenser. The guy had one of those streetwise faces, blunt features, pointed ears set at the slope, quick eyes. His haircut and fingers were short and stubby, the rest of him long and lean and pretty to watch. Cam was having trouble with the machine. The guy was up, instant and agile as a gibbon. He demonstrated the thing to Cam who thanked him.—That’s OK, the man said.

  He came from Manchester, a male model. Milan was the place, even though the agents took half your fee in commission. Milan is the world centre of male fashion he told us glancing at Cam’s jandals. Milan is the big time where it’s at. He’d been there three weeks and was doing OK so far though the whole thing was a real hassle. You’ve got to sell yourself he told us. No one else will.

  —Yeah said Cam.—Nice guy he said as we went to our room.

  We flaked out on the bed and slept. They don’t let you sleep on second-class Eurail. The bastards wake you all the time.

  Cam came to first. Making love all over Europe is different each time; well surroundings, externals. The late afternoon sun fell through the net curtains. Cam’s legs were pure gold.—Tea? he asked afterwards, lifting my foot to kiss a toe.—Mmm I said, easy either way but why not. He hauled himself off the bed and assembled our survival equipment, our artifacts. A narrow little Cretan saucepan from the market in Heraklion, an immersion heater, adaptor plugs. Lying on my back I heard the familiar clanks and knocks of illicit tea making.

  —Haven’t met one like this before he said.

  —Nnn? I said watching the patterns of light caught in the net.

  The flash was followed instantly by Cam’s naked body hitting the floor. He lay stiff, catatonic, every muscle locked. The plug was smoking, the air acrid. I was on my feet leaping to fall on him. I yanked his head back chin to ceiling and cupped my mouth over his mouth and nose and breathed in, out, in, out. At first I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe deeply but the rhythm took over. Breathe, look, breathe, look. It didn’t take long, half a minute or an hour. Cam. Don’t stop. Breathe, stop, look, breathe, stop, look. His chest moved slightly, stopped, then gradually rose and fell in beautiful repetitive movement. My breasts stroked him, his eyes opened.—Nice he said. I dragged him onto the bed and shook for an hour as I lay beside him, watching, holding him, being held.

  He wouldn’t tell the owner.—He’d kick us out. It wasn’t the plug. My fault, no mucking furries.

  Next morning we sat drinking coffee and holding hands, you can do it. The amiable hairy proprietor heated the rolls in a mini oven beside the coke dispenser. Last night’s bar was dark brown, benches, walls, an old sofa. The air had been there for some time. The male model sat reading a torn copy of the Daily Mirror. Jerry his name was.

  The most beautiful girl I have ever seen dumped an enormous pack in the space by the door and subsided at the other table. She was six feet at least and walked haughty, slender, breasts firm beneath a Benetton T-shirt, her hair a stream of silver down her back.—Hi said Jerry. She said nothing, but dipped her crisp profile in recognition. German she must be, German, an ice maiden from a schloss in the pines. Or Swedish, saunas and birch twigs. Cam’s hand moved in mine. His eyes were feeding on her. We all were. Beautiful women slay me.

  She ordered coffee from the owner who seemed calmer than the rest of us. She drank it staring straight ahead then replaced the white cup with precision, centering it with care on its unmatching saucer. She lit a cigarette. I let Cam’s hand go. Jerry was trying not to look at her, riffling the tattered Daily Mirror, flinging it onto the floor, snatching another from the pile on the end of the sofa. He was a cartoon figure, an expectant father from the days when fathers sat in waiting rooms with discarded papers at their feet.

  She ground out her cigarette, stood up and shouldered her huge pack with one dip and lift. Jerry was on his feet.—You’re not going! he cried.—Now!

  She nodded and walked out, heading towards the cage lift. Jerry leapt after her, they disappeared. The owner picked up her cup, flicked the table with a checked duster and headed for his operations centre.

  —Jeeze, whispered Cam.

  —So beautiful I gasped. What was their relationship? One night? Ten years? Nothing?

  Cam shook his head. The square brown room smelt very used. We were in shock, bereft, sitting there staring at the space she had filled.

  —So you see, says Cam now squatting on his heels, staring up into Sooze’s face for added conviction.—It’s nothing.

  Sooze shakes her head in the slightest possible rejection but she is grateful and smiles to tell him so, her hand on his knee.

  —It’s not that Cambo, she says. She sits up busily and knuckles a finger against her nose.—Did you see Mantegna’s Dead Christ, she asks.

  —We tried says Cam who likes looking at paintings.—The place was shut. Marg got the time wrong.

  I kick his behind which unbalances him into Sooze’s lap. One of our failures.

  —It’s the foreshortening. Sooze moves her head in slower wonder.—Amazing, she says.

  Bryce has been reading the Evening Post. He folds it and slaps it on the divan as he stands to refill the glasses.

  —In the morgue, he says, stretching his arms way above his head then letting them flop, they tie your name on your big toe. The right one. For identification.

  Sooze Cam and I stare at him in silence, then turn to the dark sea, listen to it roll.

  —I’d hate to be buried says Cam.

  (1989)

  Love

  Iain Sharp, ‘Owed to Joy’

  Three years after we were first an item

  Joy wants to know why

  I’ve never used her name in poems.

  Really it’s just an old student’s fear

  of being thought portentous—

  like Lucifer in Paradise Lost

  farewelling happy fields (where Joy

  forever dwells!)—or Doc Johnson

  fixing his great jowls against Vanity

  and other upper-case Temptations.

  Styles change. Though keen to seem sage-like

  the writers we actually know

  offer their advice with lowered voices.

  Passion, according to Albert, lasts

  only six months. Now, warns Sheridan,

  when what was once an electric secret

  becomes the norm, the hard work begins.

  Yes, it’s difficult, but I still feel passionate

  and walking together today in Cornwall Park

  down Twin Oaks Drive—the lambs lying languorous

  after their first shearing, the pohutu
kawas

  redder than I’ve ever dreamed (though perhaps

  I say that every year?) and the sky

  an unstoppable blue prairie—I want

  to call out ‘Joy! Joy! Joy!’ and not give a damn

  who mistakes me for someone happy

  to the point of abstraction.

  (1997)

  J.C. Sturm, ‘Maori to Pakeha’

  You there

  I mean you

  Beak-nosed hairy limbed narrow-footed

  Pakeha you

  Milton directing your head

  Donne pumping your heart

  You singing

  Some old English folksong

  Meanwhile trampling Persia

  Or is it India, underfoot

  With such care less feet.

  Where do you think you’re going?

  You must be colour blind.

  Can’t you see you’ve strayed

  Into another colour zone?

  This is brown country, man

  Brown on the inside

  As well as the outside

  Brown through and through

  Even the music is brown

  Like us.

  So what are you after?

  All the land has long gone

  With the tupuna.

  Nothing left to colonise now

  Except the people.

  Do you plan to play

  Antony to my Cleopatra?

  I mean

  Who do you think you are?

  Tell me all I want to know

  Before you crook that finger again

  Smile me another crooked smile.

  Give your mihi tonight

  Korero mai

  Till dawn breaks with a waiata

  Meanwhile holding me gently

  Firmly captive

  Here, in the tight curve

  Of your alien arm

  My dear

  Oh my dear.

  (1996)

  Roma Potiki, ‘And My Heart Goes Swimming’

  and my heart goes swimming

  wet and lipid it hangs between waves of salt.

  a warm heart in cold green waters

  deep

  to the bottom.

  wave after wave washing the little skin

  saline.

  and my heart goes swimming

  a fisherman scoops the sea,

  finds a heart in his hand.

  no cold fish warm red blood black hair

  blonde.

  a night of swimming,

  open eyes laugh

  see us

  love

  the man and my heart celebrate

  and in the morning warm water from a tap.

  but now the fisherman has fish to catch

  see, he has a net, and sinkers.

  back

  to the sea

  my heart goes swimming

  wave after wave

  no cold fish could swim like my heart goes swimming.

  (1992)

  Hone Tuwhare, ‘Sun o (2)’

  Gissa smile Sun, giss yr best

  good mawnin’ one, fresh ’n cool like

  yore still comin’—still

  half in an’ half outa the lan’scape?

  An’ wen yore clear of that eastern rim

  of hills an’ tha whole length of tha

  valley begins to flood wit yr light, well

  that’s wen I could just reach out ’n stroke

  tha pitted pock-marked pores of yr shiny

  skin an’ peel ya—just like a orange, right

  down to yr white under-skin, but I wouldn’t

  bite ya—well, not until the lunch-bell goes

  at noon wen I can feel ya hot an’ outa reach

  an’ balanced right there—above my head.

  C’mon, gissa smile Sun.

  (1992)

  Jacob Rajan, from Krishnan’s Dairy

  Setting

  Winter, a small grocery shop in suburban New Zealand.

  Enter the PERFORMER and musician both with guitars. The PERFORMER plays and sings.

  PERFORMER:

  Gobi Krishnan is a small man who made a big decision,

  To leave his homeland and come to New Zealand.

  Entho Gobi karnitcha?

  Entho Gobi karnitcha?

  [Gobi, what have you done?]

  Zina is Gobi’s wife, Gobi is Zina’s husband.

  They met on their wedding day—please suspend your judgement.

  Entho Zina karnitcha?

  Entho Zina karnitcha?

  [Zina, what have you done?]

  How can you say you love someone?

  How can you say you care?

  How can you say you are the lucky one,

  When you see the love that Gobi and Zina share?

  Gobi bought a shop with a bell on the door. (Bell rings.)

  Zina sits behind the counter, their baby plays on the floor.

  They wake at five and go to bed at twelve.

  They keep their dreams stacked on the shelf.

  And if you ask them why they work so hard,

  They’ll just shrug and say: ‘That’s the way we are—that’s our karma.’

  How can you say you love someone?

  How can you say you care?

  How can you say you are the lucky one

  When you see the love that Gobi and Zina share?

  Exit.

  The shop

  Behind the counter GOBI yawns and stretches. He shivers and reaches for his scarf. He starts singing.

  GOBI The moment I wake up, before I put on my make-up, (he brings out some buckets of flowers) I say a little prayer for you, (he takes flowers and makes for the front door) together forever (pause) mmmmm, mmmmn, mmmmmm, (he unlatches numerous bolts and chains on the door) and I will love you. Forever, together, you’ll stay in my heart and I will love you.

  Outside the shop

  (Bell out.)

  GOBI steps outside and stops singing. It is cold and he shivers. He scuttles over to the flower stand humming, but stops when he sees it bathed in silver light. He turns to look at the moon. Moonlight music. GOBI shakes himself out of his reverie.

  GOBI Zina, the moon’s still out. (He makes his way back to the door.) Ayo, nala thunapa. [Gosh, it’s cold.] (He opens the door and calls inside.) Zina, turn on the radiator.

  Music: The Jam’s ‘Man in the Corner Shop’ played loud.

  No, the radiator, the radiat … never mind, I’ll do it myself.

  The shop

  GOBI puts out the newspaper cage with a headline of the day’s news. GOBI exits. Enter ZINA carrying BABY APU. The music volume goes up and down as GOBI tries to fix the radio.

  (Bell in.)

  ZINA (looks at the unpriced product a customer, unseen by the audience, has placed on the counter) Gobi, savoury tomatoes ena vela? [How much are the savoury tomatoes?] (Exit ZINA. Enter GOBI battling with a radio.)

  GOBI Four eighty-five. (The volume knob breaks off in his hand.)

  Exit GOBI. Enter ZINA.

  ZENA (to the customer) Four eighty-five. (Louder, over the music.) Four eighty-five. (Music cuts. Embarrassed.) Four eighty-five. (She mimes taking money from the customer and rings up the sale on the till. The sounds of the till beeping and money being dropped in are heard.)

  (Bell out.)

  Paengra thunapa. [It’s so cold.] Gobi, I’m freezing, turn on the radiator.

  Enter GOBI.

  GOBI The radiator is on. The radio is off.

  ZINA Nunai. Ayo enthoro sumathanum. Enathena, ee cheethah parta kerkanum? [Well that’s a relief. Why do you listen to this horrible music anyway?]

  GOBI I didn’t ask you to turn it on. I asked you to turn on the radiator. Anyway, now the blinking volume knob is broken.

  ZINA Well, no wonder it’s freezing.

  GOBI I am going to get my gun now … and put price tags on the savoury tomatoes. (He picks up a box of tinned tomatoes.) Of course, I wouldn’t have to do th
is if my wife took the time, as I have, to learn the prices of every item in this shop.

  ZINA silently mimics him.

  GOBI I saw that. Oh yes, it’s all a big joke to you isn’t it, Zina. Well let me tell you, I have noticed, more than once, several customers being made to wait while you look up the price of an item. Let me finish. We are a dairy. We do not have the wholesale buying power of a supermarket, therefore our prices tend to be a little bit more expensive. The only areas where we can compete are in service and convenience … and cut flowers, because Avinash can get me a good price.

  ZINA Avinash is a crook, just because he says he knows your family and says he’s getting you a good price doesn’t make it so. Anyway, we still have to buy the buckets and the wrapping paper and I have to cut them and arrange them, and people can buy them at New World where they buy everything else.

  GOBI You see, you see, you see, (pricing stock) that is where you are wrong. The customer is prepared to pay a little more so they don’t have to wait in a checkout queue. And they know when they come to Krishnan’s Dairy they will get personal contact.

  (Bell in.)

  Good morning.

  ZINA We don’t give change.

  (Bell out.)

  GOBI Hey, itha ena? [What’s this?] ‘We don’t give change.’ Nyan parinillay? [What have I been saying?] What have I been saying? Am I talking by myself? Every person that comes through that door is a potential customer. Of course we give change. And we give change cheerfully. Ethera praeshum parianum? [How many times do I have to tell you?] ‘Good morning,’ chiri [smile]. Enthengulum vatharnum parium [Make some sort of chit-chat]: ‘Cold isn’t it?’ ‘How’s your leg?’ Itha uthera praeyasom arno? [Is this too much to ask?] Sulking is not going to work with me. The trouble with you is that you’re living in a dream world where every day is onum [festival] and the panum [gold] grows on trees (taking tomatoes and stacking the shelves). Well, let me tell you Miss mathame [hoiti-toiti], there’s no such thing as a free chapathi [unleavened bread, i.e. lunch]. That man you served probably thinks you hate him, I don’t blame him. Maybe you do. That’s not the point. The point is we are a commercial enterprise and commerce is about human beings doing business. Human nature being what it is, there are bound to be personality clashes in commerce, just as there are in every walk of life, but what I am saying is …